Dark Poetry Two
- Thread starter Mariner5656
- Start date
Mariner5656
Mannikin
In cold October rain I go again
down grey neglected streets my father knew,
past blackened walls and rows of silent houses
where years have watched their sullen scars accrue.
The chilling autumn rain sweeps steadily
as if it fell forever out of Time.
I walk unseen till I become a wraith,
a witless marionette, in some dim pantomime.
No one stands at the vanished door I seek,
no one waits in the light to lead me home again.
The silent houses mock me with their ruin
as if they mocked ghosts as well as men.
Joseph Payne Brennan
In cold October rain I go again
down grey neglected streets my father knew,
past blackened walls and rows of silent houses
where years have watched their sullen scars accrue.
The chilling autumn rain sweeps steadily
as if it fell forever out of Time.
I walk unseen till I become a wraith,
a witless marionette, in some dim pantomime.
No one stands at the vanished door I seek,
no one waits in the light to lead me home again.
The silent houses mock me with their ruin
as if they mocked ghosts as well as men.
Joseph Payne Brennan
down grey neglected streets my father knew,
past blackened walls and rows of silent houses
where years have watched their sullen scars accrue.
The chilling autumn rain sweeps steadily
as if it fell forever out of Time.
I walk unseen till I become a wraith,
a witless marionette, in some dim pantomime.
No one stands at the vanished door I seek,
no one waits in the light to lead me home again.
The silent houses mock me with their ruin
as if they mocked ghosts as well as men.
Joseph Payne Brennan
In cold October rain I go again
down grey neglected streets my father knew,
past blackened walls and rows of silent houses
where years have watched their sullen scars accrue.
The chilling autumn rain sweeps steadily
as if it fell forever out of Time.
I walk unseen till I become a wraith,
a witless marionette, in some dim pantomime.
No one stands at the vanished door I seek,
no one waits in the light to lead me home again.
The silent houses mock me with their ruin
as if they mocked ghosts as well as men.
Joseph Payne Brennan
Mariner5656
Mannikin
Click
It isn’t till the syllables
of your name grow pale,
and your club foot finally breaks,
that the one true insanity
of your onomatopoeia sounds.
your footstep. One click.
One single sound ringing
in the brains of all who
loved you,
hated you,
or merely knew you.
Click.
Click.
Click
John Thomas Allen
It isn’t till the syllables
of your name grow pale,
and your club foot finally breaks,
that the one true insanity
of your onomatopoeia sounds.
your footstep. One click.
One single sound ringing
in the brains of all who
loved you,
hated you,
or merely knew you.
Click.
Click.
Click
John Thomas Allen
Word Beggar
Mannikin
Tibetan weather opens not faces
but braces back the harsh of light that slows
my sight within unbright Lilith traces.
To deafen distance, Comic in Black glows
a goneish grieving laugh to star faces
but braces back the harsh of light that slows
my sight within unbright Lilith traces.
To deafen distance, Comic in Black glows
a goneish grieving laugh to star faces
The Undead Indictment
by Victor Cypert
(first appeared in table//FEAST Literary Magazine, Issue 1)
The dead returned this morning,
milky eyes glazed and furious,
bloated tongues protruding
from toothless mouths,
desiccated hands empty,
and stilled hearts shriveled
—accusing without speaking.
You made peace offerings
—coffee, orange juice, and Eggs Benedict—
but they wanted none of these,
and when I said as much
you told me to hush,
the weariness in your voice
forcing my compliance.
It is evening now and the dead
are still here—in the living room,
in the kitchen,
on the patio out back,
and in our bedroom—
their awful silences pregnant
with acrimonious reproach
louder than our shared
and stifled breath.
by Victor Cypert
(first appeared in table//FEAST Literary Magazine, Issue 1)
The dead returned this morning,
milky eyes glazed and furious,
bloated tongues protruding
from toothless mouths,
desiccated hands empty,
and stilled hearts shriveled
—accusing without speaking.
You made peace offerings
—coffee, orange juice, and Eggs Benedict—
but they wanted none of these,
and when I said as much
you told me to hush,
the weariness in your voice
forcing my compliance.
It is evening now and the dead
are still here—in the living room,
in the kitchen,
on the patio out back,
and in our bedroom—
their awful silences pregnant
with acrimonious reproach
louder than our shared
and stifled breath.
cannibal cop
Grimscribe
Brennan should have a board of his own under the “Ligotti Influences” section. He was exploring the same tenebrous realms in poetry and prose decades before the Grimscribe was called forth, but his name is largely forgotten today. Perhaps a forum dedicated to his work would be one infinitesimal step towards correcting this cosmic oversight.
Mariner5656
Mannikin
Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold
for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold
for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Stevie Smith
Word Beggar
Mannikin
Thine eyes at mine hold me one moment more
Before the world obscure of throbbing swirls
Is spread before my shattered sensing core
While fire girls my ego into swirls.
A silkscreen-scream, amnesia-gleaming scene:
The passive life I crave return has aches.
You, Fräulein, overstay my thought ravine,
Yon scares the sleep across my walls and lakes.
Shall ever I wake to break the repose
That shields my soul yet keeps it cold and mute?
But who surrendered me direct what grows?
Thine eyes of children which route a dveykut.
I dread the static hidden ways of home
You made the melancholy monochrome.
Before the world obscure of throbbing swirls
Is spread before my shattered sensing core
While fire girls my ego into swirls.
A silkscreen-scream, amnesia-gleaming scene:
The passive life I crave return has aches.
You, Fräulein, overstay my thought ravine,
Yon scares the sleep across my walls and lakes.
Shall ever I wake to break the repose
That shields my soul yet keeps it cold and mute?
But who surrendered me direct what grows?
Thine eyes of children which route a dveykut.
I dread the static hidden ways of home
You made the melancholy monochrome.