The Vampire by Charles Baudelaire

Creeping up my neck-line
past the blue and white
force-feeding myself into a situation
knowing not wrong nor right
only plight despite my best-intentions
here I find myself up-ended
stuck in the top of a bottle cork-screwed
thought-not of proper food
blood-sucked down a drain of un-chewed
molested without mastication
or rumination elation momentary
saucy but without the adequate spaghetti
worm-ready tax-levied
and I go to a grave
built by Vampirical Me
the last chapter of a novel written
without novelty