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By Justin Tate
There goes that irritating ghost again!
Always haunting just as I go to bed.
She whoops! She wails! And speaks of killing men,
Her lungs quite powerful for being dead.
“CUT! CUT! CUT! CUT OFF THEIR BALLS!” comes her shriek,
“ALL MEN MUST BE TORMENTED LIKE I WAS!”
“Oh, hush it.” I say, “That tune is antique,
And is your hate even backed with good cause?”
“VICIOUS VILLAIN!” screams the enraged spirit,
“HOW COULD YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN ME SO QUICK?
YOU LOVED ME IN PARIS, YOU MUST ADMIT,
NOW COME HERE SO I CAN CUT OFF YOUR DICK!”
Who knew they can vex worse in afterlife?
I guess there’s just no way to kill a wife. . .
By Justin Tate
To what hath come over my cozy bed?
Most morns I stretch, but then return to sleep,
Yet now each movement makes me hit my head
And deep darkness causes my eyes to weep.
Enclosed with the smell of foul, moldy earth;
The ease of breath now becoming chagrin,
I realize this bed (which lacks needed girth)
Is the worst chamber – a buried coffin.
Through frantic calm I recall getting here.
My absence surely friends would discover,
Any moment a rescue would appear!
Unless they too slept from a hangover. . .
O woe to loathsome drink and foolish dare
Which trapped me in Reaper’s most heinous snare!
By Justin Tate
The perfect pumpkin from the perfect patch
I select to carve on Halloween night.
Vibrant orange with stem haply attach’d
I saw an opening in sheer delight.
But from that hole emerged a wondrous cat,
Orange, too, and covered in pumpkin gut.
Wild and arched the feline poised to attack,
And as I sat marveled, my face it cut.
The scratch ran deep, from my eyebrow to chin,
And from it oozed a greenish, putrid muck
That burned and hurt worse than Judas’ sin;
I fear strained breath reveals I’m out of luck.
But I won’t complain like the bourgeoisie,
Death tonight means returning a zombie.
Perilous Cycle Unending
by S.C. Denton
The wolf she prowls
an endless night;
furless and pale
her skin meets light.
the sun soon risen;
dusky assaults on
In fields of
naked and alone,
she shivers uncovered
all the way home.
At times she knows
not from whence
she has passed;
the void has grown;
the blankness vast.
Complete sheets of
she must remain hidden.
A wanderer she is,
the night feeds her lust,
unlike the others
she'll not go to dust.
a penetrating wrong,
by the thousand,
every night a throng.
Her greatest fear approaches,
her own daughter
cyclic in nature
it demands no rest;
her offspring's doomed,
still she hopes for the best.
on that very night;
be it a speck ,
or a bloody delight?
Her monthly has come,
thank God she's no beast,
Constance cared not
to induct her to the feast.
A new family to love her,
it's what must be done,
for she's still a child,
they'll be pleased she's come.
The time has come,
must finish this now,
the silver is shiny,
it went KERPLOW!
They found Constance's body,
naked and cold,
amazed and at wonder,
how terribly old.
A new moon on the horizon,
beaming through the blind,
seized by the night mind.
Shattering the window,
truly an occasion,
mother knew not best.
Poems: Dare, Pumpkin, The Nag, Perilous Cycle