My bonnie lass | My bonnie lass
I called to you I cried
I ran I wailed
I crossed the blue blood
The desolate sand___
I lay you on the dry grass
I laid you here in these windswept woods
in this desolate wood my love
My beautiful lass You don’t like me
You don’t want me I can hear your voice.
No, that’s wrong.
I see you You’re gone You’re in my arms
You’re gone Your body’s broken
Your breasts drenched In my sweat
You were never mine Never mine
Your face is pale You’re still wet
You’re still naked Your bones exposed
But your drenched flesh I cannot forget
I don’t care
You’re a blossom
And I see you
I see you as the crabs fight over your flesh
Nothing remaining of your plump breasts
And that is how i like you
:: 10.13.2022 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #halloween, #horror, #macabre, #nk, #poetry, #psychological | posted in Uncategorized
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #feelings, #htoughts, #ink, #macabre, #paper, #poetry, #surrealism, #words | posted in #abstract, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets
my confession to you:
i wish to dig my flesh
inside of your skull
and feel your soul
tears of joy
an animal lust
surpassed only by
all dying souls
:: ~~ ::
Leave a comment | tags: #gothic, #love, #macabre, #poetry, #words | posted in Uncategorized
There at the bottom of my soul’s pit
was a nameless thing that moved
The proximity of this horror
to my heart made me leave my skin
:: – ::
Leave a comment | tags: #horror, #macabre, #poetry, #words | posted in #horror, #life, #macabre, #words
life is a stranger in boots
snake skin patterns moving
through wet night streets
and that blooming howl
on Bourbon Street cuts through
what’s left of your dark soul
Jazz notes falling into pieces
across reflective night streets
And when you’re strangely happy
you know you’re snake skin too
And when you’re deranged beneath
moss trees on a pirogue floating
a night spent in LaLaurie Mansion
makes the best of other-worldly friends
Life is a stranger in boots
and snake patterns know the moves
a cascading undulating twist
through Mississippi mud too
Marie Delphine LaLaurie loves you
She will invite you to stay a night
and that slave you become is ghostly
a torture for a slice of social life
And the mobs outraged == she fled
or maybe not…the moss knows
:: 04-22-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #coven, #evil, #horror, #Louisiana, #macabre, #Marie Delphine LaLaurie, #New Orleans, #poem, #poetry, #serial killer | posted in Death, Fear, Horror, Poetry
A SLUMBERING breeze blows
beyond clambering hills
and conjures a song
So somber from trees
Crystal silence sings
a painful burning flesh
and threads in dreams
devouring numbing stings
So stiff the twilight
that constricts my throat
I muffle a yawning cry
from dawning fright
Lay pale in listless shroud
and death is no wonder
In varnished white clouds
comes rumbless thunder
Never a stretch in mind
Oh, fiery blood, crackle bone
Only limb, neck and hair
Sharp fangs– a soulless moan
Forgive me, for I am cannibal
so romantic and tragic is my tail
Slaying both human and animal
always beneath a moonlight pale
I am the shadow
Beneath your footfalls
and dark cold light within
In tearless eyes of yellow
My hunger screams for you
In your dreams
I come, nimble and serene
Prancing first for smell
toward scents you resemble
and within your morbid dreams
I will always scream for you
:: ancient ::
Leave a comment | tags: #darkness, #death, #Deep South, #evil, #horror, #macabre, #moon, #night, #poet, #poetry, #stench, #victorian, #writer, #writers, #writing | posted in Death, Eternity, Horror, Pain, Paranormal, Poetry, Sorrow