13 o'clock ( dark-er poetry)

[darkerdreamer]

...And Darker Nights

behold a pale horse,
lame
and
cowering.
know the name of the end.

determined to flick flies
away with its tail before
yielding finally to its
suffering.

 

[darkerdreamer]

13'o'clock Super Heroes

Thankless and unwelcome, Sub-Man,
Hero to the empty bottle
Is born, reborn, re-reborn tonight.
Running swiftly, scaling the
Towering darkness, knowing
Everything must be done with such haste, like Popeye
Eventually the spinach (whiskey) and blinking 12:00 will
Numb, flicker, and die.

 

[wildsweetone]

Thief

In your deepest dream
I'll come to you.
Call me Mrs Bobbit.

 

[darkerdreamer]

"And all at once it became clear to me..."

open another bottle of red
because that last statement
has me reeling,
realing even.


a toast,

to you without me,
(there is no dignified way to leave.)
letxxmexxdrawxxyou
axxgiantxxfuckxyou.
xx

 

[darkerdreamer]

watch you shift and flicker
in the falter light,
your visage dances at the edge
of surreal,
you take on all new forms and lives
when the dull light combines
with a cracking spine, filled with remnants
of a teenage wasteland's worth of LSD.
you never take a useful form,
like spare batteries, to keep this
flicker going.
or like you, to keep my internal geiger counter
bleeping away.

 

[darkerdreamer]

Notice how 4am
looks so much better
from the "end of the night" point of view
than it does from the
"damn early morning" one.

I do,
whether at IHOP ordering,
or in front of this screen.

 

[RhymeFairy]

Thief

In your deepest dream
I'll come to you.
Call me Mrs Bobbit.

Beaware :

she cums in the night
without you,
in sight.

Aloof and wondering,
just who, your with
this time.

 

[darkerdreamer]

You are too well-used,
I snip at the blackened tip
seeking the untouched wick within the wax.

You are mosaic,
more spider webbed windshield than
stained glass marvel, though.

I have drained the entire contents
of my poetic reservoir, looking for a single metaphor
to capture you--

and yet I always come up with objects
charred or reflective.

 

[sellthecookie]

it was raining turpentine,
making maelstroms of the tiniest
drop, instant storm on our palms
and we sailed our paper boats
until they reached new shapes
and names of horizon,
the unreliable line from a to b
across our wrists

 

[darkerdreamer]

The Ghosts of Chestney Street

In twenty days the entire world can forget your name,
the tide can bury your bones in a matter of hours,
the good Samaritans can pick you clean in mere minutes.

I count those days on these stubborn fingers and calloused toes,
yet the total surpasses any number of digits available:
twenty days to disappear.

I would imagine a thousand years had past
with how alien the world outside the window looks,
how unfamiliar the voice on the end of the line sounds,
how foreign this skin feels:
damp papier-mâché pasted over the chicken wire frame
of the me I recognized.

 

[Eluard]

The Ghosts of Chestney Street

In twenty days the entire world can forget your name,
the tide can bury your bones in a matter of hours,
the good Samaritans can pick you clean in mere minutes.

I count those days on these stubborn fingers and calloused toes,
yet the total surpasses any number of digits available:
twenty days to disappear.

I would imagine a thousand years had past
with how alien the world outside the window looks,
how unfamiliar the voice on the end of the line sounds,
how foreign this skin feels:
damp papier-mâché pasted over the chicken wire frame
of the me I recognized.

I like this one a lot! And very good to see you back DD, if you ever went away.

 

[darkerdreamer]

I like this one a lot! And very good to see you back DD, if you ever went away.

Thanks El.


Aspen Park Lullaby

Today they test those old bomb sirens,
they release ancient rusty wails
like giant nocturnal metal sheep bleating at the moon.

I know this is only a test,
Magdalene doesn't have the same luxury
as she lived here when they waited for those sirens to scream
every day,
my melody is her cowering fear
hidden under the basement stairs.

 

[darkerdreamer]

The roof was good to me last night,
I wanted a duet but the crickets cheered for
moonlight solos,
lunar beams manipulating strings
sweeter than if the Devil still had His fiddle,
and God still played bass--
before the Band broke up,
before the fans talked about
how the new album wasn’t as good as the old ones.
These crumbling Sunday school pillars
raise pertinent questions;
who do you become
when you’ve outlived all the
Bowery Saints--patrons of lost causes and the drink--
a replacement or another cricket?

 

[RhymeFairy]

I read every line
and felt, passion displaced
because he, couldn't,
wouldn't
count the ways,
of times misplaced, plunge
of loves true calling

 

[beautyandwine]

this is really just catharsis, but I wanted it out here.

I.
I'm thinking of how easily
you used to put me in my place,
that first apartment, the first
transgressions,
the rust-stained tub and
pealing linoleum, grime that gathered
on the floorboards and spit-stained walls.
I vomited in the bathroom,
overwhelmed by the stench of your shit;
I'd lock myself behind the pocked door
to hide from empty burning holes
I couldn't understand,
never strong enough to get out,
never weak enough to want it.

II.
Today you spoke of the way
she cuts your hair, the blonde
streaks flipping up at the end
as they did when you were nineteen,
still irresponsible. I listened in August heat
and stifling air as you told me
how beautiful I look,
how you took her in the chair the night before,
and did I want to see the video?
I smirked and watched you, once again,
try to absolve yourself of your sins;
but they are etched upon
the doors I've locked,
the lines upon this face.

 

[Eluard]

you used to put my in my place,

First 'my' should be 'me'.

 

[beautyandwine]

First 'my' should be 'me'.

Thank you; edited.

 

[RhymeFairy]

Thief

In your deepest dream
I'll come to you.
Call me Mrs Bobbit.

Had to bump this one. Love the first two lines. Ms. Bobbit I get and love the twist. Thinking this one could turn lusty in no time ~

 

[normal jean]

Had to bump this one. Love the first two lines. Ms. Bobbit I get and love the twist. Thinking this one could turn lusty in no time ~

thanks for bumping it

it is a good poem, really good

 

[champagne1982]

it is that time, the minute after midnight, the minute before the

first hour past midnight, and you are still up, online, why arent you somewhere
writing? Right here is a good place to start. Or not. But if you have the devilish

urge, to cook something up, some 13 o'clock poetry stew, be my guest and post

here, I might post some two

I saw some sites, looking for dark poetry, without light? horror? narrow, wmpty shoe box poetry? shoe poetry? eeeekkkk!! I hate shoes...

I'm bumping this since it is the season...

H a p p y . H a l l o w e'e n!

p.s. Dora, this is the thread with creepy spider poems... Beware! Muahahahahaha...

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I'm bumping this since it is the season...

H a p p y . H a l l o w e'e n!

p.s. Dora, this is the thread with creepy spider poems... Beware! Muahahahahaha...

Haha! This thread inspired one of my favorite poems I've ever written, Champ. I remember that spider poem, too!

 

[normal jean]

I'm bumping this since it is the season...

H a p p y . H a l l o w e'e n!

p.s. Dora, this is the thread with creepy spider poems... Beware! Muahahahahaha...

My Precious Champ

It did my heart good to pop in here and see that you had resurrected one of my ( maria"s) old threads. Many excellent poets contributed and the poems are worthy of reviving even if just one or two nights a year.

Bless you all, I hope everyone is safe, happy and healthy.


The light shines, but it takes the soul of a poet to understand it's true meaning and share it with others... with mere words..isn't language amazing??

 

[butters]

there's something about the night poems - their edgy quality, their surreal all the more real than light-time realities


it's only in the dark our nocturnal selves walk, eyes huge, and blinded by the lights


some rich poetics here in this thread. enjoying the reads.

 

[butters]

listen


with a mouth full of broken glass
i try to make you understand my
fear of bood

 

[butters]

paper monkeys grin from slanted walls
whisper the insecure insane
as leering, claustrophobic halls
breed secret, dark resentment

and sentimental fools content their ache
reflecting shrouded pain in dust-dull mirrors