Dark Poetry
Poetry by Robert Beveridge, Alexis Child and Isabelle Marlene
The Butterfly
By Robert Beveridge

You’ve crawled
a thousand times
around the confines
of your cell
you look for that door
that you remember
being thrown through
but all you feel
is rubber, rubber

lie down and think
well maybe
they can’t get you
in here

but they got you in here
last night
or a thousand nights ago

so you start
your endless circling
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge makes noise
(xterminal.bandcamp.com) and
writes poetry just outside Cleveland,
OH. Recent/upcoming appearances
in CircleShow, The Literateur, and
Vanilla Sex, among others.
About Alexis Child

Alexis Child hails from Toronto,
Canada; horror in its purest
form: a calculated crime both
against the aspirations of the
soul and affections of the heart.
She worked at a Call Crisis
Centre befriending demons of
the mind that roam freely
amongst her writings. She lived
with a Calico-cat child sleuthing
all that went bump in the night
and is haunted by the memory
of  her cat. Her fiction has been
featured in The House of Pain,
Lost Souls, Screams of Terror,
Sinistercity, SpecFicWorld.com,
The Fields of the Nephilim
Official Site, and U.K.'s Dark Of
Night Magazine. Her poetry has
been featured in numerous
online and print publications,
including Aphelion, Black
Petals, Blood Moon Rising,
Estronomicon eZine, Death
Head Grin, Midnight Lullabies
Anthology, Sein und Werden,
The Horror Zine, and elsewhere.  
Alexis Child’s first collectionof
poetry , ‘Devil in the Clock’ is
now available for purchase and
more details can be found on
her poetry website:

Visit Alexis Child’s Website:
  By Isabelle Marlene Serna

cold hard
close your eyes
you see dark

easy isnt it
sleepless somber
ghostly presence
you walk around

cheat death
you cant
reaper comes for you
I dont know when
I know it will

cold hard
close your eyes
you see dark

what why when where how
[save me]—I cant
[hurry theyre coming]—I cant
[pray for me]—I cant

crawl on your knees
Hell’s bars
walk on your feet
Heaven’s gates
are you worth saving

cold hard
close your eyes
you see dark
Curse of the Death Spirit
                 By Alexis Child

Here comes the angels
to put you to bed
Here comes the axeman
to chop off your head
Here at night
When you're all alone
We are coming to your home
The funeral will be held soon

This is just a clue:
An unmarked grave just for you!

I enter your dreams while you are sleeping
and steal the secrets that you are keeping
I bend your mind to my will, use it
against you and as you are weakening,
move in for the kill!

You brought yourself here
Now you only know
A paroxysm of fear...

You will run for your life
Did you ever see such a knife?

There is a house
Just down the street
Where the children don't
Trick or treat
They say it's haunted
Some say it's cursed
But what happened there
Isn't the worst
No one enters
Except on a dare
Rambunctious teenagers
Out for a scare
No precognition
That their drunken lust
Will be transformed from
Romance to disgust
They say it's haunted
Some say it's cursed
But what happens here
Is far much more worse
They say it's haunted
And some say it's cursed
But what happens here
Is much more worse

Naked young girls
Are dissected like frogs
Pickled in semen
Slaughtered like hogs
Their skin a canvas
Their suffering an art
Their pain his pleasure
A sculpture of parts
They say it's haunted
Some say it's cursed
But what happened there
Is far much worse!

Waves break across the haunted shore
Chilling screams and godless laughter
Her vision moves towards the house
The grave that never held her
Blurry visions of her on the altar
Seems to spell out fear in the sky
I am tormented by the same descent
Night after night
Placed in a glass casket
I love to look at you
This is your burial night girl
Please bring on the night
She sleeps gone with the worms.

Sugar and Spice and all things nice
But not all little girls...
About Isabelle Marlene Serna
By Robert Beveridge

Two sides of beef hang
from the twin hooks
in the ceiling; after hours,
the butcher uses them
for exercise
       Last night,
in the midst of pull-ups,
his hands slipped, his own blood
on the hook, the flavor
of the meat ablaze
with new depth

Today, he cuts, hones,
sells. One customer
expresses sympathy,
but no one asks
what happened
to the butcher’s finger.
By Robert Beveridge

he knew
when the raindrop
struck his eye

that if he didn’t kill
his wife that night
he never would

it was a sign
from god

so he walked
into the grocery store
and bought a knife

at home
his wife prepared
the roast

and all was right
with the rainy world
River of Hell
By Robert Beveridge

rust rivers flow
from blachened husks
of erstwhile

roots invade
feed stunted
diseased vegetation

razor wire border
missiles flung
in endless wars

in hot nights
we sweat
for some, any climax
For poems by Robert
Beveridge, Alexis Child and
Isabelle Marlene Serna,  

For poems by Paul Tristram

click here