Posts Tagged ‘Horror’

As I sit here,
Reclined in my own squalor,
The good townsfolk pass by,
They call me an abomination,
A troll under the bridge,
An insult to decorum,

They call me mutant,
It is true I’m misbegotten,
Birth was not kind to me,
Inflicting this contorted form upon me,
Certainly no gift,
This repugnant chimera of a body,

I linger only in the dark places,
Mother nature,
I know that she loves me not,
The flower petals said so,
This story has no happy ending,
I was never meant to be.

This night feels off,
The moon wears a foggy veil,
As if hiding from the bogeyman,
And I sympathise,
A macabre creature does indeed stir,

There’s something in the graveyard,
And though it resembles a cadaver,
It is very much not a corpse,
Pale and emaciated,
Hunched over with unhinged motion,

It’s chewing on something,
Lawn,
Grave dirt,
Old pine,
Meat?

The sounds are vile,
The slurp of viscera and crack of bone,
The lowlight offers a horrific silhouette,
I gasp and hold back a retch,
Twin hungry orbs lock with my eyes.

A continuation of ‘Night Malady’.

The city wears its funeral pall,
I still remain here in solitude,
Shaking in the moonlight slivering betwixt timbers,
Hearing the city breathing its last,
Only to be consumed by fang and claw,

There is blood on the cobbles,
I can smell it now,
For my blight has altered something,
The fever is rising,
And my pulse quickens in concert,

Only a sweaty and sporadic sleep do I receive,
My dreams grow frenetic,
I find myself in a boreal glade,
Running on all fours in hunger,
Before tearing the jugular from the doe,

Something in me has changed,
I see it in the grimy mirror,
A bestial shift of my features,
Hair more plentiful than my memory claims,
Canines seeming too long,

The howls outside feel less grisly,
More the call of kin,
I’m drawn to join their prayer each night,
I see now this malady is a gift,
This domestic cell won’t deny me for long.

The city grows unwell,
A pall of malady and madness has arisen,
A plague like no other,
The sane can only retreat to their homes,
But it’s unclear who is more sick,

This hovel has become my oubliette,
I’ve not seen the sky in days,
Boarded windows and painted crosses,
I haunt it in gasps and coughs,
My own blood turning imposter,

Those left outside still congregate,
I hear their confessions at night,
Voices once familiar have grown bestial,
Tongues more canine than human,
And I quake in my bedlinens,

They have changed,
I catch glimpses through my window,
The light of torches and clang of rusty blades,
Wolven howls and frenzied hunts concluding,
I suffocate my lantern in terror,

This malady cannot be natural,
An alien cold takes over,
My own mind grows muddied,
My dreams are the pageant of old gods,
Am I too to succumb?

We were thrust into the blue,
Our galleon lost in a dalliance with the kings navy,
Its back broken by carronade,
All seemed lost,
The stormy seas sang our funeral rites,

But a vessel emerged from the deep,
Its jaws cut through the surface,
Like a shark seizing prey,
Accompanied by a chorus of the damned,
Flaunting a figurehead of death itself,

This was a corpse of a ship,
A grim omen given form,
A hull of rotted wood and barnacles,
And sails taken from the skin of humpbacks,
Dimly illuminated by wisps in lanterns,

We look up fixedly in abject terror,
Bleary yet distinctly inhuman figures stood on deck,
Gawping down with eyes of rot,
A raspy call goes out,
A ladder of bone and tendon reached down,

I knew in that moment,
I would serve before the mast,
Come hell or high water,
For all eternity,
But still I reach up.

Men before the mast,
Harken to me as bosun,
We give those crags a wide berth,
We are in treacherous waters,
Have ye not heard the tales?
Here be monsters,
A foul song haunts these reefs,
Feminine wiles on the wind,
Soft hands I’ve heard before,

Look not starboard lads,
Listen not to that tune,
Those fair forms are lies of flesh,
Those lips do not long for you,
Your loins be telling you false,
No pleasure will be found o’er there,
Only a dance of blood and sharks teeth,
As surely as the fog cresting the waves,
That song will be the end of ye.

From my home of blood and womb,
Did I get off on the wrong world?
Did I miss my port?
This was meant to be a utopia,
But its paradise is skin-deep and unhinged,
This isn’t the Earth I was taught of,
Something is awry,
Only a bizarre world I see,
Topsy-turvy and deceitful,

It’s built overmuch on vice,
Kindness seems to be a supernatural feat here,
Tyrants get ahead by virtue of cruelty,
Pollution seems to be a form of currency,
I was taught of a pure and decent world,
But this land ahead of me,
It can only be madness,
Was I lied to?
Or are these evils to be aspired to?

It’s time for a scary movie,
So turn the lights down low,
Let the atmosphere surge in weight,
Hear the faint whispers from the VCR,
Insert that old cassette,
The cultural id of an era gone by,

Through this box television portal,
The static has such horrors to show you,
Of masked faces and demented dolls,
Corny gore and monsters in your dreams,
Hooked chains and torn skin,
The ornery song of a chainsaw,

Even pixelated the terror feels real,
Your pulse quickens,
Transfixed as you peek between sweaty hands,
You can almost feel the wine on your face,
Don’t succumb to the fear child,
It’s only a movie after all.

I was a foul caterpillar of ineptitude,
The time came to become better,
So I coat myself in stone and feathers,
Material for the renaissance,
But something is amiss,
This is not the cocoon I was promised,
But a sarcophagus,
A cell for my bodily stagnation,
An incarceration for each magpie I didn’t count,

Now more sludge than butterfly,
I am instead stifled by this cage,
Why does metamorphosis elude me?
I just wanted to finally be better,
Nothing more than to emerge,
To evolve,
To be superior to the me of yesterday,
Yet it feels as if it isn’t to be,
Like a moth plucked of its wings,

A grub for evermore.

That time at the lake,
As the mist looked on expectedly,
When I cried sad crystals,
And they flew skyward,
Joining hands with constellations,
It was then that I knew,
As my eyes still spilled celestial ink,
That the night sky was built on hurt lovers,
Cosmic beauty derived from pain,
The night was an anthology of romantic tragedies,
A sky of stories,
A landscape painting of bloodily cut diamonds,
Bled on to the firmament by the brush of our tears.