The Count Of Los Feliz

he called me stigmatador;
i was holding a court of blood
between my pause
and the pace of the floor.

a kiss bridged the difference between 
molten lava and larval molting, 
instar and in star.

he shuffled my cards 
to the absent refrain;
my husk of hearts, 
my ace of veins.

-and the sculpture carved 
by the knife of his pulse
will starve the vultures who stir
by my sepulchre
waiting for life to convulse.