Horror poem— Lingering in Love
Till Death?
he lies there on the sticky asphalt,
oozing like muck
smoke in the air, the smell of fire and scorched rubber
seared meat and—
FIRE?
danger
he must get away--
he cannot stand, he tries to crawl,
he cannot feel his body
where is it?
he tries to turn, but his head is all anchor!
blink
blink
only blink
with severest effort
he is drained
empty of all will, no more no more
no more no more
but why is the road against his cheek and why does it feel so warm and sticky
and why is it red?
his roving eyes strain then falter
that’s blood, puddled under his face
his own
he is emptying of life, he feels the oxygen seeping out of his pores
no more no more
he tries to move, to cry out, even to breath, but he...
he is dying
soon he will be no more
the Smoke
the Fire
his car is on its roof, still rocking on the roadside.
demons lick the frame, he sees them hiding in the flames
his eyes focus
there he is!
right there! in the car!
still buckled tight behind the wheel, but where is his head?
He blinks, the flickering light makes it so hard to think
why is his body over there with that ragged messy neck? Why isn’t it over here with him?
then he sees her.
walking down the darker road
her footsteps are blades through tall stands of wheat
her eyes are sunken pits and she grins
and he knows her name is Death
and that she has come to claim him
his body is crackling now like grease in the coals
she kneels down beside his head, beside what's left of him,
and looks into his soul
he tries to beg a quick end
but his voice is empty,
all he can do is smack his lips
pop-p-pop
She stares at him and then leans down and whispers in his bloody ear:
It’s my job to scoop you out and let your body rot.
But now I've finally seen you I think I'd rather not
It's my job now to help you die and feed the earth your bones.
But no! I'm decided to keep you, for I can no longer bear to be alone.
and she showered him with adoration and the praise of gaping, empty eyes
and his body burned away to ash, but his head was not allowed to die
by day the sun baked his face into the macadam,
by night her cuddles were achingly cold....
and all he could do was blink in despair
and beg this solemn prayer:
pop-p-pop
About the Creator
Sam Desir-Spinelli
I consider myself a "christian absurdist" and an anticapitalist-- also I'm part of a mixed race family.
I'll be writing: non fiction about what all that means.
I'll also be writing: fictional absurdism with a dose of horror.
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A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli6 days ago in Poets
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