He was a good man
who feared the hag
but the witch whispered
things to his heart that
nestled there in a
dark recess, things
his wife fanned warm
till he gripped the knife
and overcame his fear
of the witch and death
and God and blood, so
he did the deed, and with
his hands stained red he
donned the crown and
he killed his enemies,
he killed his friend,
and all the while the
dark closed in on
his shadowed heart
so he sought the witch
he once had feared,
and she cast strange
things into her pot,
dog’s tongue, baby finger,
and he asked, “What
is it that you do?”
and she answered,
A deed without a name,
and he stood with the witch
There Is No Going Back
Jack O'Lanterns burning bright,
black cats screaming in the night,
this night you knew,
would change your life.
You make a wish,
hoping it comes true,
but before the night ends,
the moment you will rue.
As night covers the soul you carry,
you realize, far too long you did tarry,
the night will end with a soul whisked away,
and the Devil will laugh until the next Halloweeen day.
His shrill laughter grates at your very being,
the folly of your mistake,
for the Devil's home;
it is where your eternity awaits.
sallow cheeks and
her skin was made of darkness
and her heart was made of stone.
her clothing sewn from werewolf furs
hair dyed with demon blood.
she was the hollow queen
as wispy as the flesh of ghosts
like a full moon at midnight
she was the hollow queen
hallowed by the ghosts and fiends.
she was the hallow queen
created from our darkest dreams.
nightmares personified, come to life.
she walks the streets on halloween night
car keys for the criminally insane
i‘ve got road signs of my own, you know
but you didn’t heed the warnings
until the car keys were already in my hands
and now there’s danger on the freeway
my eyes don’t know the colour red anymore
so i just go
faster, faster now
sound the siren, we’re crashing now
i’ve never been this close to Death before
so what if i say hello, wave with all ten bloody fingers?
a few inches to the left and i‘ll kiss the oncoming cars
i’ve always been a sucker for spontaneity
so let’s spontaneously combust
in flames the colour of the stop signs i ignored
on the way to Nowhere
bloody attention span
but in the end, it was all for naught.
a bloodstain dripping off the clock
plinking between the floorboards
upon every tick and tock is just as
empty as the last time they fought.
screams of accusation leave many a
heart wrung out in cold weather.
something about a soul weighing
lighter than a feather
but heavier than the wrongs that
stained his sallow, cracking lips. stained
like tea over clay.
seeping brown dregs deep into cracks we've
seen, but decided to look away
even though we can smell the decay
how long until the clock is cleaned,
would you say?
how long until the blood is washed
from its perennial face?
and how long until we forget
there was ever a murder that took place?
The still of the night,
the stir of the leaves,
The moon shining bright,
glinting in the eaves,
The spirits were here,
they had heard us call,
The hour was near,
to redeem us all,
For witches they called us,
and stones they threw,
Forever a menace,
but we always knew
Our souls were one,
with the light of the earth,
And we could summon,
the Gods of death and of birth,
We danced and chanted,
in the light of a flame
And the forest responded,
alive it became
till the spirits rose within
the flickering fire,
And we stepped in
into our divine pyre
Finally at rest
with the source of our soul
T'was the end of our quest,
to become whole.
What day is it
or has it been weeks
it couldn’t be years
but i swear i can hear something
crawling in my left ear
my aches are telling me hours
one, two three,
is this a root from a tree?
its so dark in here
WHAT THE f**k happened to my hair
i need to get out of here fast
these walls are so soft though
no no no I’m just crazy
or am I?
wait what’s in my eye!
okay I’ve had enough
no more of this funny stuff
WIGGLE YOUR big toe
this thing feels like a bone
wait am I even alone?
there is a string in here too
what the heck is this for
if I’m quiet enough i can hear something
is that a bell?
im buried alive what the hell!
how did i get in here?
a bell to signal the dead is undead
did i lose a bet again?
drink too much gin?
dammit must be losing my head
oh wait yeah its just All Hallows Eve
too bad no one can hear me scream
Heavy smoke fills the brisk Autumn air
and he sits in his somehow dark room
at 3 O'clock in the afternoon and broods over
the fact that not a singular inspired thought can come to mind.
Romance? No the very thought of forcing himself
into another relationship just to write a book made him nauseous.
Thriller? Ugh if he had to chase another family around their house
in the dead of night and get his clothes bloody again he'd rather die himself.
Fantasy? He was never very good at writing about
experiences he himself had not lived.
Horror? Like what? Locking another person up in his basement
while physically and psychologically torturing them? Been there, wrote that.
With nothing to write about, his will as a writer was was coming to an end
That was until on that same fine Autumn evening the ghost of books past visited him.
And one by one they took turn whispering in his ear about the greatest story's
the world had ever feasted their ears upon.
It was finally time, he thought to himself excitedly
So he walked over to his bookshelf grabbed his diary
which detailed every gruesome thing he'd ever done, placed it on his desk,
and grabbed the key he kept taped to the last page.
With his key and the Autumn wind whispering sweet nothings to him
through the cracked window, he opened the secret compartment in his desk
and swallowed that pretty little pill that would allow him
to write the best story, the world will never see on this fine Autumn evening.
She was in love.
A bloom of warmth
As her eyes meet his.
She chokes out butterflies,
Whispers sweet perfume.
His smile is sunlight to her soul...
He turns, his sunlight not for her.
His butterflies for someone else,
His heart blooming for another.
She crumples, the thorns of her love piercing,
The bloom inside her stealing her breath,
Her blood, her soul.
Vines coil around her heavy heart
Cutting into her heaving lungs,
Her love is painful,
Her adoration a disease.
The roses and thorns intoxicate,
leaving maddening emotion and
She despises her bloom.
She despises every bloom there ever was.
Every bloom that ever caused a person the pain
She gags on her blossoms,
A sign of love, now a show of heartache.
She falls to her knees,
The scent of her blooms potent,
Urging her on.
The thorns slice her flesh,
Sharper than a cruel tongue.
Blood like a dark lipstick.
Tears spring from her heavy eyes,
Hypoxia muddling her mind.
Her love is monstrous, destructive,
She struggles to breathe,
The saccharine scent filling her lungs.
She collapses under the weight of the stares around her,
The guilt and disgust.
She wasn’t a victim.
She was a fool.
In agony, her blooms invade her heart,
Blood spills to the ground,
The thorns and roses emerge,
And in the agony of love,
Night in the Factory
There was a flutter in his chest
as he mounted the first few steps...
He had been watching this factory
from a nearby street,
he just wanted to be left
to his own devices, and make sure
there was no one
Later on that night, by the streetlamp lights
he'd return through a broken screen...
Tim just felt at home in these haunted spots,
and right now he had felt at ease
to raise a crack pipe to chapped lips and spark up
as he squatted on the floor...
There was creaks and groans from the other rooms,
Places he'd never been before...
In the back of his head there was unchecked dread,
but he rarely tuned his ears
to his conscience now...
He was too far gone...
There was something at his rear
that raised a metal wrench
above his skull and smashed it swiftly down!...
It was some deranged old fogey who'd been living in his filth!
Tim didn't have any time to scream for help...
He was killed in the shadows and silt...
And the old man, barely paying notice,
ate off Tim's skin, his face, and his eyes...
Then he crawled like a spider to the dismal black
of the factories awful insides.