Lawrence Moore
Lawrence Moore has been writing poems—some silly, some serious—since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England, with his husband Matt and nine mostly well-behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Sarasvati, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind and The Madrigal. His first collection, Aerial Sweetshop, was published by Alien Buddha Press in January. @LawrenceMooreUK
If I Were a Vampire
If you came round on a full moon night,
saw me at your window, skin palest white,
would you flutter your eyelids or cower and cringe?
If I were a vampire, would you invite me in?
Would you proffer your neck for my bloodlust's sake?
Would you fill the position Eternal Mate?
Would your confidence fail you, your insides scream?
Might you shuffle towards me, your mind mid-dream?
I offer a fate so much better than death,
complimentary toothbrush lest garlic pervade thy breath,
sproutable bat wings in case of fall,
possessable gloomy picture on staircase wall.
Aside from the rats and the floorboard creaks,
I miss stimulation; the dead can't speak.
Won't you fly to my coffin and climb inside?
Administer soothing balm to forsaken eyes.
I Wonder
I wonder what it feels like
to have you in my arms,
too busy being happy
for toxicity's demands.
I wonder if my visage
takes on a scarlet hue.
I wonder if you notice
and then you go scarlet too.
I wonder if it tickles,
your hair against my neck.
I wonder if you stroke me
like your childhood favourite pet.
I wonder if the voices
inside your head and mine
stay innocent and tongue-tied
or melodically combine.
I wonder if the seagulls
above our garden flock,
grab one or two restolen fish,
then settle down to watch.
I'm hoping the Red Arrows
perform an air display
which purplifies our clear blue sky.
I'm hoping you will stay.
She Dines Alone
Like the loathsome, noxious vapour
slowly seeping through the vents,
the darkness tempts.
Like a desperate gambler pleading
for his final extra spin,
he strides within.
Like a ravenous pied piper
on a lake which disappears,
she lures him here.
Like a train propelled by instinct,
as a ruler born to twist,
he yields his gift.
Like a gratified black widow,
poison empress on her throne,
she dines alone.
The Little Sea Maid Rolls the Dice
I had him before with his head on my breast,
took him to land when he went to his rest,
watched from the waves, but to little avail.
He woke to a lady with legs for a tail.
Now I worship a statue that sunk from above;
it's a bittersweet, make-believe, substitute love.
I go at great risk to the sea witch's lair.
She drives a hard bargain, my tongue she would snare.
Without a betrothal, my soul will be spent.
I had him before and must have him again,
but deign he transfigure a maid to a spouse
without tasting the treasure she takes from my mouth?