There was a box
And out there popped
A man
Named JACK
Ack!
As he stabs You
In the Back
A clown
As painted, his face
Lips so read
You, wonder "how it tastes"
Possibly, a rare red steak
Fork absorbed, it is all
It takes
Crack the wishbone
Call out thy fate!
Then it was the chance of the other dinner plates...
Spin! Spin!
Whistle, the tea pot on the kettle
Black, now red is the meddle
Loud is the harlots cry
And special
Red streets red for more
What is two ? It is before three
But is three, at least
Any way, you can see it
To be it ?
Once you deplete it,
On a nail to the door
Blood!
It spills, forever more
A sword, they died, there all
Never thought to cross the maze
No, not I to see
Yet, what is it to bleed?
To need?
To express, a Will?
And push to beat,
Of a time-space spell
By the heart are you knelled
That woman is yours!
For her, you got down on all fours
After hidden worlds explored
Who needed God?
Splendor was when SHE was on all fours
Be a cock-hold, own the stores
The bill is what is yours
With-out an eye to see the angles
It all hangs, tick tick
About the Creator
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More stories from Marcus Romano and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
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