Posts Tagged ‘Horror’

As I stare blankly at the page,
Me and my mind make a pact,
A pact with this book of nightmares,
This monster I put my pen to,
A sanctum for every horror that crosses my minds eye,
Or perhaps an asylum?

This is my unholy gift to you,
A window into my mind,
Full of horrors and abominations as it is,
I must continue to write regardless,
I must keep creating these literary monsters,
The book demands it.

I begin to write,
And the nightmares come out to play,
Letters and words creep from recesses,
Punctuation slivers hither-and-thither,
Sentences of madness begin to form,
I’ve released a monster.

Or am I creating it?

BON

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Beware the fiendish imp,
Eyes burning with a devious glee,
Hell couldn’t possibly contain its mischief,
It’s been known to tamper with reality you know,
Now it’s coming to play a malicious prank on you,
Do you think you’ll survive?

You hear it giggling to itself in the dark,
Or is it creeping ever closer?
Under the bed or behind you perhaps?

Imp says read each first letter.

Imp

Hello there inmates!

I hope you’re all having a great day. It’s Halloween! Or some may call it; Samhain, Hallow’s Eve or All Saint’s Eve! It’s the holiday of scares, it’s the time for spooks and scares and the best day of the year for dressing up like a loony. Halloween is like a second birthday to me. It’s the only day of the year I can dress as the Harlequin and not get darkly sinister looks from strangers. It’s a time for monsters, a time for haunted places and a time for standing under the glory of the full moon. I have frequented many a Halloween party in my time and they are always the best. It is my favorite holiday (in concept) and I adore it!

I thought I’d do something a little different today. Instead of writing a poem or piece of writing specifically for this special day, I’m going to post some links to some of my freakiest and spookiest poems on the blog. Similar to what I did in my “Reminiscing On Previous Madness” from a while back. I decided to do this simply because I tend to write a lot of poetry that could fit quite well with Halloween. It’s a celebration of my weirdness I suppose. I’m going to showcase my favorite poems about monsters, serial killers, ghosts and the moon. These are some of my personal favorite poems in general too, to be honest.

So here goes, prepare to be mystified and terrified! Oh, and enjoy!

Tarquin
It wouldn’t be Halloween without creepy or otherwise otherworldly house servants. Tarquin is a poem about one such man. A poem about an ungrateful (and murderous) butler.

Ghost Of A Clown
A small set of haiku’s about an ethereal clown with dark intentions. You’re not afraid of clowns are you?

King Of Scythes
The undead are a staple of Halloween. This is a poem about the monarch of the mortuary, the lord of the underworld, the king of the dead. Ghosts, skeletons and ghouls, oh my!

The Old gods
Halloween. HP Lovecraft. Cthulhu. Enough said?

Cannibal Heart
This probably fits more into horror rather than Halloween, but I’d say that cannibals and killers are monsters too. Cannibal is a tragic poem of one such monster.

Grinning Moon
The moon is a symbol of Halloween. Whenever you see a “Halloweeny” picture, you can bet your bottom dollar that there will be a full moon in it. It is as sinister as it is beautiful, and this poem reflects that.

A Bloody Legacy
Serial killers are the monsters that reside within human society. They can be anybody you see. They could be me, they could be you, they could be that guy standing right behind you right now. Don’t turn around, it’ll only provoke him! This is a poem written from the point of view of a particularly dire killer.

Festival Of Blood
A continuation of sorts of A Bloody Legacy. Even serial killers have homes, they too need to take a load off after a long day of maiming innocents. Allow this one to describe his den to you. In very graphic detail.

Beast Of Eyes
The night can bring out all manner of terrifying beasts, from the out-rightly brutal to the devilishly subtle. This being is an original creation of mine. I wrote a poem describing its desire to kill with a glance. Or several. Enjoy!

So there you have it my friends! I hope you check out some of my older poems, it does mean a lot. I hope that you enjoy what I have posted, and that you aren’t too spooked! Ha! There may or not be another post later on tonight, something of a more musical nature. We shall see how the time goes! For now though, I hope you all have a very happy Halloween and that you enjoy this very special day!

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And as always, have a very crazy day!

The clowns are here,
Playing in the nuclear winter,
Cracking jokes to corpses,
Juggling in acid rain,

Rotting balloon animal.

Waltzing in a firestorm,
Bowing to inaudible applause,
Giggling as the meteors descend,

Cannibal candyfloss.

We are the clowns at the end,
The only ones left.

Clowns

A true romance,
Blossoming in the summer,
Braving the winter,
Flourishing in the spring,
A picture of passion,
A fine target,
The shotgun is cocked.

A touch of ire,
A whisper of infidelity,
A glimmer of adultery,
All are pulls of the trigger,
A pair of hearts are the targets,
Lined up to be executed,
A true romance no more.

A quarrel,
A kiss,
A flash,
Then silence,
The burst ribcage of love,
And heart-shaped gore,
Are all that remain.

Shotgun

Stooped low upon a lofty throne,
A necromantic monarch,
Shrieks in fury,
Such undying hatred washes over his bones,
The azure moon calms him not one drop,
The living remain alive,
And the dead remain below.

With an incensed scream,
He calls upon his legions,
Rotting knights and fetid footmen,
Shadowy beasts and mad spirits,
Rusted iron and filthy nails,
Anguished moans and eerie corpse-lights,
Driven onward by their dead liege.

Compelled by a rage that never dies,
The dead legions advance,
Marching under the moon,
Fracturing defenses under the moon,
Slaughtering innocents under the moon,
The dead are now unrivaled,
And the living are no more.

A decomposing monarch has his victory,
The nefarious King of Scythes,
Do you hear him coming for you?

King

“Madness is a funny thing isn’t it? I don’t mean amusing funny, but curious funny. Alright, sometimes it can be amusing funny too! I once saw a man kissing his cell-wall. Very amusing! However, I mostly find madness interesting. Since finding my way here after getting lost, I’ve seen many mentally damaged individuals who were simply fascinating. The scientist in me finds it all very invigorating. I see a new manifestation of insanity every day it seems. Just yesterday there was a woman who spoke compulsively and inexplicably in a completely new language every time she opened her mouth. Fascinating! Now obviously, I’m not insane, I’m the Hag-Man after all. I just got lost and ended up here. Nope, I’m not mad even if we are all mad here.

I wanted to tell you about a particularly mad man I met just the other day. We spoke over the space of a few hours, about many different subjects. He has odd views on the weather, I’ll tell you that for nothing. We spoke at length over a few mugs of ale and were rather jolly. This man called himself the “Cultmaster”. He told me of his past, over many ales. Oddly enough, he never became intoxicated. I daresay he was some kind of sorcerer. That lot tends to be able to avoid drunkenness. He was a small, stout man. With short, parted blond hair and a clean shaven face. Quite unremarkable really, apart from having quite brilliantly blue eyes. They almost glowed eerily.

He claimed that he was from a small town in the USA. He told me of a relatively uninteresting childhood and young life, I mostly switched off for that part. The most intriguing things he told me about were his love of theater and of a particular disdain for romance. He adored tragedies. I believe he said he loved to see partnerships shattered and marriages collapsed. His words, not mine. He didn’t actually tell me where that thought came from. Where this unrestrained hate came from. I’m assuming he had a particularly terrible love life. Most likely insane as well. He was bitter when talking about people he knew getting married and gritted his teeth often. He said he was beyond that. Far too good for that. Ahh, yes, quite the narcissist he was.

He told me more about his love of the theater, how he watched everything ever written¬† by Shakespeare and commonly listening to opera. A man of culture, you could say. He told me how he wished to be a playwright of some kind. He had been practicing with puppets, which he called “Lost Souls”. He wasn’t a huge fan of people so he had learned how to fashion small doll actors out of cotton and arcane power. He then produced from his coat a pair of little dolls. They were about a foot tall. Entirely black, with cartoonishly large heads. They had a red cross on their torsos and green crosses for eyes. They were inanimate and silent. The Cultmaster then clicked his fingers and the dolls sprang to life. At first they just stood there staring at one another. Then one started to softly smile, and waved at the other. The other doll then smiled back and waved in response. It was as if these dolls were friends. The dolls waddled closer and then embraced. The Cultmaster looked on, unflinchingly.

LS1

The dolls became closer, embracing more and more. The first doll even managed a simple kiss on the cheek of the second. These dolls seemed to be in love. It seemed so real and poignant, despite the toy-like features of the actors involved. These so-called Lost Souls didn’t seem all that lost to me. Then it all seemed to go wrong. The Cultmaster clicked his fingers again. The second doll stepped away from the first, looking away, and held out a hand to push the first doll away. It appeared to be sobbing all of a sudden. The first doll began to cry uncontrollably. Were they breaking up? Why? Why did I care so much? Was this the Cultmasters influence?

LS2

The Cultmaster pulled out a third doll and clicked his fingers once more, bringing it to life. The third doll walked quickly over the second doll and took its hand. It was stealing it away from the first! The second doll embraced the third and then kissed it soundly on the mouth. The second and third dolls then waddled to the other end of the table hand in hand, leaving the first alone and apparently heartbroken. The Cultmaster grinned quite menacingly. He threw what could only be described as a miniature rope to the first doll and clicked his damned fingers again. What happened next is almost burned into my eyes. The first doll, still sobbing, picked up the miniature rope and tied it around its own neck. It then slowly looked longingly at the other two dolls and walked to the edge of the table. I couldn’t watch. The doll attached the end of the rope to the edge and, sobbing softly, leaped from the table. There was a short silence and then nothing.

LS3

A doll committing suicide sounds insane, in and of itself. But somehow this really hit me in the gut. I don’t usually show emotions, but I somehow couldn’t help tearing up, watching the lifeless form of the doll hanging from the table. The Cultmaster laughed hysterically at this point and clicked his fingers a final time. All three dolls went limp and lifeless. The feelings of sorrow and misery suddenly and bizarrely vanished. It felt like it had all been drained out of me in an instant. He laughed for what seemed like an age and then collected his little actors. He didn’t seem at all fazed by the horror that we both just witnessed. This was some kind of magical puppet show.

The Cultmaster called the little Lost Souls the Pint-Sized Cult. He was their master and he told me how he made them fulfill those same acts we just witnessed constantly. Sometimes he would vary the act somewhat, but the result was the same. It was a miniature shattered romance, but with full sized emotions. He told me that he watched these same acts over and over again, savoring the heartbreak and melancholy. Not only is he a narcissist, but he’s also a monster in my eyes. The Cultmaster traveled around and outside the Asylum, “performing” this play to crowds and taking in all of the sorrow. He seemed to feed on the heartache somehow. Perhaps it was the sorrow that gave him his powers? Did he simply live to create grief? With a slight grin and a wave, the Cultmaster promptly left after his show, leaving me feeling somewhat empty and violated.

I didn’t really know what to make of this madness. The Cultmaster had an amazing power, to be sure. Begrudgingly, I can’t deny that. The way he manipulated the Pint-Sized Cult was marvelous, but the sickening stories he imposed on the Lost Souls was not something to applaud. I couldn’t help feeling that there was some kind of intelligence behind the dolls eyes. Almost as if someone was trapped within them. Perhaps that is where the name Lost Soul comes from? That thought left me shaken. The horror of witnessing the play could not be anything compared to the horror of acting it in over and over again. Terrible.

So there you go, I’ve told you a story of the one of the most bizarre individuals I’ve met thus far. If you ever were to meet him, be sure to leave swiftly. Do not watch the play, it could be the end of your heart…”

All flee in terror when it darkens the skies,
Wrought in iron and chain,
Wings built from aircraft carcasses,
Eye fabricated from red traffic lights,
Spewing petroleum-fueled flames,
Searing all of the peoples homes,
Not to mention their ambitions.

It is mankind’s greatest threat,
But man has only himself to blame,
It was built to destroy the enemies of mankind,
But they made a miscalculation,
They forgot one significant fact,
Mankind is his own worst enemy.

Dark stannic wings approach.
Here comes the man-made monster.
You best hide.

Dragon

Should have stopped them,
Should have said something,
Should have stepped in,
Should have broke it up,
Should have told them no,
Should have stopped the blows.

I didn’t,
I stood by.

I didn’t defend her bones,
I didn’t shield her face,
I didn’t uphold her honor,
I didn’t guard her innocence,
I didn’t act as her guardian angel,
I didn’t save her soul.

I just watched,
I stood by.

Bystander

“Not only humans reside here in the asylum. Oh no indeed! There are myriad entities in these halls. From demons to vampires, from faefolk to sorcerers, from beasts to things ever more unknowable. The asylum is a menagerie of sorts. Anybody or anything can potentially find its way here. The more bizarre and demented they are, the easier they can find it. I get along with the majority of things here, even the most unusual inmates. In fact, the cellmate opposite me, a good friend, is a cyclops. The cell at the end of the hall is said to hold a man who can turn anything he licks into diamond. You’re never far from something strange or unexplainable. That’s just the nature of the asylum. There is never a dull moment!

It’s true that the asylum is endless. It’s our own dimension. There are as many cell-blocks as there are stars in the sky and nobody is tied to one cell. Oh, apart from that one man who is literally attached to his cell walls, but I digress. There is one cell-block few dare to enter however. This cell-block is said to contain one of the strangest beings I know of. Yes indeed, even the Hag-Man is lost for words. They call it the Brain-Beast.

In all honesty, nobody really knows what it is. Even I. Is it a demon? Some lost monster? An old god? What ever it is, it’s certainly powerful. It wouldn’t have been able to carve out something a territory otherwise. They say it resembles an over-sized human brain with a bizarre and unnerving mask, emblazoned in orange and dark green. The expression is ever-staring and freakishly gormless. There are said to be four eye holes, so I suppose the creature has four eyes. From the brain hangs something of a vestigial spinal cord, like an inanimate tail. From the flanks of the brain are four iron joints, from which four fleshy arms sprout. The arms are said to be of differing lengths. At the ends of these fleshy arms are skeletal hands in white silken globes. Very unusual.

Brainbeast1

They say the Brain-Beast was once man. An insane man, by all accounts. Mad, yes, but a genius if there ever was one. Genius and insanity often go hand in hand don’t they? Typical really. He was a man that not only displayed signs of multiple-personality disorder, but also ironically wished to be able to be in several places at once. I daresay this was due to a demanding occupation and an ever more demanding married life. The man wished to be able to work 24 hours a day every day, while still having a home life. He also wanted sorely to have an active social life. Simply too much, even for a genius. You could say he was innately a busybody. A true workaholic, as well as an aspiring barfly.

The man was a scientist, a professor or perhaps a doctor. It’s not entirely clear. As all men of science are known to do, he began to concoct a plan. A plan to cure his ailing life. He was going to be in several places at once, ethics be damned. What happened at this point is something of a mystery. How did a scientific and prodigious busybody with a mental disorder become the abominable being we hear of today? Some say he made some kind of deal with a powerful demon. Others say he conducted an experiment so foul that nobody wishes to speak of it. Some inmates speak of unknown sorcery. Some say he summoned the Brain-Beast and was consumed by it. Nobody knows for sure. Myself? I believe that one of his more ugly personalities took over and caused the experiment to go awry. The man was turned into the Brain-Beast by accident. Naturally I would take my own theory over any other.

What ever the case was, the mans wish was fulfilled, in a sense. As the Brain-Beast wanders, reportedly by floating in mid-air through telepathic means, it carries in each hand a lifeless puppet. The creature somehow fashions each of these puppets into a human figure. Each one different, each one random. Perhaps one is his original form? Others could be people he knew or people he has seen before. Perhaps they are simply from the creatures imagination. The figures change seemingly at a whim. One could be a young blond man, another could be elderly woman, while yet another could be a one-legged man. It simply doesn’t appear to offer any challenged to the creature. It gets stranger though. The creature hangs each of these puppets from strings attached to its fingers, like an old puppeteer. The Brain-Beasts true body vanishes into thin air, leaving only the puppets. The puppets are horrifically lifelike, they look like real people. Expressionless faces stare outwards. Then the strangest thing happens.

BB3

The puppets come to life, each of them imitating human beings. Each puppet acts independently. The Brain-Beast seemingly controlling each one individually, with absolutely perfect aptitude.¬† Oddly these puppet people are able to move unhindered, as if there were no strings holding them up. Distance doesn’t seem to matter. One puppet could be doing something at one end of a building while another could be in a different room, on a different floor. It must be some form of magic. The Brain-Beast can now be in several locations at once, acting and seeing through these puppets. It could be building something with one puppet, while getting materials at the other end of the asylum with another puppet. These puppets can be dangerous, perhaps due to the creatures power, by possessing immense physical strength and appearing to feel no pain or fear. The Brain-Beast can fight with these puppets, since an aggressor can never know exactly where the creature is at a given time due to its invisibility. It could be behind them in the same room or in another location altogether. The man got his wish, he essentially became several people, controlled by a tremendously powerful mind. I daresay the creature is as insane as the man whom it used to be. Acting at random and without an end goal. It is simply content with fulfilling it’s wish of being in several places at once.

BB2

I found it hard to believe when I first heard the legend of the Brain-Beast. It seems anything can exist and even thrive in this asylum. It does highlight just how bizarre this place is. I do not yet understand why the Harlequin fashioned this asylum. Why would any being create such a place? Is it a reflection of himself? Is it a hiding place? Or perhaps a prison? It simply makes no sense. I intend to find out someday though. Not even the Harlequin can outsmart the Hag-Man, I swear it…”