Saigen Embrace Dec 2016

The warmth of thy bed
The comfy cover till head
Pillow that's feather fed
What more can behead
For a lovely night like undead
Good night with dreams of dread

don't plan on doing a free promo again. honestly, get my new horror / black comedy poetry book ' molly is a faggot ' for free before i jack the kindle price up to 10 and paperback to 20

just search for it on amazon links r broken on this site still, right?

I’ve existed a lifetime
under a sky bereft of sun
and sadly I must say
it is but a memory to me now

the light, the warmth, yes it’s all gone

the pale winter moon
my constant night companion
has always been silent but watchful
And somehow that affords me a small comfort

I am forced to walk by night
feasting on the outcasts and the unloved
dubiously luring the innocent
into my lair of sin and barren flesh

within their blood, a vision I see
their passion
their pain
their hell
upon these humans I must feed

simply because

their “human suffering”
satiates me

like cattle, I regard these humans beings
and believe me, I shall bleed them dry like hoofed swine
until that very moment
their life blood fills the cup of my glory

as my beloved twilight takes the sky
these foul innocents I gaze upon
are forever cursed

again, within their blood
I am able to sense the smallest hint of fear
which of course draws me right to them

by nightfall
I hunt in the streets of the city
the tiny villages
even the local farms

and please be assured, I kill without pity

I sit quite still
waiting for their last dying breath
to inflict a bit of chaotic misery
and attempt to suffocate the part of them that screams

but honestly

each innocents scream
is such a symphonic treat for my ears

I must admit to you right now
I believe I have swallowed something rotten to the core
and I am a monster no longer contained

I feel the malicious darkness under my flesh
and the bloody madness teases my skin
tempting the beast within me

I can tell you this,

I hunger for flesh
raw innocent flesh to be precise

lying in a heap of death

I shall feast until nothing remains


the stench of death upon my hands
will certainly become a part of me

I run my tongue across my lips
as my saliva flows


the thought of it all
settles deep into my bones

Thanks Tim for taking the time to collaborate with me. I appreciate your words and hope to write with you again soon...thanks again my friend  :)

i'd drop the link in this box but i think links r still broken on this site so uh just type in ' molly is a faggot ' on amazon and make sure it's the kindle version which should say 0.00 and 'buy' that shit. can read online without a kindle thru amazon with the free kindle reader. hmu if u have any questions

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

it was a night like no other

the winter moon split through the dark clouds
like a great silver celestial sword
the ebony curtain parted begrudgingly
as I put my nose to the chilled air

I longed for the safety within his embrace

as the black slate flickered with icy certainty
rusted gutters hung hopelessly lost
grasping jagged metal shards fell into the abyss
as I sat silently in the darkness

my eyes aching to sight her from the shadows

my cool pale hands
cradling my stilled dead heart
as his faraway whispers of pure hunger
raged mercilessly through my ragged chest

I seized her scent from frigid gusts
my tongue raked against my palm
to taste her flesh upon my lucid skin,
her perfumed neck
hidden behind my closed eyes

frosted winds gathered at my feet
circling about me, caressing my bones
bringing forth such dark forbidden desires
well hidden within myself

and already my parched lips ached for his

my breath frozen under the naked moon
hungered lungs billowed beneath my chest
her blood, I desired to score upon my nails
and to lock my arms around her

darkest night, shoulder my cravings for her

a mere word spoken in the darkness
and the thought of his heated breath upon my mouth
I dare say to those brave enough to listen
to this tale of insatiable appetites

I would have gladly followed him into Hell

love tormented my solitude
imprisoned neath cloudless skies
I traced her crimson lips, a finger
held aloft to mine

and I, then just a wisp
of the woman I once knew myself to be
cried out into the night
beseeching the gods of the darkness

to lay his corrupted soul at my feet

upon my haunches I rested, weary
tears of blood fell onto lichen dressed stone
as I felt her soft hair fall about my face
yet I was so desperately alone

her body, kidnapped by distance

the heavens grew darker around me
as the once twinkling stars stood still at my bidding
and the dirt underfoot sighed in response
while the gods remained silent

I could still feel his heat burning within me

my weakness morphed into an unstoppable force
so ravenous my appetite to feast upon her naked form
to bite her moonlit moistened skin
our tongues exchanging lustful blood

to be his alone, for a midnight tryst
bared skins entwined furiously
laid upon fetid earth, hidden from the light
as all unholy things are

my unquenchable desire for him only grew

no lines have been drawn
across the sands of fate
unspoken words slid from our bodies spent
her deepest blues had snared my loins
sealing my berth and walk amongst the dead

as the night winds ceased,
the seas did surely calm
yet my dark desire for his presence
will continue to burn uncontrollably
with the fury of Hell itself

I shall hunt for him endlessly until I die once more

This piece is from two peoples perspective. A male and female creature of the night that have never met but long for each other from a great distance. Thank you David for taking the time to create this wonderful piece with me. I am humbled by your talent my dear friend. Welcome to the dark side...
Mane Omsy Apr 15

Too many frightening dreams
These lasered rays can't burn them
Shuffled routines, let it flow
Unseen texts, missed calls
Guess the temperature is up
Under the sheets, worried
Shivering body isn't letting my mind

What else to think, to dig up?
Should I stare at the excuses
Evaporating from my head?
Coz it won't ever rain relief
I'm failing every medications
Not every meditations
Searching for the apt one

Redemption - XI

Lost world with anxieties. If I ask for help, no one pretends to hear. All these excuses are just a waste of time.
Pagan Paul Apr 14

The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now Daddy is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late … far too late … to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember Daddy at all?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember either.
Not even his face. Its very strange”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
at the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)

Lottie White Apr 12

Since I was a young child,
filled with nighttime fears
of monsters under beds
and creatures hiding in closets,
I avoid

Martin Narrod Apr 11

The postulate of this grief is ours. Every night in my wiry chain-mail suit, in my bed, where you have been crying for your lost hours. For a moment they came, in calamity and drudgery, to every travailing effect that pushed you down. Half of one day, you had it. You plucked your eyebrows, applied vigorously baby oil, lotion, to your pallid skin, and in two bats of your eyes, it had disappeared again. So sad you are. So sad you have been. They were only minor hours, wrapped in crimson bows, gentle happenings that you had barely grazed the tips of your fingernails into, and their symbolical sense, their nuance, wasn't perfected as you had wished just yet. And you tried so hard and it wasn't right yet. In the bed, with your fore-paws tucked neatly under the pillow, the bottom of your legs tucking their way up into your gut, tight as tight could be; I watched you sob in your maudlin ball, your sudorific tears, just peeling out of your eyes. I changed the pillow. I swapped it out. If only we could find your hours and give them back to you.But you cowered into a half-lump ball, your spirit curdling under your night-wept tears. And I too wanted your hours, for they were mine also. Our amatory hours, the fervid hours, our hours of luxe developing bliss. I felt the same urgency to recall them as you, but it was I who held to them, and clang to them that was losing my fingertip grasp on their minutes, and that is what frightened the both of us.

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