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But I couldn’t fight the drowsiness and heaviness any longer. Pure sensation was driving out all wonder and excitement. My body grew limp and helplessly still against the earth.

And then I felt a hand suddenly close on mine.

Cold as marble it was, and just about that strong.

My eyes snapped open in the darkness. The hand tightened its grip. A great mass of silken hair brushed my face. A cold arm moved across my chest.

Oh, please, my darling, my beautiful one, please! I wanted to say. But my eyes were closing! My lips wouldn’t move. I was losing consciousness. The sun had risen above.

THE QUEEN

OF THE

DAMNED

TRAGIC RABBIT

Tragic rabbit, a painting.

The caked ears green like rolled corn.

The black forehead pointing at the stars.

A painting on my wall, alone

as rabbits are

and aren’t. Fat red cheek,

all Art, trembling nose,

a habit hard to break as not.

You too can be a tragic rabbit; green and red

your back, blue your manly little chest.

But if you’re ever goaded into being one

beware the True Flesh, it

will knock you off your tragic horse

and break your tragic colors like a ghost

breaks marble; your wounds will heal

so quickly water

will be jealous.

Rabbits on white paper painted

outgrow all charms against their breeding wild;

and their rolled corn ears become horns.

So watch out if the tragic life feels fine—

caught in that rabbit trap

all colors look like sunlight’s swords,

and scissors like The Living Lord.

STAN RICE

Some Lamb (1975)

’M THE Vampire Lestat. Remember me? The vampire who became a super rock star, the one who wrote the autobiography? The one with the blond hair and the gray eyes, and the insatiable desire for visibility and fame? You remember. I wanted to be a symbol of evil in a shining century that didn’t have any place for the literal evil that I am. I even figured I’d do some good in that fashion—playing the devil on the painted stage.

And I was off to a good start when we talked last. I’d just made my debut in San Francisco—first “live concert” for me and my mortal band. Our album was a huge success. My autobiography was doing respectably with both the dead and the undead.

Then something utterly unforeseen took place. Well, at least I hadn’t seen it coming. And when I left you, I was hanging from the proverbial cliff, you might say.

Well, it’s all over now—what followed. I’ve survived, obviously. I wouldn’t be talking to you if I hadn’t. And the cosmic dust has finally settled; and the small rift in the world’s fabric of rational beliefs has been mended, or at least closed.

I’m a little sadder for all of it, and a little meaner and a little more conscientious as well. I’m also infinitely more powerful, though the human in me is closer to the surface than ever—an anguished and hungry being who both loves and detests this invincible immortal shell in which I’m locked.

The blood thirst? Insatiable, though physically I have never needed the blood less. Possibly I could exist now without it altogether. But the lust I feel for everything that walks tells me that this will never be put to the test.

You know, it was never merely the need for the blood anyway, though the blood is all things sensual that a creature could desire; it’s the intimacy of that moment—drinking, killing—the great heart-to-heart dance that takes place as the victim weakens and I feel myself expanding, swallowing the death which, for a split second, blazes as large as the life.

That’s deceptive, however. No death can be as large as a life. And that’s why I keep taking life, isn’t it? And I’m as far from salvation now as I could ever get. The fact that I know it only makes it worse.

Of course I can still pass for human; all of us can, in one way or another, no matter how old we are. Collar up, hat down, dark glasses, hands in pockets—it usually does the trick. I like slim leather jackets and tight jeans for this disguise now, and a pair of plain black boots that are good for walking on any terrain. But now and then I wear the fancier silks