Black Sea of Trees, beneath Mount Fuji

In this forest of demons

The guide, on endless suicide watch,

Seeks out corpses

Could be a heart attack; could be a fall.

Hears in his ear a silent voice:

“Might be murder.”

The cry of hopeless drowning souls

As telling as an empty box

Or echoing room

Near that most benign of sites:

Could be a heart attack; could be a fall

Suicide, maybe.

Might be murder.

All is Still

There’s a shadow as I rush down the stair –

Is anybody there?

I stumble and tumble

reaching the hall

nearly fall

yet all is still.

There’s a creak as I cross the floor.

Flinging open the door

I shiver and shake,

look left and right

preparing for flight

yet all is still

There’s a whisper floating on air

encircling my chair.

I gasp and gulp,

glance to and fro

seeing eyes aglow

yet all is still.

There’s a tap on the window pane

Can it get in?

I freeze stock still.

The moon creeps out

I holler and shout

yet all is still.

Now here is the question -

Is this all suggestion –

Should I get a grip?

A darkness descends

The overture ends

And all is still.

Shrouded in white, this time stopped night.
Beauty clear
as the frost chilled air.
Up the stairs, slowly rose in serenity and calm repose,
Into the room that drew her near,
Like a lover’s arms
she felt no fear.
No tentative hands on the brass bound lock as opened up
The wood worn box.
And from its’ mouth
spilled such delights,
to obliterate
the blinding white.
A gown of jet and satin ribbon with tiered lace
to match the rythmn,
of the blood rush
that had started.
And with feather set veil,
all purity departed.
A face new flushed,
a crimson hue,
eyes like emeralds shining true.
Flooded veins.
Such dark desire.
Passions rising higher and higher!
A vision of blackness come to life,
And with a crack of a mirror,
A soul took flight.

Side by side,

The sisters preen.

Eyes locked in,

At daggers drawn,

They face the glass

At war,

Competing for a single love.

Love lies.

He told each one

He loved just her.

Their love lied.

Looking daggers,

The sisters glare

But neither falters

At the other’s gaze.

A clash of anger,

A concentration of malevolence

Breaks the mirror

Projects a million shards

To all points of the compass

Two hearts are pierced

In retribution

For their stolen kisses.

Jealousy reigns triumphant,

For who was the fairest?

For love lies

And love lies bleeding.

Dying.

A Song of the All Hallows Moon

When midnight’s mother waxes, drips silver on the stones,

Then shapes in darkness gather, form flesh upon the bones.

With cerements wrapped round them and shrouded every head,

They stalk the streets of London: an army of the dead.

And if you chance to meet them, oh, do not stay to look

But flee their very presence with your candle, bell and book;

For they will not kiss you softly, or stroke your flowing hair,

But seek to slash your heart out and leave you oozing there:

A mess of shredded carrion, a thing without a life.

What will they use to tear you? Teeth sharper than a knife!

So, children, harken to me: when moonlight’s silver falls,

Draw closer to your father and stay within four walls.

The night outside is shifting, it bodes for you no good,

And if you wander all alone, in winter coat and hood,

You’ll soon be chased and captured, you’ll soon be rent and ripped

By slimy, scaly creatures that crawl from out the crypt.

Their hearts are set on murder, their fingers long to slide

Around your throat so slender; ‘tis impossible to hide.

Wherever you go walking, whatever way you try,

Those ghouls will track and find you, on earth or sea or sky,

So listen, heed my warning, pray listen well to me.

Be ready: midnight’s mother roams wild and pale and free.

The dripping of her silver is stirring those below

For you, my little darling, if you’ve ne’er a place to go.

 They roam the streets in rowdy gangs

With cleated boots and sharpened fangs;

Baseball caps turned back to front,

The more to see, the better to hunt.

Brushing sleeves with the urban crowd,

They shout profanities aloud.

Gusting in on a foetid gale,

Their hearts are black, their faces pale.

Like demon children out to play,

They strut their stuff in a kick-ass way.

That one looks as strong as a horse.

But we’re safe in here. Unless, of course…..