On difficult days I often have resorted
To wishing (and wishing hard) I'd been aborted.

O.O

I saw a man.  An open book,
    He looked me in the eye;
And I could see within his look
    His great desire to die.
Yet, as I killed him, he forsook
    His wish, and screamed out, "WHY?!"
Perhaps it was all the time it took
    To cook him whole in lye.

O.O

A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.
A dirge depress'd and darkly fair,
A consort of viols plays an air
Within a graveyard ruin'd and bare.
    I list and love the gloomy sound.
A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.

O.O

Arise, arise, my ugly friends;
   Arise, and bring a cup!
I've got for you some witch's brew:
   Come out, and drink it up!

Come swim with me the river of dreams,
   Where poisonous flowers bloom:
Come on, get high: climb up the sky:
   Get higher than high on "the broom".

A lesser man can **** his can,
   His bottle, or his blood;
But me? I need the weedy mead:
   All other spirits are mud.

And those who know, they know it so:
   No other brew will do;
So be my guest and get possessed
   On my homemade witch's brew!

O.O

Tonight the poltergeists will come
    And rip you out of bed,
And pound your walls, and drum your door,
    And hammer in your head,
And leave you writhing still alive,
    Though rather you'd be dead.

But fear not these; they merely prank;
    Instead the demon fear
That frightens away the poltergeists
    Whene'er it doth appear,
And screams a scream that makes to bleed
     A stream each mangled ear.

It comes for you, your soul to possess;
    And I do sadly tell,
You have no chance yourself to save;
    So, sleep, and sleep you well—
Enjoy another tender dream
    Before you're dragged to Hell.

O.O

“Poor Harry Gill” I will say never,
Yet what a fate befell that wight:
For dead and buried long, still ever
He shivers morning, day, and night.
And so long chattered all his teeth
That not a tooth his sad mouth owns:
Pass by his plot and hear beneath
The clattering of frigid bones!

O.O

Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
    Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow.
He'd hoped to find a sunny, green
        Elysian meadow.

Barely a man, at sweet sixteen
    He's gone where none who love him can follow.
He drank his cup of bitter teen
        In one large swallow.

Where he has gone,—to what demesne,—
    (If we in life are ever rooted),
Is all conjecture very mean,
        And much disputed.  

He's gone, and yet he still is seen
    Suffering love's disdain and panging:
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
        Is dead weight hanging.

O.O

How sweet it is to deep into the night
   Let percolate your dreams in dripping beads
Of glowingly inebriate delight
   Distilled from gurgling rills of amber meads,
And then in threads of starlight finely spun—  
   All witched by frozen moonlight, pitched in black—
Suspend your limbs (made heavy by the run
   Of daily cares), and lay relaxed and slack
Till, saturate with drowsiness, and high
   Within a space of jewels and gems and jet,
You fall into the black hole's empty eye,
   And all the world and all yourself forget.
How sweet it is to all your life forsake,
Forgetting you had ever been awake.

O.O

I’d lie, or cheat, or steal, or ****,
Or all my blood thus gladly spill
Then drink, or all of the above,
To spend a night with you, my Love.

O.O

One autumn day in Providence
   I opened up a door,
And entered into a stuffy room
   Called "Edgar's Nevermore",

A curio shop with things forbidden,
   And things bizarre and perverse,
And obelisks of ancient books
   Occult, arcane, and diverse.

I poked around the pint-sized potions,
   Inspected a petrified eft,
But made no purchase; and empty handed
   The merchant's lair I left.

Returning home, to my surprise,
   Like one who'd broken the law,
I found I'd taken a good unpaid for:
   A little monkey's paw.

It tightly gripped, with fingers curled,
   A flap of baggy sleeve;
And there it stayed, upon my jacket,
   When I hung it up at eve.

For many days it didn't move,
   And seemed the perfect pet;
But never trust a monkey's paw,
   Or this is what you'll get:

I went to bed a drunken evening,
   And slept as though I were dead;
And I didn't hear the monkey's paw
   As it crept beside my bed,

The monkey's paw that had bided its time,
   And waited, still as could be,
To choose this night to strangle it—
   My voodoo doll of me!

(Why did I have a voodoo doll
   Of me, you ask? Well, I...
Well, let's just say...well...I can't tell you...
   I'd blush to tell you why...)

I awoke (with bleary, blurry vision)
   To the monkey-****** grip,
Then died without a single curse
   To swear upon my lip.

And in my town I'm still remembered
   As that quintessential loner
Who died alone with a mangled throat,
   A creepy doll...and a *****.

O.O

Let me to kiss your chewy lips,
Draw drops of blood with little nips,
And **** them up in little sips.

Your teeth, as white as yellow snow,
Crooked and spare, do seem to show
Like rocks of rosin in a row.

Your forkèd tongue did lately taste
A cockroach fat; now, should you haste
To **** my breath like solid waste.

To me there is no greater bliss
That heaven could hostage than your kiss.
Come, kiss me before I take a ****.  

O.O

The alcoholic spirit,
   When by it I'm possessed,
Makes me crazy, (or near it),
   And often much depressed;

But the good spirit Mary
   (Belovèd Mary Jane!)
Is Alcohol's contrary:
   She makes me peaceful and sane.

O.O

Awakens not my wolf-man to the moon
For that it shines a silver discus full,
For he may rise when clouds the thickest dull
The round moon’s lustre, or when the clock strikes noon.
One sorceress alone doth have the pow’r
T’arouse the beast, and he doth her obey;
And from her side the beast doth never stray,—
So loveth him the witch and the witching hour.
Yet, by my troth, the wolf-man hath no love
For her and hers which greater is than mine:
By daylight, blackest night, or moony shine,
My love doth neither wax nor wane nor rove.
However, unlike the love the beast doth keep,
My love can’t wake, for it doth never sleep.

The guy bangs awful, horrid creatures:
    To touch these things you wouldn't dare:
And undeterred by beastly features,
    He'll stick his slimer anywhere.

O.O

A gummy connoisseur,
The worms that I prefer
Are red with human blood.
They're just so ******* good!

O.O

For ***** and giggles, and moans and groans,
Allow me, Love, to jump your bones.

O.O

I crack my knuckles: nor any pleasure lingers.
I’d rather break your hand and all its fingers.

O.O

The very finest cat-man stew
Is made and served in Kathmandu.  

O.O

I whistle a tune
At nighttime's noon
   In a minor key
To call my bat
And little black cat
   To eat with me.

My spider spins with thinnest thread
      Her web of lace
   To capture her meal: your head
         And face.

O.O

Cuter than those
With the plague, or rabies,
   Or fungusy toes,
Or a bad case of scabies,
   Or one extra nose,
Are zombified babies.

O.O

A banshee once went on a date—
A dinner.  It wasn't so great:
   She started to cry
   Right across from the guy,
Who then choked and fell dead on his plate.

O.O

When I sit down to write a poem, I like to write in pen:
I dip it in inky blood, lick it,—and then I dip again.

O.O

The moon tonight doth wear a shroud
    Of crimson-orange ether,
And seems a pumpkin with flight endow'd,
    Nor with a rooted tether.

The night is warm; the breeze doth loll
    Upon the shadow's creeping;
And autumn very soon will fall,
    And bring with it more sleeping.

                              August 29, 2015

O.O

She said, "Your wish is my command,"
    And sat down on the bed.
I knelt before her, kissed her hand,
    And whispered, "My Love...play dead."

O.O

Fingertips ******
   Dig, impose,
Pick at a crusty
   ****** nose.

O.O

.
        Flying, flying
        Away and dying
Across the night air is the cackling of witches.
        Flying, flying
        Away and crying
    Are children abducted for wickedest fun.
        Flying, flying
        Away and sighing
Are night winds that murmur in ominous pitches.
        Flying, flying
        Away and nighing
    Their lair, the witches have only begun.

O.O

Ignore the slither and hiss:
      Unsprung
The asp desires a kiss
      With tongue.

O.O

Desiring timeless lines of verse to write,
I place upon my desk a sheet of paper
Empty and blank,—a void of ghostly white,—
Stare at the flame that leaps upon the taper,
Dangle but loosely in my fingers’ grip
A pencil that I drag in aimless ways
Around the sheet, (so lightly touches the tip,
The sheet, once white, is now the lightest of grays),
And call upon the spirits of the dead,—
The poets old and great who penned sweet lines
Of potent poesy, read and still reread
By him who still for sweetest verses pines,—
That one may pluck a leaf from out their bay,
And drop to me what will be green alway.

O.O

He’ll spare the rod only to spoil
The gagging throat with castor oil.

O.O

You'll live your life from grief to grief:
   Rarely you'll be relieved.
But, fear not, your strife will be but brief
    Till you yourself are grieved.

O.O

A poet lies here very often:
When not about, he’s in his coffin.

O.O

When people exclaim, "Well, holy Moses!"
I find it funny.  The guy drinks doses
Heroic of wine and loves his boys
Like ***-wee Herman loves his toys!

O.O

Enfleshed and skinned and stuffed with juicy giblets:
A future worm's-meal of steaks and chops and riblets.

O.O

Have ever you heard
   The crows sing sweetly?
A singing bird,
   They sing discreetly.

They caw to scoff
   And to berate you,—
To **** you off
   And agitate you.

O.O

Since I would rather take
    A chainsaw to the gut
Than have my heart to break,
    Instead, Love, bust my nut.

O.O

**** me off?  You really shouldn't.
If I were you, my friend, I wouldn't,
Since I would make it then my goal
To chain you up and ****** your soul.

O.O

"No, no, go not to Lethe..."
                —John Keats

Ignore them, though they call you,—all the pills
   And liquor teasing playfully from the drawer,—
The leather belt, half on the chair, that spills
   Into a single loop onto the floor;
Fashion no crown of thorns with poisoned darts;
   And let the vulture fly an aimless flight
      That sees him make in vain each listless sweep
Till he forsakes his stalking and departs;
   For soon you'll blink into a dreamless night,
      And sleep Endymion's never-waking sleep.

O.O

She dwelt within the dripping wood,
    Beneath a drooping sky:
A boon for Evil, a bane for Good,
    The harlot had to die.

She didn't drown, but should have drown
    For her own Soul's dear sake,
When trialled by the nearby town
    That burned her at the stake.

O.O

.
      My lute doth sound
With music soft and sad this pitchy night,—
      A plodding ground
Largo e sostenuto play'd by a wight
Long dead, and living yet to his despite.

      He gins to sing.
His voice is strange, and ghostly is the tone.
      The song, a thing
Witless and wordless, compos'd is of a groan,
And a long, drawn-out, agonizing moan.

      About his *****,
The plaintive melody painful is to hear.
      The song recalls
A time long-past—a very distant year—
When they were clipp'd to please a sadist's ear.

      A throbbing pain
Resonates, sounds in every sombre note;
      And like a rain
Of wept droplets from a sad fountain, mote
Forever be the weirdness in his throat.  

O.O

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Children are born not of love but lust.

O.O

Because I love the sound of people choking
    Nearly to death,
Please, take this cigarette, and then start smoking
    Till out of breath.

O.O

It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.

O.O

His better days were long ago done:
He's a bitter old man at thirty-one.

O.O

For those who like a little punch
   When drinking Coca-Cola:
Try it with a sprig of mint,
   Or spike it with ebola.

O.O

The apex of pleasure,
   (There's nothing more pleasing),
Is reaching the ******,
   Then powerfully sneezing.

O.O

.
   I keep an imp:
   It dangles limp,
And sleeps away its time,
   Only arousing
   To go out carousing,
Painting the town with slime.

O.O

The tangents on my clavichord
Were fashion'd from a ****** sword
That slew a man who music made
Which ought like him to be decay’d.

O.O

It's any fool can shrink a head:
The art is making it also undead.

O.O

To swim the slimy seas the ocean o’er
And gag upon the rank and rotten air
Filthy with sailor’s curse and foulest swear
In search of lost and dearly loved Lenore,
To open up the inner sanctum’s door
And call (in tongues unfit for holy prayer)
Clammy Cthulhu forth from out his lair,
Will be to me most pleasant evermore.
And like a count who shuns the light of day
And moves by candlelight in chilly gloom,
Or a black witch that wears a sacred bloom
Of belladonna on her breast alway,
I live where the scarecrow spies the blackbird’s lark:
I live within the cold and rainy dark.

O.O

With curvy spines grow all the trees,
    As though they passed round scoliosis
Like people pass a cold and sneeze,
    Or swine-flu, or tuberculosis.  

O.O