The Russian accent is expected
but the Transylvanian tinge is more
camp-creepy than jump-scare;
adoring fans stare at their screens,
zooming in tighter than a Peeping Tom;
she avoids the male gaze so as not to engage
every swinging dick vying for attention;
she is supposed to be a zombie but
her swaying hips betray her while
she plucks the bass; she is too pristine,
devoid of death’s decaying imprint,
and when the beat hits just right
and the crowd’s energy returns to the stage
in a wave, she can’t help but smile
through clenched teeth,
like a vampire smiling at the sun.
©2026, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books