PsyChai

Lurking behind the gashers 

Lecherously getting intoxicated

On her redolence.

He took a long whiff

And the eyes rolled back.

This is how he chooses his victims,

Imbibing through the eyes,

Stalking, watching them prepare for their end.

Burgundy fluid whirling 

in the cup of their bodies

And sometimes full of milk

Warm, cold, doesn't matter.

Listening to their sounds,

Echoing through the vessel

Making symphonies on the damp edge.

Sometimes they are too strong

that it's arduous to gulp 

and a time-consuming process

But necessary to keep his sanity.

Sometimes extraordinarily sacchariferous,

As if they are meant for unskilled laborers,

Jaded and stupors with exhaustion

Acting as an energy source.

Too much sweetness can be harmful to them

and he too knows it's bad for him

But stopping in between will be a waste

And dastardly.

Sometimes they are loud, 

Crackling, boiling, overflowing with

High-strung emotions

Too incendiary to bear

Not void of the possibility

Of broiling during consuming.

Those he quenches in an indignant rage,

Running out of breath to expel anymore.

Sometimes they are gracefully silent

Just slips and spread into his tongue.

Neither he nor they make a sound.

Feels like a clandestine, forbidden fruit

In a reticent jungle.

They intermingle into one another,

Lost, not long before the mighty one 

Drains the noiseless one to vanishment.

Then only he senses suffice.

But it's over now, he had called it quits

It was too much anxiety,

Too much thrill, restlessness,

Fickle and frail sleep,

Lurid dreams.

Still, occasionally, 

on a cold dawning morrow

Or on a rainy moonless night

feeling melancholic and down

He goes for a diverse prey

Contrary to his liking

Cheap sometimes, sometimes bland,