Dark Poetry
Devil in the Clock
By Alexis Child

In air thick with monstrous sin
He spits on divinity
The devil stirs beside him
With a mad thirst
To harness destruction
Bathing in dust
The destroying worm
Swallows existence

The souls of shadows pass
Cold as Satan's womb
The moon gives up its breath
A final farewell to an eternity
Of endless nights without stars
The spiritually impaled man
Heir to death's throne
Into the fires of hell's disgrace
Keeper of the world's tomorrows
Blade of Desecration
By Alexis Child

Emerging from his blackout, he shudders to think how
low he has sunk, vicious like an animal from the start,
through a course of wrong and sin. He envisions hovering
above his own funeral, to understand how it came to this:
too dead to die, too numb to feel remorse's scorpion sting.
Secrets and shadows curl about his eyes like snakes in
desert caves coiling through the dark. The blood bell
chimes, birthing the future in lurid colors of carnage.

Cut-throat thoughts, villainous dreams, romance death of
darkest red. To accomplish murder most intimate, sacred
symbols are engraved into the blade's inner edge, and carved
into victims flesh -- an act of pagan worship; blood of innocents
spilled, angry gods appeased. Carrying on the legacy in songs
of steel, he grows more proficient and bold, careless in the kill.
Trail of bones at an end, before the bloody gods he bows, a
tumultuous storm lashes the seething sky, lightning's skeletal
fingers rise triumphant, bidding him farewell.
Eyes of the World
By Alexis Child

Coal-black eyes burn like an inner volcano
as they come alive. From their crumbling
depths are the murky waters of madness,caught in a relentless tide. An
echoing voice
of unpleasantness lingers in the air, laced with
tragedy, and all things the gods despise.

Dark orbs open to immortal worlds, holding the
grief of ages; entire civilizations that fell and rose
again, the misery of mortality, bloody battlefields,
charnel houses, the wrath of forgotten deities,
secrets unlocked, collapsing stars, visions of a
dying world -- all live within those eyes, urns
that contain the ashes of innumerable woes.
Cobwebs of a Century
By Alexis Child

At the crossroads of twilight, the city is coffined
beneath the weight of blood and bone. Stolen
joys where no rest reposes, burrow in stale
boudoirs. Weeping faces like drowned funerary
bells excavate wild fears waiting for all.

Stone-carved dreams rise like tall ghosts wearing
tatters drinking life like death. Bat-wings of boredom
thrust us on as if the devil sputters in our chamber,
orgiastic with greed. Candles fade to black like long
sobs, charged with goodbyes in communion with a
fading god burdened by giant wings.
by Matt Rawson

I need to be away to bed, I work too late, the morn I dread.
Good night to you, I say, it's late, but early to, and hazy is my head.
I pray fair dreams will fill the seams and pelt me soft as autumn rain
Oh, Mare of Night please stay your fight to strangle like a length of chain.
Firstly, as I drift away, I hold the wailing ghosts at bay, but leaving far behind
Apollo’s light to walk a vast and rolling blight that's rendered me half-blind.
As I march in twilight’s grasp, my voice becomes a brittle rasp, talking in my sleep
To those awake to try and help me break this spell that calls me toward the deep.
Alas, I fail, and now endure the wail of spirits destitute and pale, speaking of attrition
In my ear, they make me heed my devil’s deed and guide me toward Perdition.    
But out among the darkened waste, I see a bold and dower face and I know its name.
“Oh poet Poe, my mind at ease,” I say, “You are the breeze that feeds my candle’s flame!”
On we go together, through the bleak and violent weather, saying not a word between,
Save the subject of just how much I could trust him and the horrors that he’d seen.
We pass cyclopean cairns of bone and sinners moan where all frontiersmen fear to reach,
The wooded land of those who died by their own hand, now ashen oak and beech.   
Abandon all my hope and enter, know no comfort of the venter. Oh, I spy and fear
The river’s deathly wave, and as the knave I bow my head toward the boatman’s pier.
From my life and humble gold, now reduced, just two I hold and hand to withered claw
They pass and I walk aboard. Like Arthur’s sword, Charon’s oar is plunged into the maw
Of dark and brackish Styx. Mine straining eyes transfix upon the distant foreign shore.
“Shall we return?” I ask my guide, my squire, and so staid and dire, quoth him,
Beggar's Curse
By Alexis Child

He managed to sneak in somehow through
the restaurant door. The resident filthy beggar,
I assumed: a gaunt, ragged scarecrow of a man,
tattered clothes hanging loose as the skin on his
face. He smelled of old sweat, booze and broken
dreams. Coughing and spitting, his mouth was
coated in a black substance as if he'd swallowed
tar or something alive that wanted out.

Dirty hands a tangled mess of bones and veins
desperately reached out as if controlled by one
thought: to keep himself alive. The beggar leaned
over to spit in my spaghetti, knowing I'd lose my
appetite and give him my food. But that wasn't
what he was after. There was something he wanted
me to have: a taste of fear. Venom dripped from
his cruel eyes, darkening in anger.

Deathly wounded, they had seen too much and
wanted me to see the truth in myself. His eyes
searched for my soul, burning into me, searing
my flesh, scraping against my heart. Bolting for
the door, I ran as much from him as from myself.
Those evil eyes would follow me into darkness
until the sacrifice was understood: he would
soothe my hidden scars by offering his own.
Poetry by Alexis Child and Matt Rawson
For poetry by Alexis Child
and Matt Rawson,

For poetry by Amit and
Christopher Hiver,

For poetry by Lawrence
Buentello and Emily
click here