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Zywa 7d
Ghosts see everything,

including us, like we see --


them: vaguely present.
Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 3-3 "Sam and the Tiger"
Collection "Low gear"
rk Mar 29
our love was a loaded gun
the beginning
and the end
your lips grazed mine
before swallowing me whole
one last bite
of the serpents apple
the sweetest martyrdom
and just like horatio
i'm aching
with the anticipation
of your ghost finding mine
waiting for sleep
just to hear your voice once more
each syllable
still the sweetest hallelujah
even if we're nothing
but the whisper of a memory.
- stay, illusion. if thou hast any sound or use of voice, speak to me.
Ken Pepiton Feb 23
Being in time,
to be judged
for being well and good,

or good for nothing, after all's
been said and done, and the books

been balanced, so be lived,
on the edge of realization, in mere
if on occasions, mere
instant of mere
what if.

Yah, the happy ifery everwas, once,

told, told to all the children, in the world,
by the likes of traveling salvation shows,
everybody knows, everybody don't
-0- reality starts at one, not zero

don't tell me your scripture told you true,
no, don't come to my wedom, and pretend

to know enough to say you know what I mean,
general I, any mind's I, is the I a' habit, ritual

morning washings and mind windings, set,
ready to say what the preacher man say,

say that, Yeah, like, yah, he know, word.

Manifest festive tests of mere concentrated
will to make a perfect Dirac one, from a perfect
Schrödinger one, and call it just what I said.

The point of everything that pierces anything

any wall. Any sign says This is it, no where to go
from where you …. went,
on second thoughts
Plancksecs in duration, sub instant, so fast

the point is pastless. Forget it. This is it.
testing tensile strength on a Rasta strand that rots at its roots, but we live in the same half true what's a man to do, tell the belivable truth, don't say, be,y'know.
LC
she moves in light
while I'm awake
renders mercy
for hearts that ache

she waits in patient
silent hope
providing comfort
a cushion to cope

she has no thoughts
of giving in
slows my breath
when air gets thin

as I await
the final tide
she allows a glimpse
of the other side

she is the reason
this soul can rhyme
with every season
her gift of time
LC is a reference to my Mother; Elsie, who passed many years ago but is always with me
this is a true story about a spirit or spirits
he
or maybe she
or possibly both
or possibly more
let me know from time to time
that he, she or they are still here
I have heard many voices and seen many things
since I began recording them
it's as if I am sitting at the doorway to a meeting room
a meeting room of spirits
and this meeting room is in my home
I have filmed them...streams of orbs moving briskly
like a crowd at a rock concert hurrying to their seats
before the first song
one...a young male
I believe his name is Arthur
called my name as he passed over my head during a spirit box session
'Thomas'
he apparently was not happy being caught on camera
because within seconds of sending a copy of the video to a friend
a can of Lysol was thrown from underneath my bathroom sink against the wall
and my spirit box no longer functioned
this was 3 years ago
and they still let me know they are here
from time to time
in their various ways
I consider them my friends
I have yet to be harmed or frightened
I just think I noticed them
and they noticed that I noticed them

(last line borrowed from 'The Mothman Prophecies')
there's a place called the Lowe
the Lowe Hotel
100 plus years of souls
passing in the halls
leaning against the walls
that view the Ohio River
in its majesty
the Lowe
where stories were born
and still thrive
the room breathes
and crackles with sound as I sleep
whispers...taps...creaks
they are my connection
and I theirs...
window to the living
there are no years
no time or space to measure

'We get you' she said
in a voice as clear as crystal
and as close as dead can be to the living
after my one night stay
Lily Priest Nov 2023
In every sense I'm a spirit
Slipped of human substance,
Settled like dust
On all this that must
Have once given me life.
My souls slipped my skin
And now all is haunting,
Lingering
And not letting go.
Francie Lynch Oct 2023
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.

Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.

Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.

"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.

In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.

The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.

In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.

Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.

So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.

But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the *****, and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
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