At the Starlight
by Robert L. Dean, Jr.



Dracula rises again,
glides towards a busty babe
in flimsy negligee.

In the coffin
of my dad’s Sportabout,
teeth clack
like bats
attempting lip lock.

Hands
in death throes
of high-school-hood
writhe

under pink angora,
fondle
Cross-Your-Heart buds,
battle
hook-and-eye monsters
even Van Helsing couldn’t slay.

In the sequel
to the sequel
to the sequel
to the sequel,

runes flutter
from a musty tome, whisper
My big bad senior, pierce the vein
where puppy love slumbers,

and I raise my muzzle to the moon,
bay maidenhood forever cloistered.

Because
at the Starlite,
only Chris Lee scores,
only the window speaker screams.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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