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Äŧül Nov 2020
Old will be my bed,
But
Memories will be undead.

The moments will be sensual,
And
The love we make will be consensual.

Oh my good girl,
Come to me,
Into a happier world, you I shall pull.
My HP Poem #1898
©Atul Kaushal
Traci Sims Oct 2020
Walking up the rickety stairs,
Patchouli and cigarette smoke
combat for supremacy
Before I even reach the door,
and I step through to see
The everyday undead scattered on the thick carpet like so many corpses blown out of Wednesday Addams' haunted dollhouse.

Maybe it wasn't wise to come.

A cd player informs me that, indeed,
Bela Lugosi's dead,
And I cautiously move into the living room.
Ruby lips and ivory faces emerge from the gloom,
Incurious glances marking my progress
As an acolyte guides me to the Queen of the festivities
Holding court in a corner of the living room.
Her waist-length silver-gilt hair and damp skin like fresh camellias gleam in the candlelight,
A studded black goblet brimming with Jack Daniels
Is handed to her,
A token of homage she eagerly welcomes
   while nodding me forward.
Whispers behind me tell her story,
Of how she's seen a thing or two in her time,
And why her flat stare and Theda Bara smile give glimpses of her bottomless occult wisdom.
As her slim fingers play with a knotted black necklace,
She considers me long before finally declaring,
--"My God, you're an old soul"--
And she pats the cushion next to her,
An invitation to drink deep and close of her dark knowledge.
A cup of something unknown is pressed into my hand
and I sip, hanging onto every arcane word she utters.
Night slowly fades into dawn
and I wake cold and stiff from a kitchen floor sleep
only to see the Queen buttoning the cuffs on her white poplin shirt.
Smoothing her tweed skirt, she steps into her pumps,
Grips her cup of coffee,
And with a cheery wave, leaves for work.
Happy Hallowe'en, everyone!
l b d Sep 2020
17
he would have to
control his menace;

with a blurred curtain
i collapsed in the
nearby
undead
world
Ces Jul 2020
Pondering existence itself:
mere deadweight for "success"
this narrative of the times
must be upheld as sacred
absolute!

The religion of modernity is that
of willful blindness taken
as a virtue

Benign
harmless
or so we are led to believe:

that it is the mark of a healthy man
to never use his brain!
Epiphylllum Apr 2020
The night whisper it's languid melody streaky by the screams muffled by the distance.

I’m panting while I walk through the putrescent streets adorned with decaying corpses
Feast of parasites and carrion birds

The tinkling of the stained glass announces the arrival of Death. It’s scythe touches the delicate glass of the churches, forming a funeral melody that freezes my bones and consumes my mind.

How many times I begged on my knees like a weakling for Death to take me along, how many times I killed to alleviate my sick thirst; waiting, wishing that the punishment of the God they speak of would fall on my cursed existence and remove from me the eternal non-life.

The hot taste of blood still pulse in my mouth
Repulse
I’m reposting this poem called ”Repulse” but now in English by popular demand 😂 Hope you'll like it, and tell me in the comments what do you think about it! I'm so very sorry for any language issues, I'm a self-taught person in this, so be kind folks
Epiphylllum Apr 2020
A noite sussurra seu lânguido canto entremeado pelos gritos agora abafados pela distância.

Arquejo enquanto caminho pelas fétidas ruas decoradas com cadáveres em decomposição, festa de vermes e aves carniceiras;

O tintilar dos vitrais anuncia a chegada da morte. Sua foice esbarra no delicado vidro das igrejas formando uma melodia fúnebre que gela meus ossos e consome minha mente.

Quantas vezes implorei de joelhos como um fraco para que me levasse junto, quantas vezes matei para saciar minha sede doentia; esperando, desejando que o castigo do Deus de que falam recaísse sobre minha existência amaldiçoada e retirasse de mim a não-vida eterna.

O gosto quente do sangue ainda pulsa em minha boca

Repulsa.
yvan sanchez Nov 2019
O the woe that lay upon the streets
of the foggy town of London—softly
masked in the air of excitement, the
lives, the deaths, the things, O
their beauty, everlasting beyond them;
white wisps that decorate the edges
of the sordid streets

Vision is illuminated in two, four eyes
One looking, one staring towards it, O
the magnificent ocean in its might;
the destroyer of worlds lay with it,
the creator of the endless night

The sun has lost its battle to the stars;
O, those stars that sing, that cry at the
wreckage below—

“We weep,” they say in its weakened glow
The wisps forming now over sacred clouds
“Begone, O light!” cries the creature below
“Begone, O thing of death upon me, glowing
upon my translucent cape, begone!”

Away and away, the sun mourns its loss
of the sweet ivy that grew upon those walls
“Begone, thing of the night!” it cries in
its post-apocalyptic voice—O a cry not
to be reckoned with in any time nor place

There lay the victims below the bereaved
and lower and lower live they—O, the
horrid undead, the undead that stop
that force of time, beyond the pavement,
beyond the stench, they lay

“Get hence, vile animal,” say they, carrying
their voices over the sound of the wind
O that sound that leaped over the mountains,
A word that shall be the last sentiment of
the living dead, a word spoken from beyond
the milky clouds: “Begone!”
Ylzm Nov 2019
Disobedient in life
Defiant in death
From Sheol escaped
On Earth to roam
Rest for me the fearful wished
But no peace to them
Till my wrong avenged
The chilling darkness with a fright night,
dawned a labryinth with a dead sight,
the roof of the world falling on the wattle huts,
and tremors created, shaking up the earth's crust

The catastrophe occurred without one's conscience
the lightening struck, rocks crumbled,
as the banshee waited with bated breath,
to ask, O God, " cui Bono" ?

The lush green fields flushed,  dancing the lullaby,
thou, who curdled and nurtured us like thy baby,
asking " why thee destroy us, who created you"?

That the graveyard left no place for burial,
the earth created a grave for undead,
I ask you, "O Mighty, where shall I find peace to lay down my soul"?

As the mothers womb evacuate to parturite,
the devil of krakatora arose from the earth,
and created a black hole as smooth as silk,
my heart cried, thinking"Holy Aborigines, cui bono"

with richer dreams slept the human mind,
their thoughts fulfilled, by diversified montony swinging into action, I ask,"Is these flesh worth only to be crushed by stones"?
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