skin to skin i lure you in,
rip you apart from limb to limb
in the deepest shadows

oh the almighty,
you don't know
i lurk behind every corner,
impatiently trying to watch,
your sight as always a catch
i thump and drag along
a bag to carry, for you to last

in dark fantasy i taste your flesh
your blood drips and drops,
but you stay fresh
i store pieces of your skin for later,
stirring your meat to neat batter

your bones do break
but your heart wont shatter
pure lust glides through my fingers,
touching up your moveless figure
i yearn in obsession, in dreams it lingers

in light you shimmer, brighter as ever
moonlights kiss caresses your body,
its getting thinner
your pulse fastens each push i make,
you will get better
fallen apart, i sew you back together,
pins and needles push through you like softest butter

pray, pray and cry, feed me your tears
show me more,
show me, show me.
in despair, i waited and caught you
wretched and ruined,
now you loathe me.

i tell you,
i’ll wear your teeth on a necklace,
your eyes will see salvation
for you are the prettiest you have ever been,
one last rest before i begin

how redeeming, as in death to still be not lost in darkness,
how fortunate to live inside me,
finally you found the meaning of life,
you have been searching, i know.

Lenore’s Messenger - by D.B. Sullivan

Once upon a mornings’ splendor, youthful hearts so loving, tender,  
Bursting joy, a blissful courting, that rivaled the tales of yore.
Angels swoon and praises singing, multitudes of blessings bringing,
High the bells of heaven ringing, ringing, for whom they adore.
Bless’d were we, betroth’d, by Seraph singing for whom they adore.
Grasping love forevermore.

True and pure was our devotion, hearts enraptured with emotion,
Vast and deep, but still the ocean could not hold the love we bore.
Long we yearned for wedded living, youthful souls intent on giving -
Covenants and consecrations, bless’d by God we knelt before.
We upon the hallowed morrow, bless’d as all who’d knelt before,
Shall be wed forevermore.

But the tranquil eve was shattered, when a sudden spasm battered,
Waves of burning, shearing, searing, deeply through my ***** tore.
Retched and tossed about by quaking, all my senses howling, shaking.
Here my chest continued breaking, till I fell upon the floor.
Writhing, retching, convulsating, in a heap upon the floor.
Spat with blood and scarlet gore.

Wailing, I attempted standing, ev’ry ounce of strength demanding.
Agonizing pains and tremors left me prostrate furthermore.
Piercing lights and dreadful flashing, sordid sense of balance crashing,
“Lord above!” I pleaded, gnashing, “Torture!” - I could bear no more!
Left adrift and god forsaken, such that I could bear no more,
Closed my eyes for evermore.

Pallid, pale, my will succumbing, closer to a corpse becoming.
Cataleptic, body rigid, dying, lonesome on the floor.
Feeling now, my soul retreating, rapidly my senses fleeting.  
Woeful sobbing, oft repeating,”Save my soul - this prayer implore!”
With the final languid beating, “Guy de Vere!”, this prayer implore.
Stopped at last, and nothing more.

Weeping, mourning, lamentations, solemn, sober incantations,
Chanting dirges, exaltations, grieving, saddened, sorrow o’er,
Sacramental rites to aid in blessing she whom coffin laid in.
Blessings, unto God conveyed, in tolling bells and prayers outpour.
Debonair, this saintly maiden, requiems and prayers outpour.
Tombed in dirt for evermore.

Died in youth, denied of marriage, rendered now by hearsen carriage.
Laid to rest on dreary hillside - foggy, bleak and fodder for -
Root and rot, putrescence creeping, tombstone silent mem’ry keeping.
Ash to ash, eternal sleeping, there reposing furthermore.
Dust to dust with mildew seeping, decomposing furthermore -
With the worms and petrichor.

Wakened to a strange dimension, filled with anxious apprehension.
Conscious now with new awareness, shaken, dazed as ne’er before
Slowly, faculties regaining, as I struggled, vision straining.
Drunken, deathly stupor waning, I perceived what lay before.
Finally composure gaining, now discerned what lay before.
Darkness here and nothing more.

Frightened at this realization, swelling sense of desperation -
I, with dread and trepidation, ventured outward to explore.
Distant rolling thunder crashing, forked and fiery lightning flashing,
Wracked my nerves with savage thrashing, gnashing as I wandered fore.
Feeling deeply disconcerted, anxious as I wandered fore.
Godless night for evermore.

Onward through the tempest tearing, searching for familiar bearing,
Quickly then, I found myself upon a darkened desert shore.
Gazing out, with frenzied feeling, suddenly in horror reeling;
From horizon to horizon - nothing but a ghastly moor.
Nothing seen of soul or structure, desolate this ghastly moor.
Emptiness for evermore.

Cognizant of this damnation, pure and utter isolation -
“God!!” I cried, with consternation, but no answer came before.
Filled with burning desperation, here, I wailed with indignation -
“Why have you abandoned this child upon the Stygian shore!?”
“What great sin would cause thy God to cast me to this stranded shore!?”
Loneliness for evermore.

Longing, and for comfort seeking, no response from God there speaking;
Lightning all around me streaking, agonizing furthermore.
Addled with despair, affliction, at this godly dereliction,
When, a sound, a sudden diction, broke the silence heretofore.
Then, a murmur - plainly, faintly - broke the silence heretofore;
Whispered out my name - “Lenore!”

Stunned to hear the silence broken, startled by the word there spoken;
It delighted my heartbroken soul to hear my name, “Lenore”.
With this whisper disappearing, quickly I betook to peering -
Outward, nothing further hearing, here on this Hadean shore.
Sullen now, with disappointment, here on this Hadean shore.
Silence here and nothing more.

But, again there came a calling, much unto my ears, enthralling.
Only this time sounding wholly more resounding than before.
Steadily, this vocalizing echoed louder, hypnotizing -
With a boundless localizing, was a voice that I adore.
Here upon, I heard the voice of - “Him! My Love Whom I Adore!”
He doth cry my name - “Lenore!”

Discomposure overtook me. “Guy de Vere!” - my wailing shook me
With great agonizing desperation to embrace once more.
"Cursed place of condemnation, stricken, wretched desolation!”
“Unredeemed and lonesome, this deathly estrangement I abhor!”
“Stridently, this awful fateful separation, I abhor!”
Lost in dreams for evermore.

Sinking into woeful sadness and an all consuming madness;
Calling out into the blackness - “Deathly master, I implore!”
“Send this child of woe a yeoman to convey this somber omen!”
Suddenly here flew a raven - with no common mein he bore.
Demon eyes and plumage stately, quite a royal mein he bore.
Croaked and flit and nothing more.

Marveling at his emergence, and conveying sense of urgence -
“Counsel him of this divergence, this great painful message. Soar!”
“OH! My love, no balm shall lift thee. Somber last goodbye I bid thee”.
“Take my cries and render swiftly, bird, from this Stygian shore”.
“Carry now my heart and render tidings from this stranded shore”.
“BIRD! Out from this desert soar!”

“Find my love - alone, aggrieved and anguished, heartbroken and bereaved”.
“Find my love, whom by God deceived, and relay this dreadful lore”.
“OH!, BIRD!, be not thou craven and find him in his mortal haven”.
“Shall we ever clasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Shall we ever grasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Tell him sadly - ‘nevermore!’”

The Ruins of Whitby Abbey - by D. B. Sullivan


Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.

Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river -  the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.

Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.  

Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions - of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.

Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate - year Six Hundred Sixty Four.

Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.

Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.

Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.

Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding  
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.

Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.  

Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.  
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,  
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.

Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.

Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.

Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.  
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.

Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.

One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.  
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.

Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:

Etiam in morte vivas.

The Beloved Souls of Salem - by D. B. Sullivan


Woe for the souls who in Salem did suffer as charges were levied
Onto their innocent lives. Accusations of witchcraft had come from
Neighbors and townsfolk who claimed to be Christian but lacking in virtue.
Shame to the church and the christians within it for harming innocents.

“Witches!” they cried with the pointing of fingers that surely would threaten
Liberty, life and the standing of members devoted to their kin.
Scant was the evidence offered as proof of offenses before God.
Nevertheless were the parties subjected to needless suffering.

Fantasies spreading like rats of the plague wherein feeble minded folk
Bought into lies and horrific dishonesty. Feeding on their own
Citizens, family, kindred and brethren, accusers provided
Names to be targeted, lives to be shattered and souls to be condemned.  

Where was compassion or doubt of the charges? The magistrates seemed to
Judge the defendants as guilty without hesitation before a
Series of hollow, facetious, nay “trials” determined the “truth” of
What had transpired or who was a victim or who was free of guilt.  

Month after month in the year of our Lord Sixteen Ninety Two and Three,
Women and men were subjected to torturous treatment and terror.
Humans betrayed by the church and the state and the village they so loved.  
Sent to the gallows to die for the sins of the Puritan christians.

Even the ones who were spared execution were brutalized, broken.
Many imprisoned were tortured and beaten and died awaiting trial.
Infants of mothers accused were then born in the prison, dark, cold and
Died in conditions where no one would help them, out cast just as refuse.

Such was the state of the village that dozens of innocent people
Suffered and died on the words of accusers, and no one attempted
Merciful pleading for grace or for clemency. Innocent were these
“Witches”, these humans courageously standing as beacons of true strength.

Truly, the only affliction was having no courage, no honor.  
Baseless were claims of consorting with Satan or supernatural
Dealings with devils and demons. The “Witches” were peaceful, upstanding
Citizens, living their truth and in balance with nature and God’s Earth.

None of the liars were punished or banished for needlessly causing
Suffering, pain and unwarranted carnage, here upon the village.
Puritans acting as nothing had happened here, sweeping the affair
Under the rug and ignoring their actions that shattered all those lives.

Long ago, names of the townsfolk forgotten like mud in the river.
Ah! But the “Witches” are vaunted and hailed as beloved souls of yore.  
They did not flinch upon seeing the noose, did not cower before men.  
History shows that not death or destruction can vanish the Witches.

Centuries later the pattern continues and “Men of God” inflict
Pain and oppression on innocent victims while pounding the bible.
Lest they forget it is they who will suffer the wrath that they have earned.
Fires of Hell for the “righteous” and “holy” that prey upon the meek.

See now! Not fire, not gallows, not torture will silence the spirit.
None can extinguish the light of the Witches who tend to Earth’s children.
Caretakers, healers and makers of magic, protectors of wounded
Creatures and people, the coven is sacred, eternal and cherished.

Self-righteous factions have always been keen on the prospect of power.
Try as they might to suppress and subdue in the name of God’s command,
We will still be here.

The Black Veil - by D. B. Sullivan

I knew this day would come. I must confess,
It’s quite surreal to have this taking place.
I hold emotions tight within my dress,
Behind the veil of black that hides my face.

Arriving at the church, I’m overcome
By all the feelings that I have inside.
Until the end, I’m staying silent, mum,
But absolutely present, misty-eyed.

I’m ushered to the front and find my place
With slightly trembling hands, I breathe and wait.
Chantilly lace and crepe obscure my face,
my heart begins to race and palpitate.

The priest begins with welcoming regards.
He then proceeds to bow and raise his hands
Aloft, appealing unto Heav’nly guards
This group of hearts in silence fore him stands.  

We bow our heads in rev’rent piety,
And pray that God attend these supplicants
Of mortal flesh. Dispel anxiety -
New life awaits infused with sustenance.  

The rites are read to sanctify and bless
Transitioning from this life to the next.
Our faithfulness in God again profess,
That we, in times of strife need not be vexed.

The ***** and its pipes uplift the hymn,
Resounding with an echoing reply.
The colored glass of windows dark and dim
From thunder clouds and rainfall rolling by.

A single rose of red I hold in hand,
With silken gloves that all my arms conceal.
My knees are weak and faint, but here I stand.
Chiffon of black hides ev’rything I feel.

Devotions made, felicitations said,
Means soon will be the last and final bell.
When after tributes voiced and scriptures read,
I find I’m falling farther under spell.

I feel the eyes of all that gathered here,
Anticipating words from me. I start
A deep and steeling breath so all may hear
My words before they'll see me come apart.

And now, with sacramental candles lit,  
All other persons did their prayers purvey,
The time has come for me - the last commit.
From ev’ry corner of my soul I say:

“I do”.

Middle age is a drawer of bottles,
labels rubbed blank,
small tablets stamped
with numbers I can’t read,
others chalk-white,
anonymous as bones.

That August night I woke,
a moth in the moonlight,
wings two halves of a Viking ship.
They say if it maps all four corners
you’re finished.
My head bricked with mucus,
her throat raw-
our marriage a duet
two instruments coughing through the score.

I whispered- moth,
as her eyes opened, glowing like sunken lanterns.
It weighed two thousand pounds,
wings lifting her hair
like a bride of the dead.

Two optimism pills
waited on my table.
I chewed them dry,
chalk cementing my tongue,
the insect’s brain ticking in my skull
like a clock in a gothic castle.

Then water rose inside us-
first a seep, then a tide,
spilling warm rivers across the floorboards.
The dark room brightened green,
cypress arms cracked plaster,
reeds whispered spells older than fever.

Fireflies stitched lanterns along the walls,
crocodiles slid through like priests of the river.
We held hands as the bed turned pirogue,
drifting through brackwater green.

Above us the moth circled-
no longer omen but guide,
its wings stirring moonlight into spell.
Papa Legba opened the crossing,
Maman Brigitte lit the reeds with flame.
We: two elders slipping from sickness into swamp,
breath turned to whirlpools,
our oaths ferried
on the moth’s traité tide.

Maps of dread!
Pathways open ready to navigate,
crossways sweeping to a loss.
Should I resist the current,
turn escapist to the fluid?
Or should I see where it takes me,
what cascades ought to be seen up close?

So I chose to be swept.
Left or right? Left? Or right?
Waves! Waves and waves, they haste,
they lead me where I couldn't choose
which route to take.
I can no longer go backwards in my decision;
Im Lost! In this place, this very dark place...

I can no longer see:
thus my other senses I'll use to see—
and guide me throughout the dark...
the route I take will be seen by my taste.

I wander in the depths of where I ended,
feeling with my touch, and my steps paced,
attempting to grip a rocky wall:
I almost fall to a hard solid ground,
feeling scared and too cold as to freeze
away, maybe even break apart and lose myself,
ever changing to the cold and the dread.

My grip falters, yet panic does not arrive
because I knew since the start of my wander:
I am no one without my sight and knowledge/
so I lay down, awaiting death,
as no places I've tread reflect or predict myself
alone and with nothing to survive.

As a final goodbye, I lick my killer:
this salty— silted shore;
My final taste of this world:
it tastes so murky and gloomy,
yet as time goes on...

I love this sadness, how it engulfs
me in the end, encompassing my farewell;
now clarity enlightens me.
I remember not appreciating my loyal companion,
and never again if I only had the chance!
I'd reconcile with you, my lovely, neglected companion.