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Every October, on her birthday, she visits the next friend she'll keep forever, 3 o'clock, in the morning, she'll greet you.





A little girl dressed all in black
Got called a little shadow,
The kids around thought she'd attack
when they turned the lights hollow
She'd walk away, her face unphased
Her little soul would laugh
She let them know that she would go,
she'll make them all friends fast
Far far away, less noise out there
her home was set to be
She went back there, to tell one friend
as pale as the snow gleams,

Let's make them friends, so we can dance
recharge the father's glee
Give him their soul, give us a friend, every single Halloween
I am huddled in the coroner,
a little beast within a man,
And when at night he studies bodies,
I come out,
now and again.
Coop Lee Oct 2014
the skull and spine of seventy seven men, extracted.
retribution far past putrefaction.
a pile of bones in the center of town, at the corner of washington
& rochambeau.
gather around.

           do you believe in the boogeyman?

a glitch in the darkness.
an echo of rage, high chroma bacteriophage.
every faithless father,
every sister spared,
every ritual sung just right, a brief blackout,
reconfigured pixels of outer night.

                     [bobby’s sega genesis awakens on its own]

thirty three years to the day, he
died on that suncrest boulevard, returned today just to say “hey.”

graveyard family tree and the moon.
first as a manifestation of electromagnetic phenomena
            in a videogame’s cpu. 1993.
second as a fully-fledged entity materialized via videocassette,
            hungry for pizza and pure vengeance. 2001.
third from beneath bedrock, the quarry belly baste,
            a body buried thrice, undead toxic tumescence,    
            a walking corpse heaving black plasma. 2020.

the sequel.
the son.
the spectral chosen one, he
rips out a throat or two, quite fashionably so,
a man about town throttled and disemboweled,
as friends and neighbors stumble and sprint to escape with their own godforsaken skin.
let the bone collection begin.
emerged in afterschool hallways to **** old classmates turned teachers.
emerged in afterhours offices to devour old buddies turned bankers.
emerged in the quiet dark homes of neighborhood flesh and folk.
blood soaked socks.

why? you ask, must all these people die?
vengeance?    no.
that was a lie.
he killed those people for a laugh
& that’s that.
Coop Lee Oct 12
[this is just an intro course: a 101 on death and dismemberment.]

we were looking to get high.
delilah and i.
higher than high.
& she knew a guy who knew a guy
who got tapped by the bonesmen a semester or two back,
or so she says.
he had all the goodies; coke, nangs, and dust.
& a small yacht, for a moonlit ****.

             chew this ripe ‘lil nub of apricot plucked,
             it’s a gland in fact,
             best consumed fresh,
             just before death.

high tide, wide eyed, sped on adrenochrome.
we ****** all night, felt god, ****** god,
were god.
thanks,       god.

he said this batch was called “sisters of mercy.”
named for the nuns who farmed it
from orphan kids’ kidneys.

         there are two truths.
         two chakras to pulp.
         one for the masses – schizos & scope –
         the other for the monarchs – the princess & pope –

pineal or adrenal.
house of the moon.
                       or
                    vintage, house of blood.

hit the white rabbit.
the mythic psychedelic.
clot. frazzledrip. drencrom.
chromata bomb, have it pure
or synthetic.
pick your path and pray, business or pleasure.

              you know too much,

she said.
& i was dead before the end of the semester.

the genteel men about town prefer to cup the blood.
at least a tarp to preserve the rug.
                           “treasure your blessings, for this is the life. “
                                                               they incinerate the leftover flesh,
                                                                ­               save for a bone or ear,
                                                scattered in the woods at the edge of town
                        for a saturday morning mystery kind of kid to have found.

first son proselytized    – half-past jesus –
second son convoluted      – by the dark lord jeebus –
tricks &/or treats.
sacraments of cancer.
to cultivate within him that harsh old matter.

town & teachers & nurses & nuns.
all watching.
all whispering.
all ******* beneath the desk along your thigh.
take a walk to the library.
fifth floor,
section c,
aisle 3,
somewhere between rites & rituals.
blood opens the gate.
adrenaline opens the dream.

                        hit the white rabbit.

        he abducted a drifter/
        or saint, by the throat
        like an eggplant brought him to the threshold.
        idled there,
        for the conduit to unlock.
        cut/
        the horror from his        .
        pulled him apart at the ribcage and sac
        just to recover one sacred gland.

he was a luciferian wasp.
or a vampyr in seersucker shorts.
just a man with a taste for blood.
took a bullet to the brain either way,
a man with a hole in his head.

can i simply go on vacation from all this existential dread?
just slip away for a day or two?
Coop Lee Oct 2015
dad is in the garage.
days into spark-light and piles of polyethylene
etched.
soon, he says.
as grandaddy laughs,
rattling the icebox for more beer.

dad’s homemade android:
  the thing.
like a doll polished
& grinning, it
dances for us in the kitchen.

the dog barks, chained in the backyard.

the thing,
do-si-dos for a laugh, catches a glimpse
of the trees beyond the yard,
overheats,
circuits popping into a limp heap of pieces.
  dead.
left to mold-over in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats tiptoeing along the edge of fences
across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
snapped.
  dead
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
weeks in and his soaked red knuckles.
mom is drinking with grandaddy.
they rattle the icebox.
  the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night and buries three cats there.
it sleeps on the mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
  the trees.
previously published in Paper Darts Lit. Mag.
http://www.paperdarts.org/poetry/moses.html
Jennifer Oct 9
dark’s peering into day,
wonder when the dew’ll lay;
time’s slowed as skies turn static,
least the hours are less erratic.
orange lamps glow
outside a misted window;
earthy rain’s falling hard
but fire’s lit and sky is starred.
sometimes mist deceives the eyes:
seen silent figures’ quick demise.
ocean spits over the pier,
almost as grey as the Wear;
lighthouse shines it’s steely beam,
illuminating the horizon’s seam.
heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron,
far away seems unearthly Zion;
harvest moon’s not as vague:
illuminating an eight-legged plague.
crows spectate above and below,
you’d be surprised what they know;
change leers at every bend,
nostalgia seems an only friend.
the veil is thinner than before,
perhaps open is another door;
harvest season’s coming to an end,
fields of Elysium this way wend.
Witherhexis Oct 9
A cathedral backed by reddened skies,

Remnant of a diluted heaven,

Few who controlled the lives of many,

Played with chaos, and lost their game,

What remains is ruin, relinquished of life,

And a revered site destroyed, like butter cut through by a blade,

Inside dance spectres, unlike those seen before,

Ghouls of the past, souls who were garishly slayed,

The melody of laughter and sonance of screams,

Echo from the abyss, an alien and somber plane,

The feats of the few claimed the spirits of the many,

And now they slave together,

The minds of the sick enlivened by screams,

As all are watched by the King.
For an October goal of writing one project every day.
10/7 Theme (Late): Haunted.
the mystery of you and I

haunts me,

on city nights

when the mist shrouds

the towers
do you ever get that sinister wondering when the clouds are eerie?
Witherhexis Oct 7
Mosaics scrawled in oak,
Charters to a new dimension,
Candles bring forth grey smoke,
Filling a stygian room with tension.

A hallowed oversoul awaits a sacrament,
Crimson stanzas chanted, a return anticipated,
The King still needs a benighted advocate,
Atonement was made, with a blade of onyx, serrated.

Throughout the hall, a sensation,
First came the scent of velvet nectar,
Then, the impact of consternation,
And all among the walls, dark and unearthly spectres.

An observance had concluded,
As the veil was torn by madness,
And the microcasm, polluted,
A world overthrown, by the abyss.
For an October goal of writing one project every day.
10/6 Theme: Magic
Norman Crane Oct 3
Not all light has a source. Some streets travel
in freight cars city to city to be
extra-urbanistically unravelled,
oppidan rugs unrolled for you and me,
Only upon close inspection we see
that the perspective lines fail to meet,
A top shadow has spilled. Tread carefully,
Although a flag blows, the street is empty,
What lives in all these abandoned buildings?
you may ask but no one will answer. I
wander here searching for who pulls the strings
of this, our cleverly falsified world,
But quick look now how the light breaks the rules,
They already roll up the street—the fools!
Inspired by Chirico's painting of the same name from 1914.
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