Dark Poetry
Poetry by Brandon Jackson and Tony-Paul De Vissage
After The Armageddon
 By Tony-Paul De Vissage

Where there were Works
Now there is no toil
No hands upon the plow
No marks, no feeling
In the empty soil;
The searing, the torment is forgotten
And the green returns
To the red land that bore it
Like a lost child come home.

Men did this; the land, their heir, is Survivor.
And the Land shall inherit the Earth.

Once the Land gave Life,
Now Life is the Land.
There is nothing else;
All is barren.
Except the far-reaching hills
And they are silent, waiting
 for the second Travail
When a small creature creeps out of them
And the land, like the sea,
 gives Birth.
About Tony-Paul De Vissage

Tony-Paul de Vissage is a
Southerner of French Huguenot
extraction, whose first movie
memory is of viewing the old
Universal horror flick Dracula’s
Daughter on television, and being
scared sleepless. He now pays
back his very permissive parents
by writing about vampires.
Spider Queen
By Brandon Jackson

Ensnared, he sinks further and further into the web
As the venom seeps into his blood
The venom that came from the poisonous maw
Of the alluring spider queen
Escape he could, as he possesses the strength
But he is rather faint of heart
And every time he strains to escape her web and vicious grasp
She sinks her teeth in more and more and he relaxes once again
Docile he will lay
Until the spider queen is full
About Brandon Jackson
By Tony-Paul De Vissage

The last time I saw you,

 you were eating mulberries, your mouth
 stained red with juice.

A single drop fell from a tush

 onto your lip and you laughed and licked it away
 and reached for another.

That’s not juice, I thought, ’tis blood.

 You consumed me as you did
 those berries—until I'm nothing—and now,
 unsated, you reach for someone else.
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
By Tony-Paul De Vissage

The mist rises:

 It hangs like a tattered curtain over the meadow.
 (Why must I lie here and wait for darkness?)

I view it from the grass.

The mist creeps:

 It crawls over the flowers, curling and climbing above the trees.
 It is cold; it is chilling; it has no feeling.
 (Neither did she, who brought me to this
  place with her sharp kisses and promises of dark Eternity.)

I shiver in the grass.

The mist disappears:
 It dances into nothingness under the warming fingers of
 the sun, dwindles into a wisp of gray and is gone.
 (A prisoner, I wait—for the moon and its coldness
 to free me so she and I may touch again.)

I lay cold in the grass.
Iago’s Defense Of His Actions Toward Othello
                                         By Tony-Paul De Vissage

I never  tho’t  ‘twould  end that way.

God’s truth, I believed he would denounce her,        
 leave this place in high dudgeon, and turn
 to a friend who offered comfort.

All believ’d  ‘twas  his colour I despised; none knew

 my true motive—I kept it as tight-secured
 as my passion.

‘Twas hatred, deep and secret, aye
 —but only for her—
 my desire for him was shielded in villainy.

His own love I mis-took; he lost it and
 his life, while I must voiceless mourn, grief
 eating my vitals like an angry worm.

Why could I not say those words so tightly secured
 within my heart:
 “Moor, I do love thee.”
Dark Mistress
By Tony-Paul De Vissage

After a long, dark waiting, she appeared
 on a night windswept and chill,        
 making the old Earth cry blood-red tears.
Burning ice-cold with flesh long denied Life’s warmth,
 she sought to replace her lack with my own weak pulse,
 while holding my heart—night-bought and conquered—
 in one pale hand.
I sought my damnation in the darkness,
 and would have won it,
 but for the blood of the Old Races burning in her veins.
When it called to her, she didn’t resist,
 forsaking the puny Mortal who desired her
 to return to the Mountains that birthed her Kind.
And now,
 When the wind moans soft while the clouds obscure the moon
 and through my open window
 I hear a soft wing’s-rustle break the night air,
I sit and hope and wait.
She doesn’t return.
And I cry alone beneath the waning moon.
And I cry alone beneath the cruel moon.
By Tony-Paul de Vissage

I sing a song of Paradise
Of heavenly founts and timeless years.
I sing a song of human life
Of blood and death and hopes and fears.

Of all the million little lives
Who’ve loved and laughed and hoped and died.
Of all to come, a million more,
Who’ll love and hope like those before.

Come, sing and dance, then—laugh!—while you can.
Life’s reward, Death, waits for every man.
Death’s reward, Heaven, will follow sure.
But will Death’s sting, Heaven’s celestial balm cure?

We think we shall hear evermore the lilacs
Growing beyond the door.
How soon, we hear, forevermore, the ivy
Creeping o’er our tomb’s vault door?
For poems by
Christopher Goff, Sara
McNallen and Kendra
click here

For poems by Brandon
Jackson and
Tony-Paul De Vissage,
click here

For poems by
Christopher Hivner and
Ralph Monday,