Dark Poetry
To read other short stories,
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The Attic
Matthew Wilson

I do not like ghosts.
When I sleep they call.
Through the walls. They know my name.
Asking for help in fathers voice.

I will not be taken in.
Father walked out long ago.
After the last time he hit mom.
I hated him for giving her bruises.

But now he is gone. Only ghosts remain.
Mother says I must never go to the attic.
My Christmas presents are there.
So why does something howl, rattle their chains?

I wish ghosts would not talk to me at night.
Or ask to be let out.
I wish I had the courage to go to the attic.
But I do not like ghosts.    
Methods Of Madness        
               
Matthew Wilson

Frank liked to shoot them all
and Jim used a boning knife,
to settle their bet they stood by the road
and waited for the girl to lose her life.

Mary was a sweet thing, problems
with dad made her run away,
she offered them drinks as well
as a ride in the hottest part of day.

She took a right, and the men
saw on the road they were alone,
Frank pulled his gun and Jim
his blade to slice her bone.

Mary hit the gas and then the cliff,
she screamed as she went through the glass,
the car exploded as she crawled away
watching mess of men melt grass.

All day she had driven round, looking
for men like dad,
in two minds to kill or stab them, when
finding their charred weapons, Mary was glad.

Choices, choices, which
one would it be?
She waved when the car pulled up and
wept, "Won't you help me?"
A Moment of Psychopathy
                      By A.J. Huffman

      descends, two worlds turn red:

Eyes lose focus,                         Eyes close, remain
memory and time                        still. The memory
stop. Hands hold                        of final moment burns
the stains of guilt.                       into retinas. Violence
Nothing can erase                      is taken to grave, closed
the feeling that lingers.               inside casket. The only
The tangible excitement              link holding pieces together.
echoes, begs for repetition.        Carnage with a cause.
Poetry by A.J. Huffman, Matthew Wilson and
Mathias Jansson
The Childrens Room
               Matthew Wilson

There are strange noises in this house.
I have been here a while.
In peace.
Now there is laughter in the garden.

I came to find my plates broken.
My bed slept in.
Someone has eaten all the food.
Tidied so I lose things.

My drawing books have been coloured.
Some kill joy finished my jigsaws.
I have been at them years now.
Entertainment since I cannot leave the house.

Now I do not have these simple pleasures.
The new tenants have replaced my wall paper.
I think there are humans here.        
Once, mother said I must make friends.

But I do not like the new children in this house.
About Matthew Wilson

Matthew Wilson, 30, is a UK
resident who has been
writing since small. Recently
these stories have appeared
in Horror Zine, Starline Poets
Association and Sorcerers
Signal. He is currently editing
his first novel and can be
contacted on twitter
@matthew94544267.
Sociopathically Stable
              By A.J. Huffman

The glass swirls black. Visual viciousness
vies for swallow. Swelling with pleasure(?),
you hold the chalice to the moon. Disemboweled
rainbows whisper from subconscious depths.
Miasmic prophets of indistinctive relief.
Is the word of the day bottoms or up? Neither
seems contextually accurate. As your mind
wanders to a different plane where pain goes
to pearl -- that is a lethargic subtext
for your dream. But can you get there
on a one-sided kiss? Are such nonsensical attempts
at functionality even relevant? When your lips
are already stained with poison . . .

. . . Is there really any reason not to drink?
About A.J. Huffman
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.
She has previously published six collections of poetry all available
on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous
national and international literary journals. She is the editor for six
online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press.
The Roller Coaster of Horror
By Mathias Jansson

I ran – the dusk was falling fast
the funfair was soon to be closed
I saw them starting to lock the gates
I squeezed myself between the guards
I rushed to caught the last train
Jumped in the last empty seat
Before the roller coaster rolled away
Up, up it climbed into the sky
What a speed, what a thrill
But before the last tunnel
My glasses fell on the floor
I had to reach down
And above my head
I could hear the speed
Like a whining blade
And felt the warm water
From the attraction
Splashing me wet
When we rolled out into the light
I saw, what a horrible sight
Blood everywhere on the seat
Every head in the coach cut off
The man at the funfair
Starred and pointed at me
And started wild to scream:
-Glen we have a survivor
Bring me the axe
So we can switch the wagon
To the meat grinder track
About Mathias
Jansson

Mathias Jansson is a
Swedish art critic and
poet. He has been
published in
magazines as The
Horror Zine Magazine,
Dark Eclipse, Schlock,
The Sirens Call and
The Poetry Box. He
has also contributed
to several anthologies
from Horrified Press
and James Ward Kirk
Fiction as Suffer
Eternal anthology
Volume 1-3, Hell
Whore Anthology
Volume 1-3, Barnyard
Horror and Serial
Killers Tres Tria
For Poems by A.J.
Huffman, Matthew Wilson
and Mathias Jansson,
click here

For Poems by Alexis Child
and Christopher Hivner,
click here

For Poems by Jennifer
Ruth Jackson and John
Grey,
click here