What did you think?
That succubi never get hormonal, never want to pull the blankets over their heads, never burn the toast?
The Succubus has taken the liberty
Of setting fire to
An old warehouse where yuppies live in lofts...
As they desperately try to save bottles of their favorite wines
Before the heat makes them explode.
In the morning,
The joy of this gives way,
And she feels melancholy and adrift.
She is the daughter of an incubus and a Russian countess;
She played in the snow with the sables
And slept with the wolves like a feral angel.
She enters other people's dreams
Because her own leave her in pieces, like a paper snowflake--
She never knows, upon waking,
What day it is, or whether she is made of dust or diamonds.
The Succubus has been trying to forget Chloe.
The Succubus has been trying to remember
What it was about that calm-eyed girl
That slew her and left her weak.
Always, she has slipped into love like an unplanned crime,
She has loved the one who whispers in her ear, "We will never be caught,
And even if we are,
I couldn't care."
It is shaking the ocean-floor stillness of such women
That makes her heart keep beating...
It is knowing they will leave
That makes her burn out the yuppies in their lofts...
She whispers to their blackened skulls
And rocks them like dolls,
All the while scorning them
As she scorns herself
For forgetting that perdition begins always with a kind word
And a dream of a new friend
Looking up and smiling
At sight of her.