Gothic Fish
GOTHIC FISH
My lady swims in darkness
her skin a web of stars
the weedy lake her chamber
bulrushes her bars
She breathes the thick green waters
swallows deep their chill
brewed among black pebbles
nightly takes her fill
Her mouth an ache grown hollow
where shadows swarm to hide
lose themselves in horror
welling from inside
Her eyes like cloudy moonstones
sightless as she drifts
cold between the currents
aimlessly she sifts
Dredging out each echo
every drowning wish
tastes their bitter nature
bloodless as a fish.
LISTENING TO THE DARK
Wordfall — odd cryptic warnings pitter-pat
tones icy as cold showers punishing
blown in from some far foreign part
annexed on the tired mind’s map.
A plague of doubt consumes fresh-budded thought
devouring sleep with buzz-talk — worry rasps
grinds sanity to crumbs and still hums on
gathers — moths to light bulb — strings along
a bumbling logic nagging up a storm.
The dark grows thick — the whisperers crowd in
crushing silence in a seat right at the back
the room a box of groans and shuffled sighs
insisting air should echo — savour sound.
Shallow dreams of language — rumours swarm
against the ear half-cocked in dread
and not wanting to hear anything except
one distant voice that ushers in
expiring night’s last breath.
EXPERIMENT IN ESP
‘Imagine a room,’ they instructed,
‘people it — give it some life.’
And I pictured a young woman playing
a piano by soft candlelight.
Her face was a study in sorrow
and the music was painfully sad —
the tune chilled me through like a river
in flood and the feeling I had
told of loss — I was swamped with sensations,
dragged down by the weight of her grief,
as I struggled to keep myself focused
and clutched mental straws for relief.
Then she stopped with a sigh and a shudder
that echoed the ache in her soul,
and it flew like an arrow to pierce me,
left a deep and unpluggable hole.
And, turning, it seemed that she sensed me,
somehow knew that somebody was there,
watching and sharing the moment —
a presence that shadowed the air.
Her low voice broke the gathering tension,
‘Is it you?’ And I longed to reply —
send word from another dimension
that might meet the faint hope in her cry.
She stood close — I could smell English roses,
her sweet, subtle eau de cologne
wafting its false scent of summer
that mourning had claimed for its own.
And I fancied I heard the silk rustle
of the widowhood skirts that she wore,
making marble-pale skin look the paler
against the black badge that she bore.
Once again she addressed the strained silence —
‘Are you there?’ And I felt something break
like a heartstring within me had parted,
snapping clean for sheer pity’s own sake.
And I answered in thought waves transmitted
on a frequency tuned long and low
and the ghost of a smile lit her features
like a winter sun’s rays touching snow.
Was compassion misguided or foolish
to reach out across Death’s abyss
and offer a sign to console her,
albeit a counterfeit kiss ?
For it seemed then her spirit was lifted,
she returned to the keyboard and played
a melody tranquil and mystic,
her fear’s raging turmoil allayed.
Moments later, and contact was broken,
I returned to the present alone
with the knowledge that what passed between us
had escaped on the ether and flown.
‘And what did you see ?’ came the question,
I searched the far distance and sighed,
evasive, I nurtured my secret
and, when pressed for an answer, I lied.
She lives on in my thoughts, playing Chopin —
her music a landscape of themes,
and I follow her notes as they echo
through the paper-thin walls of my dreams.
ALMOST VISIBLE
Like a lake disturbed by one rogue ripple
the air in this room dithers — swirls
light patches tremble
colour dissolves as the moment’s tautened surface —
gauze-flimsy — is broken
greyed by some vague cloud.
Nothing shows — no shape
or shadow looms —
presents itself as cause
while walls exhale a silence that feels close
to a low utterance.
The door — tight-lipped and wooden —
stands past expressing
what might be a dim-light fantasy —
a presence passing through —
stray atoms balanced on the edge of mirage
so nearly seen
but sight and sense not keen enough —
the pattern too elusive and oblique.
ULTERIOR
There are reasons beyond reasons
the mind is loathe to tell —
the crazy stuff pushed deep and shadowy
too nightmare-ish to confess
it seethes its own dark logic —
bubbles quiet as a buried well.
The sun has a bloody tinge — an ancient stain
that will not lift despite
the morning smile — the brightness of the day —
it broods a memory —
a scar upon the skin
no clever mental trick can quite erase.
Thoughts run to liquid — seep
up through the rock and bone
despite the voice that quells —
whispers to undo the spell of bitterness
its acid trace
like bile from some dead belly.
Sometimes the madness spills a drop
of its slow poison and corrupts
the view — a black sun sets
behind Death’s mountain
and the moon’s cloud-blinded eye
can’t find the stars.
A LITTLE MAKE-BELIEVE
A lisping voice unnerves the breeze
A bubble pocks the lake
A hare’s transfixed where grasses freeze
A cloud drops one white flake
A dozen more then follow down
A rook flies arrow-straight
A clock chimes in the distant town
A stranger climbs the gate
A silence spreads across the land
A rumour haunts the sky
A lantern flickers close at hand
A shadow shivers by
A tension broods deep in the wood
A phantom stalks the track
A figure goes where no one should
A wiser man turns back
A howling starts as snow falls fast
A blizzard’s setting in
A spell upon the evening’s cast
A chill knifes sharp and thin
A winter’s scene in black and white
A sketch in cold and fear
A hint of what is out of sight
A clue to what lurks near
A hut whose chimney wheezes smoke
A window gleams with flame
A legend told by local folk
A creature with no name
A picture in a children’s book
A clump of spindly trees
A reader half-afraid to look
A tingle of unease
A story born so long ago
A yarn to match the age
A mystery no mind can know
A riddle on each page
A rhythm dogs the ghostly tale
A heartbeat measures time
A tooth bites anxious on a nail
A sigh forbids a rhyme
A volume bound with brittle spine
A cover scuffed and torn
A flight of fancy near-divine
A parody of form
A view of life the author brings
A fiction through and through
A pause while reason weighs such things
A chance they could be true.
WAR GAMES
Black ants are rolling round tiny skulls the size of sugar grains
expressions of surprise frozen on those white once-human faces
as the insects, pitiless and methodical according to their nature
pass them down the line like it is some age-old game
strict in its rules — their clockwork team streams confident
all precision kick-along played on some narrow unmarked field
where goals and goalmouths are imagined and the count
is kept a secret — numbers swarm and fade in drifting fog.
A skull makes a last bid for freedom — slides down a slope
grown slick from blood’s slow soak
the ants too regimented to break formation and retrieve
one frantic escapee — their waving conveyor belt of legs
programmed — no room for innovation.
Alone and camouflaged in a thin covering of mould, the skull sings
bitter of its fate, mourning unknown others — all the races ever lost
to that dark nest where monsters gather in remains —
stack high their staring pyramids of skulls — gloat over worthless
trophies.
KILLED
I had such dreams last night —
the wind like Satan’s dog
howling in the trees —
the beast came back for you
found you once again
and dragged you off.
The forest’s full of rain —
the paths a maze of blood
I heard the nightbird’s call
and knew it was no good
to follow — try to find
the tracks your killer left.
I know you fought him well —
the light was very dim
eyes were all around
watching you with him
waiting for a sign
that it was done.
In faith you had a sword
but strength had bled away
wounded as a lamb
in thorny thicket lay
you gave in to the night
let death begin.
Dawn, untroubled, came
saw you fallen where
two hidden paths had crossed
fixed your final stare
past leaves and broken cloud
to glimpse the moon.
WHY THE SHE-GOD ATE HER OWN BABY
It had a smell so succulent and sweet
squealing on her nerves — all piglet-pink
it nuzzled, grizzled, wouldn’t let her sleep
denied her any space to dream or think.
A monster held her in its dimpled hand
demanded that she feed it, give her time
it wasn’t the scenario she’d planned
her powers drained, she contemplated crime
convinced herself she’d given birth to one
who was a demon formed in chubby guise —
this being was unnatural — not her son
she saw deception glinting in his eyes.
She felt unwell — her hormones gave her hell
her mood and temper fluctuating wild
she lashed out with a plague, and drought as well
and blamed it on the fat and greedy child.
Her worshippers grew nervous, in their fear
prepared a more than generous sacrifice...
erratic now, her logic far from clear
she vent more spleen and cruelly cursed them thrice.
They sent a wise man, humble, to her shrine
he chanted verses endlessly that rose
and caught her ear, tapped in to the divine
his soothing voice acknowledging her woes.
She drooled a little — hunger made her ache
grown desperate for some feasible excuse
to feed on her own flesh and coolly break
that old taboo — the ultimate abuse.
Maternal feelings (had there ever been
a bond to sever) melted like spring snow
the boy was irksome — noisy and obscene
and there were plenty more like him below.
He tasted much like all the others had
she gave a subtle burp, a gentle cough
an accident — the tale she’d tell his dad
consoling — since they’d both be better off.
WELCOME TO THE WILDERNESS
Welcome to the wilderness — the growing church of the outdoors —
hear the hallelujah chorus of the river’s throaty roar
as it celebrates each season with exuberant display
and tumbles over boulders strewn along its narrow way.
See where water fashions limestone into shelves of living rock
and a host of hanging lichens spread their patchwork altar cloth,
and nature carves dark shadows in a pagan bas-relief
with untempered blades of sunlight thrust through canopies of beech
whose columns soar, cathedral-sheer, above their crooked aisles
and mossy hassocks, scattered round, leave visitors beguiled,
believing that a spirit moves and lends a mystic sense of grace
to all who meditate and feel at peace within this hallowed place.
Like incense, woodland smells arise, from underfoot the ancient mast
pressed to a carpet soft and damp, gives pungent hints of summers past
and mist descends, wrapping trees in lilac-greys and smoky-blues —
a breath of mystery that veils their timeless beauty. Glowing through
the black-laced intertwine of twigs, vivid scraps of stained glass sky —
moving multi-coloured clouds float their miracles on high —
remaindered glories, distant red and burning gold, as day allows
its revelation to unfold — a glimpse of heaven through dark boughs...
The river sings old, sacred songs — its organ music thunders out
where gorge and gully squeeze the flow of passion through its
green-lipped mouth
in praise of this wet wilderness... echoes sweep the forest floors
inviting all who hear its voice — come join the church of the outdoors.
A VISIT TO THE SWEAT LODGE
Cocooned, wombed
in the belly of the tent,
gathered in hot, near-darkness,
rocks steam, release the ripeness of
scattered herbs and damp skin.
Sounds of breathing,
heavy, laboured,
in the intervals between chanting,
while souls float and freed minds
go wandering in the heat
as trance takes over —
fast and dehydration strip
the senses raw and hunger leaps
to those images of faith
tradition carved.
Gods are present,
pressing through heavy air,
touching the blind with visions,
answering prayers,
space fills with the sensation
as spirits join them,
mingle with the scent that rises,
the tang of sweat like incense
from a dozen panting bodies
locked in ceremony.
Shadows move, parted by
a beating eagle’s wing;
ground trembles under hooves
of phantom buffalo herds;
a lone wolf howls —
and so the totem speaks,
its ancient snake-tongued wisdom
falls from fevered lips,
shapes change, dissolve, disguise
their human frailty,
as in their swaying midst
great brother bear rears up,
red-eyed, all-powerful —
a sign in tribal lore
their lands are safe.
SUCKLING
Her whimpers passive now,
still danger broods in that black sweep
of sleep-glued lashes,
a soft cheek covering
claims pardon for her crime,
each grub-curled finger fisted smug —
a deception hiding claws
that clamp on contact.
The sweetness of her smell
a sickly poison seeping through the skin
sweating sundew sugar to ensnare,
beguile the buzzing hormones.
Her victim-mother chained to duty’s rock,
waits listless in her cracking flesh that bleeds —
can’t avoid her urgent questing mouth
when midnight feeds
this vampire child, hard-gummed
with nascent fangs and frantic for some goodness,
drains her dry, four-hourly by the clock —
shows no remorse.
SKY BURIAL
No cold earth bed for me
but tree-top high,
cradled in thick branches
like a lullaby
rocking in the wind
and warmed by sun,
open to the rain,
my bones undone
and every atom freed —
all I ever was
dissolving in thin air
as vapour does.
No sombre sepulchre
or expensive stone
where, uniformly boxed,
corpses rot alone.
Instead, the brush of leaves,
the pat of rain,
the stabbing beaks of birds
without the pain,
the clear uncluttered view
of sky and space —
a disassembling,
going back to base.
SHROUD
I have this skin
I’m buckled in
which masks another —
a stranger self
an unreal pelt —
no earthbound mother
conceived of me
evolving free
of Darwin’s science
and thought cells spawn
a spirit worn
in pure defiance.
The trick begins —
I am two skins —
an inner layer
none can see
while outwardly
the grey gets greyer.
The mould is thin —
sense floats within
emotion surges
in blind attack
as through a crack
truth emerges.
THE THIRTEENTH STAIR
I met a ghost one midnight
she passed me on the stair
I felt her breath upon my cheek
her lips upon my hair.
I knew not why she kissed me
what drew her soul to mine
her face glowed like a candle flame
her presence near-divine.
She paused but for a moment
though time — it seemed — stood still
I couldn’t help but tremble as
my blood began to chill.
Nor could I speak for shaking
the words caught in my throat
blind panic took a-hold of me
I feared that I might choke.
Like she’d read my thoughts, she smiled
as though to soothe and calm
help reassure my racing heart
she really meant no harm.
Then a strange peace descended
and held me in its thrall
my mind detached and floated free
I felt no fear at all.
The air was ice around me
it wrapped me tight with cold
sensation drained right out of me
I watched my skin grow old.
Each layer thinned and wrinkled
brown age spots bloomed and spread
dark whiskers sprouted like some crone’s
my nails all cracked and bled
while she grew ever-younger
more luminous and fair.
Significant it happened as
I reached the thirteenth stair...
Fate picked me as her victim
I never knew her name
my youth was what her soul desired —
the reason why she came.
She sucked out my energy
left my poor body dry —
now I’m a shell of who I was —
an echo passing by
who haunts the stairs at midnight
just one thing on my mind —
to steal the precious lifeblood from
the first young throat I find.
THE WHISPER
The whisper comes from some far place —
it lisps through chink and crack —
telling secrets dark and old —
strange chilling thoughts seep back.
It hisses — stretches ancient vowels
it threatens — spreading fear
to those who listen — ill at ease —
its voice drawn thin but clear
and piercing through the night wind’s wail
to find one soul awake
who understands its taunting words
that cause weak minds to break.
Each utterance a curse — a spell
from long-dead lips flows free —
a whisper travelling through time
for all eternity.
No guard can block pure wickedness —
such magick’s much too strong —
transmitted by the blackest heart
those waves roll on and on...
I hear it in the quiet hours
it haunts my shallow breath
slyly twists inside my dreams
’til sleep’s a taste of death.
That whisper plagues my senile years
while peace is all I crave —
not earth nor stone can shut it out —
it waits to share my grave.
STRANGE APPETITES
From nowhere it springs — this pang of desire,
this need that no reason can quell
as it grows to a frenzy of ravenous lust
like a beast that’s been raised by a spell.
Once I loitered in alleys and lingered in crypts
to feed on the quick and the dead,
gnawing on fresh or dark coffin-baked flesh,
all-consumed by a passion part-fed.
But whatever I gorged, my strange appetites grew,
though I swallowed the bones and the skins,
every tooth, every nail, not a hair went to waste,
yet my own body withers and thins.
There’s a worm in my gut and it chews on my heart,
on my liver, my lungs and my brain,
every corpse that I eat it devours in turn
and its greed drives my taste buds insane.
I’m the fantasy ogre — the monster of myth,
the blood-sucking demon from hell
that lurks in the shadows of fear’s lonely pit,
the lunatic loosed from his cell.
And this jacket’s so tight and my thirst’s so intense —
I crave that red syrup, salt-sweet,
that pulses so plainly beneath crisp, white coats
and the smell of their warm, tender meat.
They question me close but I’m muted by pain
and a rumble of hunger unsung,
for the serpent inside me has plans to break free
and has cannibalised my split tongue.
So I crunch on a cockroach and suck bitter soup —
an hors d’oeuvre of live earwigs and flies,
sip a twitching concoction with soft peppered moths
while observers attempt to disguise
the vomit reaction. I grin like the ghoul
they imagine, and slobber and drool,
for I’m biding my time as the menu looks on
while I whip up a silverfish fool.
There’s a doctor I fancy, whose portions are plump,
and his sweat has the stink of decay.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, unknowing, he’s down
as my ultimate dish of the day.
MOTHMAN
I thought I glimpsed his shadow cross the moon —
imagined I had seen a perfect myth —
a dream conjured from a story I half-knew
was fantasy — unlikely as a faerie wish...
Through sleep’s grey veil his face would sometimes stare
bug-eyed yet human — and his scent
rolled like a clover cloud — spread over me
its cloying sweetness — made my senses sing
and want him to come closer — let me see
how dark-winged he was — all creature of the night
and strange with voiceless longing — a raw need
that drew him to me
like an insect to a solitary flower
open to the rain — I let him feed.
I knew his weight — his body firm and furred
his face against my flesh as hunger bit
and gladly I gave up my fearfulness
to share our moment’s agony and bliss.
His shade remains — an echo grey with musk —
a memory of wings that whirred above
churning damp night air and thoughts unsure
of what was real — or maybe less than true.
I’d wanted love — a taste — a lasting touch
he gave me that — the feeling is ingrained —
a stain indelible — that never-fading bruise
an imprint of delirium’s glad pain
like passion’s ghost it lingers cobweb-thin —
an ecstasy that has no spoken name.
On nights the moon is empty — hollowed out
by eyes of wakeful watchers — just like me
still yearning for a promise and obsessed...
I have visions of him fluttering — far off
drawn to some fragrant nectar tree —
my mothman dream-invented monstrous soft
in the realms of his nocturnal territory
and born unfaithful — sipping where he can.
Addiction has me lulled — a gothic mix
of love and loathing drugs me to pretend
there’s hope for romance. My arms like petals bend
open in their welcome offering
desire without conditions — a full-bodied wine
fermented — corked inside me all this time.
I suspect he is a demon fiction-based
with elements of tenderness — a rare
contradiction in my heightened state —
the frenzy he instills — the fever and the chills —
as I watch the moon for shadows — wish on stars
and cradle every fear — as lovers do.
MOON CHILD
On these three nights I dream of you —
the crescent, half and full —
on other nights when skies are bare
I seldom dream at all.
I feel your face, your steady eye
that watches me in sleep
and through that cloudland gauziness
the wonder takes me deep.
And should your heart be black and cold
there’s space enough for me —
you hold me lightly in a cell
the child of fantasy.
I wear your charm around my neck —
its silver spirit sings
fills valleys inbetween the stars
I hear the sweep of wings
And through the snowshine brightness fly —
my feathers angel-spun
where life unfolds in many forms
and death exists in none.
MOONGAZING HARE
See how the moon adores me —
strokes me with her silver where I lie
in the frost-tipped grass
my fur grown crisp under her touch.
I am dazzled by her stare —
her light, my light —
the long shaft of energy we share
a pulse magnetic.
My blood sings a wild chorus
as she fills me with her vision —
her white heart welding fields — the river glows
like solder running thin down dark’s cold edge.
Am I her god or is she mine?
Her face an altar, my form a place of worship
I dream she needs me for her focus
since we are locked in some carved legend
for this and other nights to come.
LOCATION
It is a beach I go to in the moonlight
of my own imagining
where the sand stretches a long trail of silver
that glitters wetly
as the waves shush over it
soothing as a lullabye
and water inches its way
to wipe a single line of footprints
from a lone enchanted shore.
It is always night among these rocks —
the pools between are private mirrors where the stars
swim down to rest
and count themselves among the fishes
drowsing in the dark
cushioned by broad fronds of seaweed
and tucked deep in folded fathoms —
layered salty dreams.
The ruin of a lighthouse in the distance
islanded by the incoming tide
is a legendary place where mermaids gather —
I hear their voices singing
a thin descant to
the brine-heavy breathing breeze —
their lure is shrill — insistent —
wind-chilled bodies gleam upon the rough-hewn thrones
of sea-resistant granite
and I am drawn half-willing through the surf
to kneel in wonder — stare perplexed
at the impossible.
One princess of that ocean wears a human face
as though stolen — borrowed from some memory
for this illusion’s purpose
she has for eyes
grey-blue polished pebbles with old secrets kept
and holding me in thrall.
The moon is full of hollow promises —
complicit in a strangely sweet deception
and the souls of all the lovers drowned
struck dumb — remembering
a time and place
where dreams for that one moment seemed
entirely possible...
Lingering — gazing out towards
an unmeasurable horizon
conjured by a romantic need for exploration —
this fantasy location where
the mind’s a solitary traveller
back and forth through time —
the journey never done.
THE BALLAD OF TYLER’S COVE
One summer dawn, the tide at ebb, a west wind from the sea,
A young man toils to mend his nets, no soul abroad save he,
The early sun upon his skin, the singing surf calls wild,
And draws his gaze to where she floats — a naked woman-child.
He pulls her from the lapping waves and wraps her body round,
Her limbs are cold, her eyes like glass, she utters not one sound,
He scoops her frailness in his arms, unsure she is alive,
Implores the gods of sea and sky, prays hard she might survive.
He struggles up the steep cliff path, her dead weight like a stone,
Kicks wide the creaking cottage door and thinks he hears her moan,
A sigh — one faintly salted breath escapes her bloodless lips,
And in his heart a wonder grows as sheer obsession grips...
*****
The days pass idle, time stands still — he falls beneath her spell,
And rapture drugs him to a state too deep and dark to tell —
He knows not if it’s day or night, what season rules the sun,
He shuns both family and friends — his sanity undone...
His childhood sweetheart, Annie-May, beats frantic at his door,
He cannot hear her sobs and cries, he thinks of her no more.
A new love claims his witless soul — binds him in its thrall —
The world outside no more to him than shadows on the wall.
Such sorrow crushes Annie-May the shock affects her brain,
She strips the blue-black berries from the hedgerows in the lane,
Their poison stings upon her tongue, brings agony, then sleep,
Her eighteen summers destined for an unmarked grave, dug deep.
Grief gathers in the village as the sorry tale is spread,
And anger rises, quelling fear, as rousing words are said,
And questions burn in every throat, suspicion leaps like flame —
The creature taken from the sea must surely be to blame.
Churchgoing men, and women, too, shrug off their Christian shells,
As superstition rears its head, and rings unholy bells,
That vengeful mob, with torches lit, outside Gull Cottage came,
And, shouting loud in fury, call Charles Tyler out by name...
A silence answers all their threats, an echo trembles round,
Then nothing stirs — the air hangs still — no sight — no smell — no sound —
The door unlocked and no one there — the cottage bare and cold,
As though abandoned years before, its ruin long-foretold.
No sign along the empty strand — the shoreline stretches bare,
His boat, ‘The Seahorse,’ missing from its usual sandbank where
Two sets of footprints trawl a line down to the sea’s pale foam...
And, thwarted thus, the mob disband — in ones and twos, drift home.
*****
The years go by... One winter’s storm — the worst in memory,
Leaves driftwood tossed upon the beach — a painted name floats free,
‘The Seahorse,’ wrecked — its shattered planks like matchwood strewn along
The cove where Tyler and his boat were said to vanish from.
What fate befell him, none now care — all legends dim with time,
Ten generations heed the tale committed here to rhyme,
The bay’s since known as Tyler’s Cove, his cottage broods its stone,
Unvisited, for few would want to dally long alone.
A shadow stretches, cold and dark, across the centuries,
Imagination plays with all the possibilities...
While superstition dreads the dawn that follows a bad storm,
Fearing, out there, fathoms deep, the sea-witch is re-born.
THE DAYLIGHT DIMS AND THICKENS
The daylight dims and thickens
quickens shades of night
clawing with cool fingers
along its grey-edged sight.
The dark grows mouths to swallow
hollow shape and sense
all is disappearing
the grainy landscape dense
with sounds — the night wind keening
dreaming of the sun
the season’s clock is ticking —
a sickly moon hangs on
her beams so quickly covered
smothered by sly cloud
her sallow face well-hidden
enveloped in a shroud.
Earth’s pungent scents go drifting
sifting through the trees
a clinging mist that slickens
chills by slow degrees
sends morbid fancy reeling —
peeling shadows press
down upon the rooftops
a broody wakefulness...
The pitch of dark unending
sending waves of dread —
fear’s unfathomed ripples
floating free the dead —
lost flickers in some corner —
forlorner souls who fret —
each pasty-grey gauze glimmer
a half-drawn silhouette...
At last, when dawnlight breaking
aching, births the sun
and demons are sent packing
we keep our inmost one.
LEVIATHAN
The inventive idle mind swims best by night
and launches one enormous and unlikely fish —
a whale of a thought cast spontaneously adrift
and caught by a sudden urgent current —
pulled out into the great dark depths —
almost getting lost in its own limitlessness.
No way to measure weight or time
in this untamed and changeless — floating nameless
place where nothing touches nothing — edgeless
unreality of every sort — while
small and average varieties
of notion shoal and eat each other.
One giant of an idea that rules at least
for now the unimaginable ocean
glides on through and sullen waters part —
give way to bulk — the outsize dream
that threatens to become some monstrous and
too altogether strange obsession.
AMNIOTIC
Evening — late — and the great grey fog rolls in
off the mumbling sea.
It wraps the beach — it winds its wet embrace
round everything and blinds the distance — muffles
every voice the banished breeze once had — and waves
wheeze in like old men rationing each breath.
Its kiss is cold, its tongue a salty sea dog’s
furred thick with legend —
superstition has strange creatures swarm when reason
is subdued
by forms that swirl and fade — dissolve before
their shape is ever fully realised.
Such myths are ancient — laughed at in the sun — but
when
a winter night combines the elements in such a way
and so suspends them — invokes some binding spell
that locks air and water with a vague unease — then
stories are perceived quite differently.
Something conjured looms — formed in — and out — of fog —
a tumbling mass of fears — while screams are deadened —
lost — absorbed — the stretching land and sea transformed —
merged in all its rock and liquid mysteries —
the birthing chemistry
of monsters.
THE MYSTIC
The boy was born a dreamer —
strange visions filled his days —
imagination schooled him
and led him mystic ways...
Thus he grew to be a loner —
an introspective child
immersed in his own silence —
inscrutable — near-wild.
His thoughts translated wonder —
a poet he became —
his spirit fired by moonglow —
a prophet with no claim
to pictures in the sunset —
the colours that he saw
in new-found worlds of beauty
drawn desolate and raw.
His youthful years behind him
he loved like any man —
unwisely — beyond reason —
as Time’s cruel river ran
and dragged his body under —
drowned him in Death’s flood —
a brother for the angels —
their passion in his blood.
Dark waters smooth an altar
where fish adore his bones
and belief finds understanding
in the memory of stones.
THE JUDDERMAN
An entire existence on the edge of motion —
the trembling expectancy of launching
into what never actually materializes
but remains imminent — always close
to possibility.
He is the repressed/suppressed embodiment —
the distillation of shadows ever-changing —
of every rawness ever felt or thought
his nerves stretch semi-naked — shivering — each twitch
indicates an idea rumbling through the machinery
but fails ultimately to fire the engine.
A locked-in state where energy’s potential
ripples its long snake inside the skin
and no one knows what he knows of his plight —
his constant juddering the only clue
there’s something he would say —
has plans to do —
if only he k-k-k-k —
k-k-k-k —
could.
PISCEAN
His coldness makes me shiver with desire —
his ice slow-burns with strange, inverted fire
that drags my latent heat from deep within
to sizzle as it freezes on my skin.
This contradiction fascinates, excites,
the chill’s divine — I plummet from such heights
to ecstasies unknown before the fall,
that sinking, writhing joy exceeding all
I ever felt before — old passions pale;
sensations I thought ultimate, whose scale
so suddenly surpassed, seem feeble since
he touched me, and now I drift, convinced
this transfer is the saving of my soul —
my spirit dreamed, half-fish, and now I’m whole
and swimming wild, tugged free by arctic tides
that wash me, flush the doubt from my insides
and purify with brine. Waves roll to soothe
old scars, internal rhythms rock and move
the silt that choked me, glued me to the land;
I’m floating now, my atoms salt and sand.
And he, who knew the secrets that I kept,
watched over me, unblinking, as I slept
my human life away; infused his kiss
with oceanfuls of icy, burning bliss.
Thus, I’m transformed — quick-silvered alchemy,
love feeds a chilled, transmuted chemistry
that simmers, boils as blue-green bubbles rise
and I’m reborn — seaworthy, in his eyes.
THE WINDOW
How it began...
Dusk — and through my window I gazed long
into the creeping shadows for a sign
of those faint figures glimpsed — too quickly gone
for me to judge as human or divine.
Flesh or spirit? Phantoms strolled the lawn
glowing soft ’til evening folded round
so melted them in twilight — I’d have sworn
I saw them kiss — just briefly — as the sound
of the church clock chimed out its lonely note
and from the eaves a string of bats took flight.
I shivered — ghostly fingers gripped my throat —
a gibbous moon slow-climbed the hill of night.
Sleep came fitfully — I heard a cry —
an owl in the old oak beside the lane
called his mate from hunting fields or sky
then later the soft hiss of steady rain.
I tossed and turned, drew back the sombre drape
of heavy curtains shielding the wet glass
and squinted through the darkness at a shape
uncertain — at some distance — drifting past.
As daylight broke I dressed and stole outside —
a set of footprints tracked the dew-soaked lawn —
they led towards the summer house — I tried
the handle — locked — so onwards through the dawn
between the pines, along a less-used path
where brambles leaned in close to scratch and tear
I found the ruins of a gauzy scarf
caught on thorns ... and one long raven hair.
Intrigued, I took the evidence and kept
my theories to myself — I’ve never told
another living soul as I suspect
they’d label me half-witted — senile — old.
But age has instincts that the youthful lack —
experience unravels truth from dreams —
thus mysteries are solved by looking back
and knowing nothing’s quite the way it seems...
So it’s become a comfort to believe
I don’t live here alone but share my space
with others — and that time has ways to weave
a nest of lives — each given their set place.
I watch them from my window — him and her —
their assignations scripted — known by heart —
they have no need of clock or calendar —
I witness how, on cue, they kiss and part.
And if they sense my presence, they’re resigned
or simply too removed from earthly cares —
perhaps when love’s exclusive — almost blind —
all else seems pale — bliss captured unawares...
I speculate I’ll never know their names
and yet I feel connected to their fate —
I walk with them in dreams — on other plains —
explore an out-of-body timeless state
that empathy allows and finds its match
in being mortal — merely blood and bones —
our histories close parallels — abstract
qualities pure rationale disowns...
I sometimes sense her in this very room —
a perfume hangs — her scarf has the same smell
of flowers — meadow-fresh — each fragrant bloom
blended to a signature known well.
I accept I am obsessed — I could be mad —
my addled brain misled by tricks of light —
delusions may explain the thoughts I’ve had —
hallucinations — fancy taking flight...
I see her in the garden, near the gate
my window faces west and gets the sun
which sets behind the trees — and there she’ll wait
anxious for her secret beau to come.
I fear it won’t end well — this furtive tryst —
for intuition reads it’s surely doomed
while she transmits a clearly loving wish
the vibe from him’s less ardently attuned.
Thus tragedy is set — he will betray
her hopes and dreams and drive her to despair
yet I can’t intervene nor guess the day —
the anticipation’s agony to bear...
As Time goes on...
The tranquilizers help — the nurse is kind —
they’ve upped the medication so I sink
deep into a placid frame of mind
though generally more lucid than they’d think.
It’s years now since it started, maybe more...
my diary long-abandoned as a friend.
There is a pattern — one I’ve known before —
I’m in a loop still searching for the end.
The riddle and the answer once supposed
quite logical, too seldom ever fit —
all questions on the subject likewise closed
and no one really bent on solving it.
So I stare out of my window and stay calm
knowing no one else sees what I see
and sad that I can’t keep her from self-harm —
I’m haunted by some girl I used to be.
HOLY WINE
He’s feeling odd this morning — overhung
and kind of queasy from that wanton feast
where he’d indulged — kept drinking — soused among
those beauties who, expiring, whispered “Beast!”
They’d tasted good — full-bodied, purple wine
dispensed so freely — gushing to excess
from generous necks seductively designed
to arch above each off-the-shoulder dress.
A dozen — maybe more — he did not count
the luscious creatures as he drank his fill
but certainly a liberal amount
or he’d not feel so stomach-churning ill.
He staggers off — afraid he might yet faint
while desperate to escape the rising sun
wishing now he’d sinned with more restraint —
and passed when he was offered the Blue Nun!
GOTHIC NIGHTS
The trees are wringing from the sky
the first few drops of rain,
black branches twist, squeeze harder yet,
the night wind squeals with pain,
devils goad the rising gale —
a beast who stamps and squalls,
snorts its rage through every crack
and kicks at doors and walls.
Rising from the forest’s depths,
a ragged choir of howls
joins the chorus echoing
from earth’s primeval bowels
and shivers run across the skin
as waves disturb the lake,
like some dread monster turns in sleep
when called to come awake.
Who knows what demons are abroad,
what horrors haunt the hills,
when shadows move and myths take shape
and trepidation fills
the heart with something half-believed
that tricks our eyes and ears,
as superstition pricks the spine
we smell and taste old fears.
THAT’S WHY THE LADY IS A VAMP
She’s a real night owl
and sleeps until late
she dresses gothic
when out on a date
she can’t remember
the people she ate —
that’s why the lady is a vamp.
She thinks it’s playful
to toy wih her food
she’s kind of scary
when she’s in a mood
her jokes are wicked
and really quite rude —
that’s why the lady is a vamp.
She likes fresh grave dirt under her nails
black widow veils —
some bloke’s
just croaked...
She hates the sunshine
adores the gas lamp —
that’s why the lady is a vamp.
She’s always hungry
and keen for a feast
she’s never bothered
or freaked in the least
what’s on the menu —
if it’s man, babe or beast —
that’s why the lady is a vamp.
She likes the chill night wind in her hair
a lonely crypt where
as dawn creeps
she sleeps —
she loves old churchyards
they’re cold and they’re damp —
that’s why the lady is a vamp.
THE DARK SQUARE
Contained in a dark square
what little light there is a shifting stain
soaking through thick air.
The angles of the walls, the floor, the ceiling are
a tight geometry of smoothness —
featureless and straight —
too clinical to comtemplate —
this cold precision alien —
no flaw to interrupt the lines
or stimulate.
The square she paces — measures with her eyes
the base of a grey cell
constructed in the deep recess
of someone else’s memory —
they keep her here — ignore her cries...
She’s suffocating in a cube of gloom
where imagination has no room
to stretch itself or breathe.
FANGS
Maybe I’m afraid of you —
maybe I’m not —
I feel the sharp edge of your teeth
against my neck
the cold rasp of your tongue
and yet no breath escapes
between lips drawn back revealing rows
of smooth uncorrupted ivory —
your perfect weapons
unsheathed and testing the tension
of my skin.
This close I smell the musk of you —
the scent of leaves and earth
that lingers — a faint dusting
of decay — dry wood and bone —
nothing that still lives —
and knowing that you are undead
should send a chill — a warning clear
to keep a distance — never let
you near enough to mesmerize
with that deep look — your stare
might stop my heart.
Yet I am calm — and wait
curious to see if you will bite
and how it could feel — that pain
so intimate and ancient in its origins
that old exchange — blood for blood —
all life boiled down to this —
a throbbing vein — desire
rising in the flash-flood threat —
our ice meets fire contradiction —
needs that burn and melt.
Anticipation goads me —
lures me with danger’s fierce attraction —
will you, won’t you
give in to the animal inside?
Does my white living flesh seduce you?
Are you torn by appetites too extreme
to mention?
All this while
your matchless fangs graze
my naked throat —
hover just by the pulse —
I am almost impatient for the chance
I recognise as madness —
to die then live again a shadow-life
in trade for one transfusion —
kiss for kiss.
THE ICE PRINCE COMETH
I anticipate his lips will press a bruise of spreading cold
that numbs me with an ache too deep to bear —
his breath a blast of arctic breeze that blues my trembling cheek
and scatters snowflake crystals in my hair.
His touch will wither — burn me — freeze the bloodflow in these veins —
my heart turns to a glacier inside —
the valley of my body with thought’s mountains veiled in mist
as nerveless as a sacrificial bride.
The sheets on which we’ll lie will be vast snowfields that he brings —
my dowry is the heat he’ll steal from me —
he’ll leave my flesh unfeeling as the Tundra’s frigid North —
a barren world — too bare for modesty.
Though pale as death, he’s handsome — but it’s best to look away
for to try to hold his gaze is far from wise —
he can dazzle in an instant — bring a woman to her knees —
there is ice-melt in his nature and his eyes.
I met him on a pathway, near a village drowned in white
where an avalanche had claimed a brother dear.
I knew him from a legend and he vowed he would return
and take me to his palace leagues from here.
I have waited many winters — traced the rime upon the glass
and dreamed the blizzard brings him in its wake —
sudden hail foretells his coming in the stories I have read
where his shadow looms and haunts the frozen lake.
The icicles drip slowly — grow long teeth from the roof’s edge
and glint with cruel promise like his smile.
Those jewels he sends before him as a gift meant to entrance
a soul already chilled and so beguiled.
The bitter air hangs empty — early dusk draws in the day —
its filtered light slants strange across the floor —
a shiver runs right through me like a dagger to the bone
when at last I hear his knuckles rap my door.
UNBELIEVABLE
The olden giants have come
moving — invisible — through the winter city
breathing on high windows
their hair dragging grim clouds
of gritty pollution in their wake
mouths sucking dawn’s pale blood-streaked sun.
They are silent on tarmac
fingers plucking at exhaust-choked trees
their eyes searching out uneasy sleepers
tumbled awkward in downy cots
while the great church clocks
chime against the creeping cold.
These ogres of denied mythology
have at last left their mountain hideaways
abandoned distant unmapped valleys
where the caves of night began
now they walk tall as houses through
modern streets rumoured to be paved with gold.
They too seek fame and fortune
in amongst the hubbub and the roar
but find themselves lost —
drowned in its too-frantic rush —
out-numbered by the human herd
their protesting unnoticed in the workday mêlée.
Darkness muffles in a host of sound disguises —
each howling soothed and scattered
where they lump lonely by the river
their disillusion shadowy
ambition shattered — crushed to echoes
they scavenge desperate for any dregs of ancient fear
sniff around for credibility in their gloom
while neon shines right through their monstrous bones —
man’s dread already faded over centuries
the giant threat is losing ground.
True to their traditions some eat each other —
brother swallows brother whole — live on as dreams —
the city breeds new nightmares by the dozen
clones fables for the anxious dweller
needing time-worn images to hate —
ghosts and gargoyles huddle
on jutting rooves to share thin-voiced bitter histories
weave horror with a mocking strand of truth
that chills even the hardened sceptic’s ear
where doubt lodges — unsettled by ideas
and instinct argues fiercely in defence
of the unbelievable.
DEATH SANG A SONG
Death sang a song to me last night
I heard his words quite plain
His voice an arrow, strong in flight
Each note a sweet, sharp pain.
His lyric told a world of woes
Pure sorrow filled the air
While something deep within me froze
The weight of sheer despair.
Midnight struck and still he sang
The tune went reeling round
While I half-feared each aching pang
Might find me under ground.
I blocked my ears and said a prayer
For silence — restful sleep
Unhaunted by such blues sung rare
To make a stone heart weep.
Quietness fell — like balm it soothed
Then with the dawn thin rain
Its gentle rhythmic chorus proved
To echo Death’s refrain.
And melancholy drugged me with
Its ear cupped full of dreams
Old visions lost that cannot live
Except in Death’s dark schemes.
Those echoes lingered through the day
Like webs from corners hung
Strands that caught me — wound their grey
Invisible among
The drifting minutes of the clock
That marked its own frail time
I listened for that tick to stop
Aware it counted mine.
And faint — far-off — the silence rang
With noise — the tread of feet
Souls who danced while Death still sang
And kept the same chill beat.
As dusk approached the song drew near
Until it filled the room
Suffocating — soft to hear
It cradled me in gloom.
Rocked me to a trance-like state
Locked me in its spell
It seemed I had no will to break
Its power, thus I fell
Deeper and still deeper yet
At length I sang along
Careless of his mood’s sly threat
In tune with Death’s sad song.
Then in the very midst of thrall
Another tone cut in
I heard the voice of reason call
Pitched high and questioning.
It shocked me from my frozen state
It chided me for shame
That I could dally so with Fate
Indulge in Death’s grim game.
I may be aging — weak and slow
But reason rescued self
Death’s morbid balladeer can go
Dispirit someone else.
EXORCISM
Released from those dark
cold regions beyond dream’s
measuring
sea divides itself
to let go through
a nameless body
rising slow
through grades of pitch —
the black diluting
as fathoms grey
give up their pigment
to the wash
the salted light’s thin
woven strands a net —
ragged — wide —
reaching down to gather
in what heads to meet it —
bask in weightless change
the switch between
blind and seeing...
thought bobs clear
freed from a maze
of coral-formed caves
grown thick with night
and gasps at brighter shadows
feels along the unsure edge
where elements touch
nerves that brush against
each other
tugging loose the molecules
in a rough bartering —
exchange liquid for air...
the spirit breathes
cloud-shredded harsh
the ether reassigns
each rôle and reason
mist hangs its layered limbo
vague as legend
where the twinned moon floats
her listless soul
quivering and drained —
power-dimmed
watching a ghost
dissolve.
SOUL-EATER
Something ate my soul last night —
I felt each bite — the cut and gnaw of teeth —
each loss as feeling left me
disjointed — old naïvetés chewed off
and swallowed by the dark.
The numbness, on the whole, seemed sharp relief —
the sticky sauce of every sorry year
licked clean by some strange tongue
the white bone bowl held salty echoes
of all the blood that ran.
Mine were chosen from that well-thumbed menu
of uncounted sleepless thoughts
wafted juicy in a simmering of grief —
to be relished for their agony
prey to sweet-and-sour-crusted lips.
Today, I’m spent — the sudden feast all done —
every clinging crumb of it
and memory’s a faint dried-on stain
from last night’s skinless supper —
no greasy scraps of hurt
or cooled-off dregs of gamey love
remain...
THE LEGEND OF THE COLD ONES
From far-off lands of snow and ice they came —
thinned by cold they stole the forms of men
wore flesh unchanging — time could make no claim
on shapes that shift — long years were lost on them...
Strange beauty cloaked them — flawless — hid the mark
that picked them out — this tribe of ancient ones
escaped from caves — those regions of near-dark
abandoned for a sliver of weak sun.
They walk by day — not tied to any tomb —
that legendary bed of freezing earth —
their eyes a mirror to the frigid moon —
untouched by love or pain — bereft of mirth
they have an air of superficial charm —
a smile that can persuade and bend the will
of those in thrall and ignorant what harm
they risk — so fail to heed the warning chill
that closes round when Cold Ones gather near —
a bitter tang that prickles fear awake
electrifies the quiet atmosphere
with particles to make the senses shake...
They have that power in them — true to type
these dangerous — romantic — figures blend —
close-mingle in the crowd — select a ripe
victim — quench desires that have no end.
Each murderous seduction callous theft
of youth — the sacrifice of living blood —
soft bodies like frail empty vessels left
floating — unattended on the flood.
Old horror stories whispered mouth to ear —
some local legend saved for winter nights
though most deny such things could happen here
yet others dream the sting of vampyre bites...
Few know the truth — have peeled away the myth —
revealed the creature shambling beneath
the fiction — see him clear for what he is —
a butcher’s stare — a rotless set of teeth.
And cold within that ultimate embrace
too late the lover sees through his disguise
and looks upon the demon’s awful face
frozen by the hunger in those eyes.
They feel the ache that penetrates the vein
and know his nature and his undead curse
how cold lust burns within his vicious brain
where passion rules — relentless and perverse.
DUNGEON
One window — a rough square of distant blue —
faint drafts — along with smells — come drifting through
and far-off sounds that filter... voices too...
the world out there a landscape I once knew
reduced to this one patch of shifting light
that changes hour by hour — day to night
the focus of my waking — my first sight
a box of sun that spills its liquid white.
Winter shrinks it — turns it grey and small —
high up upon the grim dark-shadowed wall
daylight barely finds the gap at all
moon visits now and then — a fleeting call —
her passing magic’s kind — her saddened face
looks in on me confined in this dire place
her slanting beams like fingers touch and trace
the contours of my cell — but can’t erase
the horrors of the fever — and the chill
despite the outside warmth its air hangs still
and thick with dread — no ray of hope can fill
these endless hours — all this time to kill...
I listen to the rain — its soothing drip
gathering in pools that slowly tip
and run in rivulets I catch and sip
sweet as wine upon my dry cracked lip.
Some days I pace — most nights I lie awake
I hear the moans and cries the spirits make
and pray out loud that a bright dawn will break
and quieten them — bring peace for pity’s sake.
I used to mark the days — scratch through black mould
that climbs the wall — peel off its crusty hold
on stones — a totting-up of time untold
now meaningless as I — resigned and old —
forget the years — how long I’ve waited here
for rescue — sure some hero would appear —
’til disillusion swamped me with the fear
I have no future — death is drawing near...
I feel dread’s weight — it settles dense as doom —
this dungeon is a nightmare ante room
and madness stalks me — gibbers through the gloom —
one foot already planted in the tomb.
THE HOWLER AT THE GATE
I hear you through my dreams —
your voice stretching its long vowels into the night —
it tears my soul — rips my peace apart
with longing that consumes me
the ache inside my heart
answers with its drumbeat loud and strong
and somewhere out there in the darkness
our spirits meet — and melt into your song.
That howl would find me even in the grave —
it seeks me out
my ear cannot evade its piercing
ever-cool and constant wave of sound
burrowing through air from where you wait
patient at my mind’s nocturnal gate
for me to come to you — abandon all
this world’s too mundane ways and listen to your call.
And I’m so tempted — half of me in thrall
bewitched and drawn to wildness — night and moon’s
slow drug that lures a primitive desire
to wander — let you take me to your lair
and know your fierceness — taste it — drink it down
experience your freedoms — passion’s fire —
the blood upon your breath — the sky is clear
the scent of you — your shadow looming near.
I yearn yet hesitate — my lone and lovesick wolf
although your yellow eyes invade my room
like lamps they shine to penetrate my deep subconscious gloom —
those netherlands you haunt are barred to me —
I fear to shake my weak but human nature free
and be as you are — animal all through —
no romance — no emotion runs in you —
I dare not change my skin and so become
a creature cursed in fame’s mythology.
Such thoughts are dangerous — I force them roughly back
to a safer distance — the perimeter drawn swift —
the absolute divide that sanity insists
will stave off this dark hunger that exists —
growls within me — claws — grows reckless when
night’s deep forest shivers and your shadow lopes again —
twigs snap along the paths — your phantom pack
approaches — I can hear them pant and paw
the frozen earth — impatient I should at last give in
and throw the dregs of caution to the howling wind.
UNDERWORLD
Every night she goes there in her dreams,
sucked deep inside dark subterranean halls
where demons lurk, the air churns wild with screams
and madness hangs fresh spectres on high walls.
The Grey Ones follow her, she feels their breath
blow hot upon her shoulder as she flees,
hears loud the rattle of approaching Death
and falls, brought crashing to arthritic knees.
They hold her down, the needle arcs and sinks,
blackness gathers close to fold her in —
there’s no escape — the fight within her shrinks
to one small nerve that jumps beneath her skin.
She’s trapped inside herself — her fear’s a bird
frantic in its withered, creaking cage,
she has no voice — dementia steals each word,
her rheumy eyes pour out their senile rage.
At night, some nameless horror claims her mind
and hauls her through a narrow shifting crack
to wander, terrified she may not find
a reason to attempt the journey back.
NOTHING STAYS BURIED
They won’t stay down — old secrets shift and rise
claw their way from subterranean lairs
to catch guilt-ridden dreamers unawares —
dark energies grown crazy with thin cries.
Fear and grief are partners for the dance —
they twirl to music seeping through the walls —
the drumming heart — the shrilling doubt that calls —
the whirling choreography of chance
resurrects emotions that were dead
and buried deep — yet now they stand and sway
to pain’s old tune — a dirge that eats away
at memory — love’s anguish freshly fed.
Grief, exhausted, staggers — arms flung wide —
a zombie — blind and dumb caught in the spell
loss has woven — too obsessed to tell
word from word where explanations hide.
The keeper of truth’s grave might do their best
to tend it — let the soothing grass grow green
but secrets buried — ugly and obscene —
will surface — for their bones are not at rest.
DIGGING
The dank earth yields beneath my spade
which slices cleanly, turns the soil
and severs sadness with its blade,
subdues my heart with humble toil
where roots lay naked, white as bone, -
anaemic limbs exposed to light -
their longings wither and disown
unlikely flowers plucked by night.
Tight-budded need tossed in a heap
with wilful weeds and barbed desire,
and stinging doubt as nettles creep
beneath the brazen skirts of briar.
One patch is clear - the carved clods gleam -,
my body aches, exhaustion pours
a draught to purge love-fevered dreams:
the incubus frail flesh adores.
But gentle through the dark you glide,
to settle like a homesick ghost
safe and tenderly astride
the brooding nightmare of your host.
I shiver, grateful for the twitch
of subtle reins; respond to hands
that urge me gallop, half-bewitched,
through night's quixotic hinterlands.
Then watch the pink-eyed face of dawn
squinting, bleary, through grey cloud.
and pace this threadbare winter lawn,
deny my fantasy aloud.
I lift my spade to break your spell
by digging - feel the muscles strain -
as steel unearths the loam-rich smell
of compost steaming after rain.
I bury Summer, dig it deep
into the plot my heart believes
is therapeutic, but I keep
two perfect skeletons of leaves.
DEATH-DREAMS
I slept with death last night —
he was considerate and kind —
his passion quiet — carnal needs subdued —
he held me — stroked fear away with murmurs
and old promises, half-heard.
And I felt light and empty — safer
than I’d ever felt before —
untouchable, untouched
by all those things the moment held away —
consigned to distance.
Relaxed in leaden arms
his face bled shadow coverings
I didn’t call his name
but gave myself quite willingly —
allowed him sole possession.
Eyes already closed, my mind
crept over him — feeling for
a space to stay in —
his body a museum of my life
and shapeless loss.
And so we rocked each other —
he and I — like forever was a phase
for going through, enduring while it lasts —
I woke alone and dizzy in the sun
of all my gathered years.
RIVAL
I smell her scent upon him — she steals into his dreams —
a succubus — a demon — her undermining schemes
rob me and my children — he’s distant to me now —
untouchable with longing — in thrall to her — somehow
she’s mesmerized — bewitched him — turned his mind away
from fatherhood and marriage. I have no heart to pray
but turn instead to magic — a counter-spell — I curse
the effigy I’ve fashioned — which squirms at the reverse —
I damn her eyes for lusting — pierce them through with pins
stitch her lips together and skewer fabric limbs.
I feel my hate surge through me — twisting like the knife
she wielded with no conscience when ruining my life.
Thus I’ll reclaim his passion and turn its tide again —
she’ll taste to him like poison — his appetite will wane...
This spell I cast is ancient — its origins belong
to those who know the old ways — and such beliefs stay strong —
the book — the bell — the candle — fresh blood signs on the floor
will rid me of my rival — she’ll plague me nevermore.
SEARCHING
She bends above the pool and gazes deep
into sun-dappled water’s idle brown
where diving beetles, nymphs and minnows keep
quiet company with those cast in to drown —
and in that silence where the spirits sleep
her eyes peer through the weeds — look down and down
searching for some clue — a hint or trace
of what lies hidden in that lonely place.
The afternoon is warm — no breeze or chill
disturbs the water — ruffles its calm air
and every leaf remains unmoved until
a sudden nameless shiver passes where
she stoops intent and absolutely still
imagining what deeds have happened there —
as though a voice has whispered in her ear
and generated a small stab of fear.
She squints at what she thinks could be a bone
resting in the silt — so small and frail
it surely is an infant’s — barely grown
to fit with local legend’s gruesome tale —
she stares again — perceives it‘s just a stone
that’s curiously shaped and gleaming pale —
her expectations keen, her eyes misled
believing she had found the long-lost dead.
THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN
Here the river boils and froths —
spewing from the dark earth’s maw
it heaves and bubbles, spits and coughs
a dirt-brown soup of root and claw.
The Devil’s Kitchen claims the pits
in every fiendish gourmet guide —
a home from home — the décor fits
the foulest menu ever tried.
The rising smells hang thick and rank —
decay and bone — that clinging air
unwholesome cooking — sickly-dank
to taint pure palates with despair.
Wave-flattened boulders ranged like seats —
what diners come as dark draws in
to savour rotting, unnamed meats —
chow down on gristle, suck on skin?
The shadows gather up their guests
as hunger drives them through the gloom
where daemons puff their napkined chests —
throw orders at the waiting moon.
Such appetites are sated by
obscene soufflés of slime and mud
consumed beneath a storm-whipped sky
that drizzles cold rare-vintage blood.
MEAL FOR TWO
The velvet night for cover
he smelled her skin, her hair
then lost himself forever
with neither thought nor care.
He drowned inside her kisses
drank her down like wine
her sighs defining bliss is
an agony divine.
She moaned and gladly welcomed
each furious caress
abandoned inhibitions —
blazé with nakedness.
He poured such frenzied passion —
unleashed it in a flood —
she writhed and bid him drain her —
all ecstasy and blood.
They fed on love together —
consumed with breathless hearts
each bite another promise
’til deathless life do part.
But dawn’s pale coat surprised them
caught unawares their lust
and covered them for pity —
dark hunger turned to dust.
INCUBUS
There is no fight —
the night has won —
the victim sleeps unknowing as a lamb
with limbs flung wide
her throat exposed
the nightmare shadows champing at her side.
A demon shifts
his awkwardness
and presses his foul weight down on her breast
his talons rip
the cloth of dreams
to penetrate imagination’s flesh.
She writhes and moans
but does not wake
while evil settles, hungry to invade
like all his kind
who violate
the deepest, darkest corners of the mind.
He plants his seed
he leaves behind
a sense of terror that she cannot name...
Dreams will haunt her
dread will stalk her
a voice suggests all nights will end the same...
The candle burns
the hour comes
her eyelids close — she fails to stay awake.
Despite her hate
she welcomes him —
insanity accepts him as a mate.
MANDRAKE
The thunder roared, the lightning struck
a tall and lonely tree —
it seared the trunk and lit a corpse
that hung there, spectrally.
The man who swung in that queer light
dripped blood upon the ground —
the stain so dark had killed the grass
no other leaves grew round.
Along a track, a couple came —
the maid, her face afire
the youth, whose hand she clasped in hers
in thrall to her desire.
The maid, she fell upon her knees
uttered some strange name
and scrabbled at the blood-rich earth
like one who was insane.
The clods of earth flew as she dug
intent upon her toil
clawing through the steaming trench
that thickly came to boil.
At last she pulled from that foul stew
a poisonous, rare shoot —
a mystic plant that screamed in pain —
the fabled mandrake root
that only grows, so legend tells
where hanged men spill their seed
and evil brews its magick ways
to fashion dragon weed.
Was she a witch? Was she a ghoul
to feast on such a find?
She gobbled like some rabid dog —
as though she’d lost her mind.
And all the while, the youth stood fixed
his gaze a vacant stare
his pallor like the moon’s white face
he seemed quite unaware
of how she danced, her eyes like lamps
that glowed a sickly green
nor did he feel her press some root
his parted lips between...
The transformation, in a flash
of blinding light and smoke
rocked the hill — the hanged man fell
as did the towering oak.
The Devil vanished, with his mate
as howling filled the sky
above that cursed and blackened hill
he winked a bloodshot eye.
And since that night, no living soul
can bear to linger long
for superstition sparks more fear
and broods a sense of wrong.
The narrow track is overgrown
as wiser feet won’t tread
a path where swelling mandrakes drink
the waters of the dead.
The oak has rotted to a stump
while sun has bleached old bones
and swinging shadows flicker, slide
among the weathered stones.
Each twilight finds its purple hush
hangs heavy — taints the breeze —
a shudder runs the hill’s dark length
and registers unease...
The mandrake flowers, spreads strong roots
the legend infiltrates —
more potent with the passing years
it bides its time and waits...
BATTLING THE DEMON
Born of molten rock and blood-red flame,
The Balrog through the choking tunnels poured
Its flood of evil — monstrous by name,
And fearsome-natured, thunderously it roared
Advancing on them, towering, its maw
A furnace puffing clouds of scorching breath,
And with each gnashing fang and ghastly claw,
Promised a most cruel, unholy death.
Eyes blazing as it tossed its hornéd head,
And lashing with a whip that streaked pure fire,
It raged and postured, filling them with dread —
Their peril great — their situation dire.
Onto the bridge it came — the stonework shook
And shuddered underneath the Balrog’s weight,
The wizard stood his ground and dared to look
Upon the Dark Lord’s emissary of hate.
He smote the stone — the Wizard’s voice rang clear,
Challenging the demon — held it back
With Magick, and the narrow bridge so sheer
Felt his power and began to crack...
The ancient arch was broken, and the might
Of Balrog seemed defeated as he fell,
Tumbled into darkness — endless night —
The hollow mountain’s deep and freezing well.
But as he dropped, he’d one last trick to play
And flicked his whip around his mortal foe,
So toppled him, and evened up the fray —
Thus each was cast into the depths below...
His eight companions feared he must be dead
Though wizards claim they’ve more lives than a cat —
And somewhere on the dangerous road ahead
He’d find them — and so prove it for a fact.
GARGOYLES
High up above the city
on the old cathedral roof
we watch over the living
ready nail and tooth
to fight whatever demons
might desecrate or foul
the stones that need protecting
with gruesome leer and scowl.
The artisans who carved us
believed our staring eyes
would spot the Devil coming
riding through the skies
so covered every corner
every point of view
with faces from their nightmares
a wild and monstrous zoo.
So here we squat forever
resisting midnight’s storm
thwarting evil spirits
from city dusk ’til dawn
some think us ornamental
our fish lips spouting rain
they call us quaint or ugly
no one mentions pain.
CRYPT
I hear the door creak softly
feel the sun dip low
sense them shuffle closer
footsteps dragging slow
their sighs mingle above me
shuddering and sad
awkward whispers echo
rising fear smells bad
they shouldn’t come to visit
when their dread’s so clear
wishing they were someplace
anywhere but here
it’s no place for the living
comfortless this room
air grown thick unmoving
in a dust-trap tomb
dull duty pulls them down here
clutching at their grief
lingering uncertain
’til with some relief
I’m back in soothing darkness
thankful to the bone
they’re gone oh someone tell them
to leave the dead alone
ORACLE
I take my troubles to the sea
we sit and suck on stones
read portents in each seventh wave
uncurl small knots of foam
pile up driftwood, add a flame
and warm our sorrows through
wait for answers on the wind
and dream some lies are true.
The sunset dance of fire and air
grows edges in the smoke
the salty incense hangs in veils
the tide-fresh converts soak
and something speaks — a thin sea-voice
strange bubble-words that sift
ring their knowledge round the moon
impart a fabled gift.
I comb the starlit sands along
where patterns beckon me —
white bones of fish are scattered wide
lie glowing spectrally
while fathoms deep the great whale sleeps
allows his wisdom rise
pebbles roll their spotless dice
the scales fall from my eyes.
GIANTS
Slumbering, hammocked high in beanpole trees
where full moon finds their thinned-out shapes
light silver-streaks splaying limbs —
dangled arms, legs, lolling heads
held in suspension
rapt in cool night air.
Branches creak
chilled bones crack softly
darkness muffles groans and the odd snore
drifting earthwards...
Roofs far below oblivious —
nobody curious
and peering up to marvel at the size
or human-ness of shadows —
there are no sleeping giants —
those monster silhouettes
are surely clouds blowing past the stars...
the moon is dreaming.
MOONEYES
The sky is clear, the waxing moon
shines full upon the mountain’s peak
and gives each ridge a silvered bloom
that shimmers coldly, rising bleak
above the pines where shadows flit
a creature stares into the night
his yellow eyes like lanterns lit
reflecting eerie, restless light.
Silence hangs, invisible
as nervous breath caught in a throat —
the spell that holds the land in thrall
will shatter with one loathsome note —
so listen, every ear cocked sharp
for the first sound — the low-pitched growl
rumbling through the purple dark
and rising to a piercing howl.
Four-footed Death, moon-eyed and grim
from out the forest’s fringes deep
comes loping, single-minded, thin
with longing for some hapless sheep
his need on fire, his soul hell-bent
incited by the lunar glow
the werewolf tracks a fresh-laid scent —
small human footsteps in the snow.
THE HAUNTING
I shut my eyes, but still I feel your focus,
your telling look that sees the world as thin,
hollowed-out, turned brittle at the edges
where sadness haunts, vignettes the space you’re in.
Small shadows spread — lay claim to slender temples,
while darker lashes arc beneath pale bone,
your hair a fallen forest that remembers
a warmer light that fell on you alone.
You sing your silent song, I strain to listen
and search your face for any clue to why
your loveliness is tinged with such delusion —
the echo frozen, weary as a sigh.
THE INITIATE
Against a shadowed bank of flesh,
the fish-eyed bubble clings,
safe beside the pulsing wall
through which a blood-voice sings
its soothing repertoire of beats,
subliminal and slow,
inherent with race memories,
imprinted undertow
of tribal rhythms echoing
around the fluid dark,
throbbing their mythology -
the finger-touching spark
that fired imagination's clay,
released a dynasty
mapped in multiplying cells -
the bubble breaking free.
THE LANDSCAPE OF A CLOUDED MIND
Out of the dawn my need created her
cool as a goddess, fragile as a shell
pearling echoes, licked by a salt wind
her pale limbs curled in shadow
brushed alive by light.
The sea-blood in her pulsed — its ebb and flow
flickering in recognition
the tide a history of all her kind
she haunts the shoreline empty —
sleeps on pillowed rock and sand.
Her eyes their own deep ocean
brimming with the wrecks of all the years
she finds the perfect calm within the storm
and binds it to her
wraps its weathered cloak around.
Her silhouette curves gentle —
an horizon touched by cloud
where mist trails, barely touching
and the filtered sun drips down
to gild the morning’s edge.
She is both child and mother — nurturing
and needful — all subcutaneous desire
laid wide open to be read
her landscape speaks an old, old language
of sea and rock and sky.
THE MARSH KING'S DAUGHTER
Earth and water colours her so pale —
cold skintones where the moon illuminates
and silvers folds — the thinness of her robe
the feathered headdress flowing smooth as hair.
A legend watching all the shades of night
she knows the stars above the quaking marsh
and waits for omens — dreaming gods might race
in chariots that blaze across the sky.
She has no suitors — none have chanced to look
upon her bloodless beauty — face unseen
by mortals — only long-necked birds grown proud
beside her, sense her nature, cry her name.
