Tag Archives: poetry

Ways to go

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Are these star-crossed lovers organ thieves or grinders.  Robbers of banks or people. Escaping some destiny laid before one of them who only finds shelter from his or her fate in the arms of the other.  A road trip, an odyssey of Ulyssiad proportions.  Lost in a forest, in a cabin, near a lake, on a mountain or burial mound as it may happen to be.  A cave, an abyss or maybe just a cat, a date, a follower of sorts through rain-slicked nightscapes, down alleys and sewers alike to escape the unknown who may or may not be herding them to some destination of malcontent on the edge of a pier with no escape other than the cold dark sea.  More to the one for the other to understand; the decision of course is which would be which and why.  Scars in one cerebral in the other. Scars to the cerebral as the cerebral tends to madness and scars, generally anyway, seek quietude.  A quest of sorts or not, perhaps some meandering, but that probably won’t be the case as some fantastic has already been introduced.  So fantastic quest into a perilous nightscape with one to the other, eventually better, or not, maybe dead, eventually, but with illumination.


Post-Apoclyptastic some more

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Zombies are shufflers,

Anything running is just diseased,

Not deceased,

Like the vampires,

However they fly,

Generally anyway,

Extra-dimensional aliens are another thing altogether,

As they share a single consciousness,

Like you do,

Coffee is currency,

Nosferatu are allergic to caffeine,

And it makes you invisible to invaders,

But not to lunar crumbs plummeting to earth,

As the Nyarlahotep thing eats the moon,

Day and night; the sound of a great munching,

Or maybe that’s me,

Smoke from the cookie mill means that everything is okay though,

Maybe hunt for feral children to sell tomorrow,


Monsters

ScaryMonsterSmellsBacon

There are monsters about,

Hunger insatiable,

Minds run amok,

Writhing and Lurching

They tear themselves asunder,

Trying to be human,

Trying to be trusted

So that they may devour you,

But they are what they seem,

They are monsters.


Clowns in the walls

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There are clowns in the walls

More than a few

They shake and scratch

Apparently coming for you

Unnamed by Ringling

Tortured by Barnum

Murdered by Bailey

Buried in the walls of a lodge on the mountain

Shadows out the window

Shadows on the walls

Green phantasmagoria

Moving through the halls

Maybe a trapeze artist or two

Footsteps on the roof

Hollow walls sealed suspiciously well

A great tomb on the mountain

North Fork Mountain Inn: really unpleasant experience.  Don’t go there.  Overpriced, lame.  Owners wouldn’t blink an eye if you disappeared into the woods.  In fact they’d probably raid your cabin refrigerator and serve your food for dinner at 45$ a plate.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a Motel Hell-like field of heads somewhere in the forest.


Autumnal

Fleece aspect is corrugated against the rail of wills in a bloodless relative fallscape angle of albatross.  Pumpkin of rote is regressed by fields of isthmus and hieracrhy.  Cold is redoubted in a vertical diatribe of leaves and ash.

There is a gourd on my table.