#skeleton
i glare at the mirror
slowly tracing the jagged bones
that rise beneath my skin
shown through bruises and blisters
a worn‑out map
charting every place I’ve passed through
to become this shape.
each sharp edge grinds
against my flaking skin,
carved by the stares of others
by doubts that linger too long
by silent screams
becoming coil around my throat
like climbing creeping ivy
stealing my hopeless breath
leaving these imperfect lines
carved across me.
i am still grasping for air
as the ivy tightens slowly each day
allowing my bones to pierce
till they bleed
turning my map into a skeleton
ending this story.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 6:17 PM UTC
a little snap
a small pop
twisting and
crunch along a
line up and up
the spine and
a small crack
traveling
as I stretch
oh, it hu
rts
a little flick
of cartilage over
skin
a small curse
turning and
creeping as
moss or algae
a small crack
traveling as
I stretch...
hur
ts
twist again
relieve the
pai
n
a little snap
couldn't
cause a fright
bones and cartilage
were made
to fight
as I twist
and I twist
and I stretch
pop in and out
the structure
and it
h
urt
s
for a second
but I feel waves
rushing to
compete
and it's okay
a little snap,
pop, crack
a little flick
over sticks
we call femurs and
hips
across vines
we call jaws and
spines
a gesture of
relief
that dissipates
as the
time moves
for
war
d
along the
tidal waves
of shores
along an axis,
of course
a small break
in the system
a little ache
in the vision
bones falter,
limbs frail
but as entailed
as I twist
and I stretch
yes it
hu
rts
but waves
filter
through to
help the
.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 3:26 AM UTC
, ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
Hooded humans preceded the undead horde chanting in overlapping unison.. One can feel them coming, the first sound creeping far out in front before even visibility breaks the horizon . Rumbling calls to a swarms of locusts devouring crops. all who behold this spectacle keep their eyes transfixed. Closing them, even for a moment, flooded the mind with a crippling thrum of ravenous ceaseless mouths . An impenetrable veil of darkness in flight descending and consuming remorselessly all in its path.
Creaking and deep groaning overpowered the subtle rattling of chains and the clinking of armor. Pervasive walls of sound never ceasing. Inescapable and heartless, like the piercing cold that spreads out in front of an inexorable glacier.
You feel it deep down in the pit of your stomach,
crushing and rendering inconsequential everything in its path.
The sounds were from a dream a nightmare you can’t wake up from, and they complemented the deep bass chanting of the human men exquisitely. Upon becoming enamored by the spell-like quality of it all, one forgets their earthly worries and struggles, if only for a mind-numbing evening.
Indistinct in the heavy incense, slow movement enhancing effect each figure is captivating in its own right. Grotesque sculptures forged from the bones of every creature, from the living to the long extinct. Dormouse skeletons scamper about, cobwebs clinging to delicate brittle ribs, rapiers and belts bouncing like chimes. They complimented and contrasted sharply among colossal monstrosities formed from thick femurs and crowned with heavy prehistoric skulls.
Shadow cling to twisted, shining horns and gnarled, jagged teeth. These tireless wretched creatures, crafted from the remnants of ancient giant lizards and mythological beasts, evoke the eternal nature and inevitability of certain death.
The frozen skeletal grins of so many exposed teeth cruelly mocked living smiles, while vacant, hollow eyeless sockets bore down upon the souls of the slack-jawed and helpless.
Thick incense billows like ghostly tendrils, emanating a growing and intoxicating shroud. The reverent, deep reverberating chant grows louder, a cadenced incantation of somber, evocative fantasy.
Layers of mystical depth, coiling around—a spellbinding dirge that seeps into marrow. Felt as pure, frozen, primal fear, vibrating and resonating throughout... Air stolen from lungs, replaced by an inevitable longing and an uncontrollable pull to shuffle along and sway.
Voices rose, trembling and uncertain, merging with the throng in a darkly captivating celebration, enthralled by the unfathomable. Not many knew the ancient spell-like songs, but twice as many tried to sing and hum along, their wills surrendered, entrapped in an insatiable vortex. Dragged into the depths of the procession.
The entire effect permeated all. A ubiquitous hypnotic display of decay and artistry, an unspoken reminder of the unseen. No one could form the questions about what forces were animating this skeletal orchestra.
Robes and wrappings intentionally concealed flashes of weapons and sinister implements. What was left to appear harmless—like a tiny dormouse or an empty, fleshless hand—added to the intentionally reassuring yet engulfing sense of unease. Despite the sunlight inevitable on some days, the procession exuded an aura of the darkest, most moonless night, drawing all who saw it into a dreadful, trance-like ambiance.
Hooded robes, some pristine while others no more than sackcloth burial wrappings riddled with myriad holes, flapped and swayed. The cloying smoke intensified the dreadful fog-like effect. Tiny torches, carefully proffered by the most diminutive, flickered weakly like the dying breaths of ancient spirits, casting an ethereal glow. Their faint, orange-ish light perfectly complemented the reds of the roses, flowers and gems, accenting the details they wanted the eye to be drawn to . Such subtle precision and intentionality. Profane undeniable splendor Blood-red petals, ribbons, and highly polished, oily-looking rubies adorned their sumptuous armor, glinting ominously against the spectral white of the long dead. Every decoration and position was meticulously chosen to create a visual contrast that was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly terrifying. Important figures had torchlights in their rib cages and torsos where a heart may once have been. The ensuing play of light and shadow, coupled with the macabre elegance of their exquisite flamboyant attire, transformed the scene into a nightmarish tableau.
Undeniable beauty, craftsmanship, and horror interlacing in a scarring, value-disintegrating, magnetic embrace.
For you see, the shambling haunt of this procession was not merely a parade but a traveling theater troupe, a non-stop performance replete with everything from huge bass drums to tiny handheld affairs.
There was constant fire breathing and dangerous juggling. Horns ringing out in a beckoning cry, accompanied at times by simple string instruments. The theatricality and stage magic were designed to be beyond creepy and mesmerizing, ensnaring the unblinking eyes and stupefied minds of all who chanced to behold. They performed marionette-like fable plays that shifted into song, dance, and choreographed fighting, building to a grand crescendo that hammered home the futility of resisting them.
Announcing their intended set list and schedules were their human companions, medieval grave diggers and partitioners, willingly serving as the heralds of the horde. Some with great horns fashioned into megaphones. Flanked by those that swung incense censers, releasing plumes that mingled with the slow dust, enhancing the otherworldly aura. Together their steps produced a thunderous rhythm, an intentional comforting homage to mimic the last of life’s heartbeat.
Unassumingly stirring up a fine sediment that never seemed to settle as they pushed, dragged, and pulled everything needed for their grand show. The Jingoes wheeled their giant covered cages, chains, and ropes over many a shoulder as they leaned in. A long, majestic procession ordered to never appear mundane.
They had amassed the most magnificent display of bones, gathered over countless centuries and now on full display. After watching them bleach in the sun and allowing ants to remove the remaining flesh, they applied a clear lacquer of their own design, creating these mighty skeletal constructs. Alarmingly many of the most fearsome were motionless for long periods before erupting into jerky, sometimes blurry and erratic movement.
The fiery flourishes, timed to the beating of huge drums, the banners, the staged violence and its chanted message—all worked together as planned and seamlessly. Nothing else in all the lands created such a spectacle . Inescapable dark, powerful coalesced in grandeur.
Villagers came from near and far, gathering outside and watching. As the procession moved forward like an uninvited parade, The watchers were gladly offered tickets to attend the show, regardless of how much coin they had or had not. There was a seat available for everything man , beast or unknown.
Inside cages, resting peacefully, concealed from the eyes of those they crushed past, were enormous primordial gods. Sky, a magnificent blue dragon-like creature with a long, slender neck and a head covered in frills, spikes, and horns, lay nestled on a bed of goose-down pillows. Her water bowl, designed with a large base tapering upward, prevented spills as the cage rolled along. Nearby, trailing slightly behind, was her lifelong companion, Earth, a giant six-legged behemoth with two spines forming a Y-shape from her head down to heavily armored tails. This splendid, original beast possessed the head of a giant lion with fangs, and its body was covered in thick, gold and green dragon-like scales. The deepest greens faded into a lime color before transitioning to a metallic gold, with scales speckled in a sparkling effect. Adorned in magnificent armor, this accidental and bizarre creature moved as comfortably as possible within her enormous confinement.
Earth also had a water bowl and food, of course, with less need for so many pillows. She tended to curl up and rest on her own bulk. In her confines hung the tusks of some unknown creature. These were sometimes worn behind both sides on the neck, jutting out in front to provide additional damage and sorely needed protection. Many believed these tusks were part of her body due to how deep down around the shoulders and neck they tended to ride. Those who helped put them on were reluctant to spread the truth.
Now, this magnificent beast catnapped, occasionally licking at huge, fault-like feet—a mixture of claws and scales with horned lateral protrusions. With six feet, it's a lot to keep up with. Caregivers were honored to attend to and worship this delightful creature. Much of Earth’s day was spent being dressed and armored. Sky lavished her resplendently, helping with very long eyelashes and beautiful makeup. Huge, darting, solid black pupils occasionally flickered, turning into a golden hue with layers of slits and coverings like those of a cat's eyes.
The sky continued to darken, clouds gathered from nowhere casting wicked shadows that seemed to shift and writhe in the dying light. The sparse torch glow highlighted the scenes brilliantly.
Steve had spent his day as usual, toiling in the turnip fields, the sun beating down relentlessly on his strong but skinny back. He was just about ready to head home when his buddy, Greg, came rushing over, eyes wide with contagious fear and excitement.
“Steve, Steve! You’ve got to see this!” Greg grabbed him by the sleeves, his moppish bowl cut swaying over his well-formed eyebrows. His somewhat gentle, kind, and energetic voice carried humorously. He grabbed him again, more firmly this time, nearly dragging him down the dusty street.
“Dang, Greg, what is it?” Steve asked, trying to keep up. “What’s so all-important?”
“You won’t believe it until you see it. Trust me!” Greg replied, a twitchy grin spreading across his handsome young face.
As they rounded the taverns’ corner, the spectacle came into view. Waboom! The procession was unlike anything Steve or Greg had ever seen. The chanting grew louder, resonating through the bones of everyone watching, filling the crude streets with arousal, confusion, and mystery. Their hamlet had disappeared in many ways, replaced by a blurry, confusing mirage of bones and fire. Steve felt as though he could hardly breathe as the forms of his long-dead relatives shuffled past to the music.
In this ordinary village, the destitute townsfolk had all gathered to witness this unforgettable morbid display. Wordlessly summoned like so many moths to a flame. Among them was Old Martha, a sweet, frail woman whose health had been declining for years. She stood reluctantly at the edge of the growing crowd, clutching her chest as raised and wheeled platform drew nearer. Her heart pounded erratically, the rhythmic chanting resonating through her small, frail bones. The sight of the skeleton warriors—some humanoid, others monstrous with multiple limbs and horns, filled her with a tenacious fear she just couldn’t shake. One looked so much like her missing husband that she gasped, her hand going to her tired mouth. It had an exact match of his crooked, broken teeth. Even the one gold tooth they had so painstakingly saved up to buy him was still exactly where they put it. She felt disturbed and vaguely betrayed, sick, and lightheaded. She ****** in air as deeply as her small, shaking frame would allow.
As the death cult creeped its way slowly passed, a massive bone dragon with extra-large wings arrested her ****** It had what must have been some type of leader holding its useless chains, his huge thorax alight with flames from within. He held lightly onto leaders attached to a spiked collar around the smoldering dragon's vertebrae. It was intentionally hulking and utterly terrifying, adorned with a twisted, multi-horned, demonic-looking skull. The humanoid was dwarfed in the shadow of the dragon towering above.
When the Jingo Captain did come into full view, it seemed to stare directly with his eyeless sockets into the very soul of poor, dear, religious Martha. It appeared that he may also lift his arm to point directly at her. The vision, encompassing enormity; the profound horror of the scene was just too much for Granny Martha. She gasped, her eyes rolling back wide and white. Helplessly, Martha collapsed to the ***** ground, clutching at her heart. Some villagers including her cherished Steve and his well meaning friend Greg eventually gathered at her side, but it was too late for the lecherous old wash-woman. The heat and the shock had been too much.
Word of her death and loss of her “services” spread quickly, and by the time the Jingoes reached the next village, a group of religious zealots had gathered. Their faith was their armor, and they were determined to rebuke what they saw as an abomination. Clad in simple robes, they brandished holy symbols, chanting fervently as they drew symbols on the ground with salt and colored chalk. They attempted to create a mystical barrier, believing it would drive away the perceived demons.
“Begone, foul spirits!” cried their leader, a gaunt man with a shaved head and wild eyes. “Return to the abyss from whence you came!”
The undead moved on, undeterred by the zealots’ many annoying yet fruitless attempts. The fanatics' chants mingled into the procession's own mournful cacophony, creating a new and even louder performance, filled now with pleading desperate sounds that only heightened the terror. The sight of ancestral bones, animated and repurposed into abominable constructs, struck a chord of deep-seated sadness and awe among the confused and overwhelmed throngs.
Too many uneducated villagers were convinced that these were the restless spirits of their beloved ancestors. Blocking the path, up until the point of being trampled, they fell to their knees, praying and beseeching the many gods for mercy. The bone constructs, ranging from humanoid figures to centaur-like creatures and massive mammoths, moved on with a calloused precision, their obfuscated forms evoking the eternal and inevitable nature of death on their synchronized ground-shaking march.
As the constantly shifting ordeal reached the outskirts of the village, the leader of the particular Jingo society, adorned with triceratops skulls, raised his clawed hand, signaling a halt. The chanting ceased, replaced by the sound of huge bass drums and the haunting notes of horns. The theatricality and stage magic of the troupe were on full display....
want more ? It's coming... In the meantime read Gamleon's Tail .
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 3:58 AM UTC
We’re nothing but skeletons through safety nets -
Fingers clicking new time sets,
Carcasses savouring the darkness
Lipsticks by cigarettes following the dim lit spec
Of no ground beneath us, wanderers foetusless
Figuring the freckles from the sun to our mess -
Caskets of breath, holding up heads
Hangers and railings, waiting for the horse sense sect...
Arrows through archways, glass light through windows
Pink blood smelling phoenix potent
Broken street slabs, bruised zinc honing
Wailing, awoken, wasting, frozen
Bent not broken– darker, sharper
Pieces of our star creature
Learning to walk quicker
Into the other whirl where we were hurled from...
No longer held off,
Dragons and sky gods
fending the ether -
Furious feathers float into glowing oceans that camber...
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 7:21 PM UTC
A man sits alone,
the waves crashing
against his only support;
a 4 legged stool,
built solely to hold his skeleton-
but never built to bear the rest
the weight of his skin,
with every crash of the waves,
grew incrementally heavier,
until, the man, although supported by his stool
felt himself drowning
dragged by the water
into depths too dark to see the light above,
too weak to fight for the light above the ocean’s surface
A moment of calm
silence
still
he
i
alone
felt the waves
growing again ready to throw me back to despair
my 4 legged stool;
the only structure still holding me up
refused to let me drown
no matter how much i pleadingly screamed for the end
no matter how much i tried to give up
tried to drown
tried to escape
alone with the ocean
i find the value in the stool
she who keeps me afloat,
he who throws a buoy,
or teaches me to float
it is the stool with 4 legs that keeps us fighting against the ocean
so why is it that we tend to only think about our own 2?
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 5:40 AM UTC
Tonight dine
Around a jewel
Left below
Deaf ears
No understanding
Says a crown
The skeleton
A king
Has risen
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 3:27 AM UTC
i am a skeleton.
you gave me your all
and all i could hand back
was a piece of my femur.
the love inside of you
makes my love seem small
i’m so ashamed
of my silence.
i walk backwards down a stairway
seeing
the walls i put up
too big too tall
for you to cross.
i need to love
but i’m too flimsy
my bones
are weak.
the love inside of you
taught me about the love inside of me
and it doesn’t have a home
since i left you a ghost
in a house by the highway.
we live a few miles from each others smiles,
dive in the pool at nighttime
the lights are so bright.
i swim with the bugs and we hold each other.
how hard is it for me
to show you what i see?
i lied for my pride—
he said we were beautiful.
the love inside of you is growing stronger
the love inside of me is begging for forever
but i have no skin
nothing to hold onto.
i killed myself briskly
if you had a word in
i wouldn’t have stopped breathing.
it’s car trips and teenage years
i want us to roam free
two kids with our bones and our aches and our loves
we can’t express
i deny till i’m upset
that you want someone else in your pool
in your house
in car rides at midnight
instead of my feet that can’t reach the pedal right.
i make things a joke and you laugh
and i know that the other girl won’t
make you lean back as you laugh,
though i don’t know this for sure.
the love inside of you is trying to call on the love inside of me
but i soiled it all.
i’m blue and i’m scared we may never be anything
except two kids with shotguns pointed at each other
though you are the bluffer
and i just don’t know how to fake anything.
Jul 9, 2024
Jul 9, 2024 at 10:23 PM UTC
plenty of phrases, soaked through the bone
eyelashes moving with eyeballs closed
it’s almost halloween
it’s almost time to party
for our souls
for our bones
for our skeletons we push inside our closets, we have a place to hide, don’t we?
but loneliness is an illness i would rather contend with
it’s familiar and frost-bite warm
i should’ve been warned
about “love” and hasty infatuation
these are my bones
creaky and unknown
they are alone
beside these muscles
that i keep so i
can convince myself i’m fine
beneath a cloak of darkness, of fear
you shouldn’t come to me
you shouldn’t dare
pack a suitcase full of your organs
don’t come to my part of this ghost town
let’s hide our skeletons away, so no one sees, so no one stays
to love us
we don’t deserve it
it’s almost halloween
and i will try to be me
behind a cave
carved makeup on my face
i will try to keep a smile
i will try to leave this denial
i will heat my body up with something besides the hesitation
this presentation, i will perform
with the skeleton in my room
that hides during storms
that is afraid of collecting friends like memories
someone take these bones from
me
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC
I don't like flowers
But there's one where you can see through its petals
It doesn't shroud what's right in front of me
Without permission
I see what it's hiding
It understands my desire
To reveal the concealed
And beneath it's milky veins
A clear glass frame
That we call petals
Each a frail skeleton
It'll crumble in my fingers
And vanish entirely
The petals will shatter
As if it was nobody
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 10:05 AM UTC
pale sickness
you're white as a sheet
draining illness
your clammy white skin
rots
deathly light
the diseased white sun will bleach your bones
after the doves pick them clean
sickly white
your cracked teeth clatter out of your skull
dominos in a dead white jar
trembling hands the color of spoiling milk
carefully cradle an almost translucent infant
mother and child
both far too weak to feed
the only thing that grows here is decay
white mold thrives on your hoarded white bread
while outside the safety of the white picket fence
there is not a single soul who does not
recognize the white of an unburied skeleton
under a full moon
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 6:44 PM UTC
Let me tell you a bedtime story. It goes
Once upon a time there was a girl born for void filling purposes, She cried till they told her to stop and she never cried again.
She learned everything perfectly and extremely well.
Then her best friend died.
Then her brother killed himself.
She decided to get high. and lost her drive but she didn't care and said all the swears. She ***** and lies but she always listened and never cried.
Her womanly emotions would not get the best of her. Instead she stuffed them into a shoe box that she hid behind all the skeletons and needles she keeps in the closets.
The Girl was born to fill a void.
Used as a vault for all the faults of those around her.
She was meant to fill a void.
But then
her best friend shot herself in the head while she watched.
then she found her brother dead.
And she lost her drive.
The girl is older now.
She still has no drive, but she has this void that needs to be filled. and tears in her eyes.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 3:25 PM UTC
Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter
Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
Strange Skeleton Knight
Why do you fight?
You're so fragile
Yet you take on my burdens without being asked
Why must you be so eager to die on my behalf?
Don't you deserve to live too?
Mr Skeleton Knight
Why don’t you cry?
You never make a sound
Yet your sadness echoes deafeningly
Do your bones not feel cold out in the dark?
Does not being able to shed tears make you unable to release your sadness?
Can I cry on your behalf?
Sir Skeleton Knight
What did you do with your heart?
Did you tear it out to stop yourself from feeling?
Did you give it away along with the rest of yourself?
Even someone without flesh and organs shouldn't look so empty inside
Why can't you get your heart back?
Can I give you mine instead?
Noble Skeleton Knight
Do you like the grave I've dug you?
I'm glad that you haven't buried yourself yet
But I'm sure you don't feel the same way
Then why don’t you let your soul rest?
Wouldn't the warm dirt hug you more than anyone else has?
I don’t think I can help you anymore.
Beloved Skeleton Knight
I’ve killed myself
I hope you don't think that your existence was a tragedy
Though in the end I never managed to make you feel alive even once
I’ve told them to bury me next to your grave
Promise me that you'll stay at my side
Atleast now we can be cold and empty together.
Why do you still look so sad?
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 12:30 AM UTC
I dare not look at my hands
Why not?
The screeching of my head is louder than the banging of pots and pans
You're afraid of your own thoughts?
I'm afraid of who lyes there
You're afraid of a simple man?
I never said my thoughts were fair
You're afraid of your hand
I sought out death and now I'm all but bones
I can't help but laugh, was this not your plan?
Refrain from throwing your sticks and stones
You intentionally ended your own lifespan
I unintentionally gave myself skeleton hands
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 2:35 PM UTC
I take care of It every day
moving It around the house
and making It sit still in silly poses.
In the morning I clean the skull
with a mop
shining and shining.
I carry It from the bedroom
to the library
to the kitchen
and then I let It in the living room with all the other guests:
A lazy cat bathing in the sunbeams.
The ghost of a dog who barks at the passing times.
A renegade bird who just chirps to let know the world that there is injustices.
I think that they have long chats when I’m not there
working trying to fit.
I couldn’t say,
after all I can’t speak the language of the gone.
If I remember
remember to have lunch,
I would like to invite It to site across the table
I don’t like to eat alone
the silence tends to ferment the thoughts
and I prefer to accompany my meals with water
It’s better for the body.
In the afternoons I would sit with them in the living room
to share the coffee and some of my worries.
They listen
and that’s the only thing I would ever ask from them.
In the night when I remember
remember to sleep
I took It to the bedroom
and carefully laid down the fragile bones.
I use cotton sheets to cover It.
I also laid there,
cautious to not disturb It,
I make myself small to fit between the ribs,
and there I would wonder
how the next day it’s going to be
and when was the last time that I lived
with someone who doesn’t make me carry them around.
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 2:33 PM UTC
O, the Horror! Halloween Poetry!
Halloween Poetry: Dark, Eerie, Haunting and Scary poems about Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Werewolves, Reanimated Corpses and "Things that go Bump in the Night!"
Thin Kin
by Michael R. Burch
Skeleton!
Tell us what you lack...
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?
Will we frighten you,
grown as pale & unsound,
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?
The Witch
by Michael R. Burch
her fingers draw into claws
she cackles through rotting teeth...
u ask "are there witches?"
… pshaw! …
(yet she has my belief)
Vampires
by Michael R. Burch
Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we dread the dark, but the light destroys them...
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross ― such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we shrink from his voice.
Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.
We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, he earnestly prays to find us...
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters,
deep and dark and still...
all men have passed this way,
or will.
Charon, the ferrymen who carried the dead across the River Styx to their eternal destination, has been portrayed by artists and poets as a vampiric figure.
Revenge of the Halloween Monsters
by Michael R. Burch
The Halloween monsters, incensed,
keep howling, and may be UNFENCED!!!
They’re angry that children with treats
keep throwing their trash IN THE STREETS!!!
You can check it out on your computer:
Google says, “Please don’t be a POLLUTER!!!”
The Halloween monsters agree,
so if you’re a litterbug, FLEE!!!
Kids, if you’d like more treats this year
and don’t want to cower in FEAR,
please make all the mean monsters happy,
and they’ll hand out sweet treats like they’re sappy!
So if you eat treats on the drag
and don't want huge monsters to nag,
please put all loose trash in your BAG!!!
NOTE: If you recite the poem, get the kids to huddle up close, then yell the all-caps parts like you’re one of the unhappy monsters, and perhaps "goose" them as well. They'll get the message.
It's Halloween!
by Michael R. Burch
If evening falls
on graveyard walls
far softer than a sigh;
if shadows fly
moon-sickled skies,
while children toss their heads
uneasy in their beds,
beware the witch's eye!
If goblins loom
within the gloom
till playful pups grow terse;
if birds give up their verse
to comfort chicks they nurse,
while children dream weird dreams
of ugly, wiggly things,
beware the serpent's curse!
If spirits scream
in haunted dreams
while ancient sibyls rise
to plague nightmarish skies
one night without disguise,
while children toss about
uneasy, full of doubt,
beware the Devil's lies...
it's Halloween!
Ghost
by Michael R. Burch
White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell
Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.
Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.
Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.
All Hallows Eve
by Michael R. Burch
What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the Druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgan le Fay and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts.
In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;
when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;
when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven
cries;
we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil’s
fen...
if nevermore again.
Pale Though Her Eyes
by Michael R. Burch
Pale though her eyes,
her lips are scarlet
from drinking of blood,
this child, this harlot
born of the night
and her heart, of darkness,
evil incarnate
to dance so reckless,
dreaming of blood,
her fangs ― white ― baring,
revealing her lust,
and her eyes, pale, staring...
Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch
Like angels ― winged,
shimmering, misunderstood ―
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.
They are as they are...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full
and dream of us by day.
Their eyes ― hypnotic, alluring ―
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather...
to see, to touch, to feel.
Held in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, so old!,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.
Solicitation
by Michael R. Burch
He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on mine like a snake’s on a bird’s ―
quizzical, mesmerizing.
He ***** his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and while I hear everything,
he says nothing I understand.
The moon shines ― maniacal, queer ― as he takes my hand whispering
Our time has come... And so we stroll together creaking docks
where the sea sends sickening things
scurrying under rocks and boards.
Moonlight washes his ashen face as he stares unseeing into my eyes.
He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine;
my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.
He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.
His teeth are long, yellow and hard, his face bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes ―
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must...
Polish
by Michael R. Burch
Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.
Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.
You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.
Published by The HyperTexts
Siren Song
by Michael R. Burch
The Lorelei’s
soft cries
entreat mariners to save her...
How can they resist
her faint voice through the mist?
Soon she will savor
the flavor
of sweet human flesh.
How Long the Night (anonymous Old English Lyric)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast ―
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch
Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:
Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.
They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.
They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.
The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch
O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!
The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.
Nevermore!
by Michael R. Burch
Nevermore! O, nevermore!
shall the haunts of the sea
― the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore ―
mark her passing again.
And the salivating sea
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her ******* and hips,
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.
The waves will never **** her,
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not have her,
nor could she give them pleasure...
She sleeps, forevermore!
She sleeps forevermore,
a ****** save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely smothered
by the restless, surging sea.
And, yes, they sleep together,
but never in that way...
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.
He does not stroke her honey hair,
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea...
their skeletal love ― impossibility!
Dark Gothic
by Michael R. Burch
Her fingers are filed into talons;
she smiles with carnivorous teeth...
You ask, “Are there vampires?”
― Get real! ―
(Yet she has my belief.)
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Athenian Epitaphs (Gravestone Inscriptions of the Ancient Greeks)
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
― Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
― Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
Passerby,
tell the Spartans we lie
lifeless at Thermopylae:
dead at their word,
obedient to their command.
Have they heard?
Do they understand?
― Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Completing the Pattern
by Michael R. Burch
Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead
who kept life’s compact and who thus endure
harsh sentence here―among pink-petaled beds
and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure,
pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red
at last when sunset staggers to the door
of each white mausoleum, to inquire―
What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness?
Reclamation
by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Graves, with a nod to Mary Shelley
I have come to the dark side of things
where the bat sings
its evasive radar
and Want is a crooked forefinger
attached to a gelatinous wing.
I have grown animate here, a stitched corpse
hooked to electrodes.
And night
moves upon me―progenitor of life
with its foul breath.
Blind eyes have their second sight
and still are deceived. Now my nature
is softly to moan
as Desire carries me
swooningly across her threshold.
Stone
is less infinite than her crone’s
gargantuan hooked nose, her driveling lips.
I eye her ecstatically―her dowager figure,
and there is something about her that my words transfigure
to a consuming emptiness.
We are at peace
with each other; this is our venture―
swaying, the strings tautening, as tightropes
tauten, as love tightens, constricts
to the first note.
Lyre of our hearts’ pits,
orchestration of nothing, adits
of emptiness! We have come to the last of our hopes,
sweet as congealed blood sweetens for flies.
Need is reborn; love dies.
Deliver Us ...
by Michael R. Burch
The night is dark and scary―
under your bed, or upon it.
That blazing light might be a star ...
or maybe the Final Comet.
But two things are sure: your mother’s love
and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit!
the Horror
by Michael R. Burch
the Horror lurks inside our closets
the Horror hides beneath our beds
the Horror hisses ancient curses
the Horror whispers in our heads
the Horror tells us Death is coming
the Horror tells us there’s no hope
the Horror tells us “life” is futile
the Horror beckons, “there’s the Rope!”
Belfry
by Michael R. Burch
There are things we surrender
to the attic gloom:
they haunt us at night
with shrill, querulous voices.
There are choices we made
yet did not pursue,
behind windows we shuttered
then failed to remember.
There are canisters sealed
that we cannot reopen,
and others long broken
that nothing can heal.
There are things we conceal
that our anger dismembered,
gray leathery faces
the rafters reveal.
Duet
by Michael R. Burch
Oh, Wendy, by the firelight, how sad!
How worn and gray your auburn hair became!
You’re very silent, like an evening rain
that trembles on dark petals. Tears you’ve shed
for days we laughed together, glisten now;
your flesh became translucent; and your brow
knits, gathered loosely. By the well-made bed
three portraits hang with knowing eyes, beloved,
but mine is not among them. Time has proved
our hearts both strangely mortal. If I said
I loved you once, how is it that could change?
And yet I watch you fondly; love is strange . . .
Oh, Peter, by the firelight, how bright
my thought of you remains, and if I said
I loved you once, then took him to my bed,
I did it for the need of love, one night
when you were far away. My heart endured
transfigurement―in flaming ash inured
to heartbreak and the violence of sight:
I saw myself grow old and thin and frail
with thinning hair about me, like a veil . . .
And so I loved him for myself, despite
the love between us―our first startled kiss.
But then I loved him for his humanness.
And then we both grew old, and it was right . . .
Oh, Wendy, if I fly, I fly beyond
these human hearts, these cities walled and tiered
against the night, beyond this vale of tears,
for love, if it exists, dies with the years . . .
No, Peter, love is constant as the heart
that keeps till its last beat a measured pace
and sets the fixtures of its dreams in place
by beds at first well-used, at last well-made,
and counts each face a joy, each tear a grace . . .
Horror
by Michael R. Burch
What I ache to say is beyond saying―
no words for the horror
of not loving enough,
like a mummy half-wrapped in its moldering casements
holding a lily aloft.
No, there are no words for the horror
as a tormented wind howls through the teetering floes
and the cold freezes down to my clawed hairy toes ...
What use to me, now, if the stars appear?
As I moan
the moon finds me,
fangs goring the deer.
Strange Corps(e)
by Michael R. Burch
We are all dying, haunted by life―
dying, but the living will not let us go.
We are perishing zombies, haunted by the moonglow.
With what animation we, shuffling, return
nightly, to worry Love’s worm-eaten corpse,
till, living or dead, she is wholly ours.
We are the dying, enamored of “life”―
the palest of auras, the eeriest call.
We stagger to attention ... stumble ... fall.
We have only one thought―Love’s peculiar notion,
that our duty’s to “live,” though such “living” means
night’s horrific wild hungers, its stranger dreams.
We now “live” on the flesh of eroded dreams
and no longer recoil at the victims’ screams.
Love, ah! serene ghost
by Michael R. Burch
Love, ah! serene ghost,
haunts my retelling of her,
or stands atop despairing stairs
with such pale, severe eyes,
I become another pallid specter.
But what I feel
most profoundly is this:
the absolute lack of her kiss,
the absence of her wild,
unwarranted laughter.
So that,
like a candle deprived of oxygen,
I become mere wick and tallow again.
Here and hereafter ...
gone with her now, in the darkest of nights, the flame!
I lie, pallid vision of man―the same
wan ghost of her palpitations’ claim
on my heart
that I was before.
I love her beyond and despite even shame.
Eden
by Michael R. Burch
Then earth was heaven too, a perfect garden.
Apples burgeoned and shone―unplucked on sagging boughs.
What, then, would the children eat?
Fruit indecently sweet,
redolent as incense, with a tempting aroma ...
Outcasts
by Michael R. Burch
There was a rose, a prescient shade of crimson,
the very color of blood,
that bloomed in that garden.
The most dazzling of all the Earth’s flowers,
men have forgotten it now,
with their fanciful tales of apples and serpents.
Beasts with lips called the goreflower “Love.”
The scribes have the story all wrong: four were there,
four horrid dark creatures―chattering, bickering.
Aduhm placed one red petal in Ehve’s matted hair;
he was lost in her arms
till dawn sullen and golden
imperceptibly streaked the musk-fragrant air.
Two flared nostrils quivered, two eyes remained open.
Kahyn sought me that evening, his bloodless lips curled
in a grimacelike smile. Sunken-cheeked, he approached me
in the Caverns of Similitudes, eerie Barzakh.
“We are outcasts, my brother!, God quickly deserts us.”
As though his anguish conceived in insight’s first blush
might not pale next to mine in Sheol’s gray realm.
“Shining Creature!” he named me and called me divine
as he lavished damp kisses upon my bright scales.
“Help me find me one rare gift to put Love’s gift to shame.”
“There is a dark rose with a bittersweet fragrance
as pungent as cloves: only man knows its name.
Clinging and cloying, it destroys all it touches . . .”
“But red is Ehve’s preference; while Envy is green.”
He was downcast a moment, a moment, a moment . . .
“Ah, but red is the color of blood!”
Disagreeable child, far too clever for his own good.
Published in The Bible of Hell (anthology)
No One
by Michael R. Burch
No One hears the bells tonight;
they tell him something isn’t right.
But No One is not one to rush;
he lies in grasses greenly lush
as far away a startled thrush
flees from horned owls in sinking flight.
No One hears the cannon’s roar
and muses that its voice means war
comes knocking on men’s doors tonight.
He sleeps outside in awed delight
beneath the enigmatic stars
and shivers in their cooling light.
No One knows the world will end,
that he’ll be lonely, without friend
or foe to conquer. All will be
once more, celestial harmony.
He’ll miss men’s voices, now and then,
but worlds can be remade again.
Bikini
by Michael R. Burch
Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming,
by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s white eye,
through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming
like tangled hair where cold currents rise . . .
something lurks where the riptides sigh,
something old and pale and wise.
Something old when the world was forming
now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye,
and with tentacles about it squirming,
it feels the cloud above it rise
and shudders, settles with a sigh,
knowing man’s demise draws nigh.
Ceremony
by Michael R. Burch
Lost in the cavernous blue silence of spring,
heavy-lidded and drowsy with slumber, I see
the dark gnats leap; the black flies fling
their slow, engorged bulks into the air above me.
Shimmering hordes of blue-green bottleflies sing
their monotonous laments; as I listen, they near
with the strange droning hum of their murmurous wings.
Though you said you would leave me, I prop you up here
and brush back red ants from your fine, tangled hair,
whispering, “I do!” . . . as the gaunt vultures stare.
Contraire
by Michael R. Burch
Where there was nothing
but emptiness
and hollow chaos and despair,
I sought Her ...
finding only the darkness
and mournful silence
of the wind entangling her hair.
Yet her name was like prayer.
Now she is the vast
starry tinctures of emptiness
flickering everywhere
within me and about me.
Yes, she is the darkness,
and she is the silence
of twilight and the night air.
Yes, she is the chaos
and she is the madness
and they call her Contraire.
Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch
You come to me
out of the sun―
my dark twin, unreal . . .
And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel . . .
And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.
East End, 1888
by Michael R. Burch
Past darkened storefronts,
hunched and contorted, bent with need
through chilling rain, he walks alone
till down the glistening cobblestones
deliberate footsteps pause, resume.
He follows, by a pub confronts
a pasty face, an overbright smile,
lips intimating easy bliss,
a boisterous, over-eager tongue.
She barters what she has to sell;
her honeyed words seem cloying, stale―
pale, tainted things of sticky guile.
*
A rustle of her petticoats,
a flash of bulging milk-white breast
. . . the price is set: a crown. “A tip,
a shilling more is yours,” he quotes,
“to wash your privates.” She accepts.
Saliva glistens on his lips.
*
An alley. There, he lifts her gown,
in answer to her question, frowns,
says―“You can call me Jack, or Rip.”
East End, 1888 (II)
by Michael R. Burch
He slouched East
through a steady downpour,
a slovenly beast
befouling each puddle
with bright footprints of blood.
Outlined in a pub door,
lewdly, wantonly, she stood . . .
mocked and brazenly offered.
He took what he could
till she afforded no more.
Now a single bright copper
glints becrimsoned by the door
of the pub where he met her.
He holds to his breast the one part
of her body she was unable to *****
grips her heart to his wildly stammering heart . . .
unable to forgive or forget her.
Originally published by Penny Dreadful
Evil, the Rat
by Michael R. Burch
Evil lives in a hole like a rat
and sleeps in its feces,
fearing the cat.
At night it furtively creeps
through the house
while the cat sleeps.
It eats old excrement and gnaws
on steaming dung
and it will pause
between odd bites to sniff through the ****
twitching and trembling,
for a scent of the cat ...
Evil, the rat.
Temptation
by Michael R. Burch
Jesus was always misunderstood . . .
we have that, at least, in common.
And it’s true that I found him,
shriveled with hunger,
shivering in the desert,
skeletal, emaciate,
not an ounce of fat
to warm his bones
once the bright sun set.
And it’s true, I believe,
that I offered him something to eat―
a fig, perhaps, a pomegranate, or a peach.
Hardly the great “temptation”
of which I’m accused.
He was a likeable chap, really,
and we spent a pleasant hour
discussing God―
how hard He is to know,
and impossible to please.
I left him there, the pale supplicant,
all skin and bone, at the mouth of his cave,
imploring his “Master” on callused knees.
Published in The Bible of Hell (anthology)
Role Reversal
by Michael R. Burch
The fluted lips of statues
mock the bronze gaze
of the dying sun . . .
We are nonplused, they say,
smacking their wet lips,
jubilant . . .
We are always refreshed, always undying,
always young, forever unapologetic,
forever gay, smiling,
and though it seems man has made us,
on his last day, we will see him unmade―
we will watch him decay
as if he were clay,
and we had assumed his flesh,
hissing our disappointment.
Excelsior
by Michael R. Burch
I lift my eyes and laugh, Excelsior . . .
Why do you come, wan spirit, heaven-gowned,
complaining that I am no longer “pure?”
I threw myself before you, and you frowned,
so full of noble chastity, renowned
for leaving maidens maidens. In the dark
I sought love’s bright enchantment, but your lips
were stone; my fiery metal drew no spark
to light the cold dominions of your heart.
What realms were ours? What leasehold? And what claim
upon these territories, cold and dark,
do you seek now, pale phantom? Would you light
my heart in death and leave me ashen-white,
as you are white, extinguished by the Night?
Liar
by Michael R. Burch
Chiller than a winter day,
quieter than the murmur of the sea in her dreams,
eyes wilder than the crystal spray
of silver streams,
you fill my dying thoughts.
In moments drugged with sleep
I have heard your earnest voice
leaving me no choice
save heed your hushed demands
and meet you in the sands
of an ageless arctic world.
There I kiss your lifeless lips
as we quiver in the shoals
of a sea that endlessly rolls
to meet the shattered shore.
Wild waves weep, "Nevermore,"
as you bend to stroke my hair.
That land is harsh and drear,
and that sea is bleak and wild;
only your lips are mild
as you kiss my weary eyes,
whispering lovely lies
of what awaits us there
in a land so stark and bare,
beyond all hope . . . and care.
This is one of my early poems, written as a high school sophomore or junior.
The Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Moonlight spills down vacant sills,
illuminates an empty bed.
Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates
wan silver circles, left unread
by its companion—unmoved now
by anything that lies ahead.
I watch the minutes test the limits
of ornamental movement here,
where once another hand would hover.
Each circuit—incomplete. So dear,
so precious, so precise, the touch
of hands that wait, yet ask so much.
Originally published by The Lyric
Keywords/Tags: Halloween, dark, supernatural, skeleton, witch, ghost, vampire, monsters, ghoul, werewolf, goblins, occult, mrbhalloween, mrbhallow, mrbdark
Published as the collection "Halloween Poems"
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 6:42 AM UTC
Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC
Numbed & dumbed
Into a void of oblivion
So far beyond the grasp of reality
My face is not my face but a doormat
Numbed & dumbed
A skull left to frighten
Watching you dance through little mirrors stuck in the eye socket
Peering, admiring
But who, admires who more?
But the skeleton, oh he stares, stares right back at you
With eyes crooning and booing
And me boohooing
The crowds tough
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 3:30 PM UTC
skin left sore and damage.
My purple flesh leaves marks that signify hate within others.
Pain left from fathers and mothers, sister and brothers, friends or foe.
I believe the skeletons I hide, have more guts than I do.
Being pushed around and abused by those close to me without fighting back.
But I know I would rather take a thousand cuts before giving one.
I may seem so well put together from the outside, but I know on the inside I have been torn apart.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
Skeleton!
Tell us what you lack ...
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?
Will we frighten you,
grown as pale & unsound ...
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?
Keywords/Tags: Halloween, skeleton, pale, haunt, grave, graveyard, unhallowed, ground, thin, kin, frighten, frightening, scary, horror, terror, slack, flesh, fleshless, bone, bony, unsound, haunting
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 5:19 AM UTC