Gothic Fish
GOTHIC FISH
My lady swims in darkness
her skin a web of stars
the weedy lake her chamber
bullrushes 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.
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.
My lady swims in darkness
her skin a web of stars
the weedy lake her chamber
bullrushes 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.
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.
