two a.m. on a temperature chilling October morn
sitting in a Lovecraft silence of
beastly creatures
sleeping in the earth
under bed and basement
the earworms dig in
with Steven King ambitions
as my lids slit to stay awake
the draping Wes Craven curtains
part to my next dream sequence
falling into hell's revenge
the Clive Barker pains of
pinhead punishments
feel believingly real
though I'm dead to the world
in a Jordan Peele trance
stiff with only mental movements
at the wheel of a Detroit demon
flaming down the to slow
to get away pedestrians
who's evil doings have done me wrong
I'm alive in the thrill of the ****
to **** without remorse
with Anne Rice stirring arousal
seated shotgun
queening the dammed
the fallen the unbathedsouls
getting bathed in the endless
bloodbath of her draining rein
to empty their cold dying hearts
hopelessly trapped
in her dark minded chronicles
I found was the ending road
with no uturn from the limboed
feasting humanoids
in a Abraham "Bram" Stoker scenario
thirsty to **** the lifeliquid
from limbs and neck-vines
shockingly terrifying me
from my zombie like state
eyes wide open and breathing
in a pandemic like panic
darkened with the next dusking day.