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Do you weep,
For those you ****?
Do you feel cold,
Without your second soul?
In the house of the living.
It is like being dead,
But never being able to die.
On the surgeons table.
When you go,
will the dead pass me by?

You opened up.
The bee and the blooming flower bud.
You slammed your petals shut.
Its mouth does not speak,
Therefore, its heart shall cease to beat?
Why does it matter to you?
It belongs to me.
I stole its air,
That makes it free.

Hung it from an umbilical cord,
Tied around a broken crescent moon.
Who knew that its home,
Would be the place to call its tomb.

Sang the carols of the needle man,
Now you hold a dead heart in your hand.
The air around screams ****** ******,
Seeing you through a blood-stained mirror.

A stranger wearing your skin.
Dead inside the home it made within.
A stranger wearing your skin.
Buried inside your human coffin.
Merry Sep 17
She’s the spider on your shoulder
Holding you, cold and tight
She’s all eyes, slitted blue,
And the longest legs you’ve ever seen
With flaming locks of orange
Which burn brighter than the embers
Of bridges she’s destroyed in arson
And when she smiles, corner to wicked corner,
It’s not hallowed beeswax on her lips
Which gives them that crimson hue
She’s slow and steady wins the race
That your pounding heart
Is susceptible to losing to
Saccharine sweet with a smile to boot
She will have you licking hers
Steeped in honey, polite and courteous,
She spins you into her silken web
Not even of lies, but you fumble regardless
And then she eats you whole
lenore Jul 7
i think i might have a mole.

my teeth are dug out of their rows.
my tongue is pulled out at the root.

my nails are shriveled up thorns,
my wrists wilted bouquets of bones.

my ribs metal jaws which enclosed
something that bit off its foot.

my skull’s overturned,
seeds spilling out of the neck.

what is a corpse but a flower bed?
A night that begeth ghastly thrill
A darkness, all-encompass, nature filled
A chuckle swept my home through heavenstill
A devil sat there upon a windowsill
The shriek that creature made would drill
The echo reaching nearby mill,
The swamplands, gallows and the hills
The terror pulsed my body like a winter chill
written in that brief moment after reading Algernon Blackwood and Bram Stoker, but before realising I am neither of them. I also like to come up with words, bite me
Labyrinth of fences, squares, corners.
Rain bites copiously and finely.
Dissolve in the landscape of houses,
But it leads to the navigator arrow.
The city ****** the spirit and left only slime
In the peel, the shell for the background,
It is not clear what life is leaving,
And the portrait on the smartphone screen.
And perhaps the reader, don't be a fool.
Marvel at such changes:
Was granite, rock,
Turned ash.
Was fire - became burnt logs.
"Is it possible (swear on blood!)
Still being alone so much?
There is a sentence of love on every pillar.
How so? Paradox and only! "
I’ve been trying my best to be a good host,
Though I have no idea as to what suits a ghost,
I’ve offered them food, and watched it all rot,
I’ve offered my wardrobe, no clothes they sought,
I lit a fire for sitting, but they’d no need for heat,
I freed up the best armchair, for none to take seat,
I’d availed the dead, and was left feeling loose,
And so held my head up with the help of this noose,
It’s no wonder their company’s naught for to boast,
If you ask me, I’ll tell you to give up the ghost.
hypnopunk May 14
may your graves stay open
without you arising
proud and solemn 
like lost children
burning cigarettes
for the fallen

eternal orchestras
will play you melodies
as heavy as boulders
and lost children
will carry the world
upon their shoulders

now your graves will enchant
stray cats and wild vultures
guiding their way
if lost children
call out to you
don't lead them astray

let sleeping bones lie still
underneath weeds and grass
but never closed
so lost children
see an example
that's overexposed

i'm the biggest raven
beaking at the cracks of
your iron grave
so come on, haunt
so come on, take
whatever you crave
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