A warning: I write poetry. I like poetry. My other, non-blogged life is filled with poetry. And poetry can fall into the horror category, although I’ve found that to be a very tough goal to pursue.
This poem, “Gothic,” was written for an anthology contest and didn’t survive judging. (Tear.) So I’m throwing it up here for your perusal.
If poetry is not your thing, back slowly away from the vehicle. Slowly, now. That’s it. Go find a novel, instead. Night, night.
It is not for you I’ve come,
and not for them.
I’ve already had them.
I just want you to know about it.
No, it won’t be pleasant, something
less enjoyable than ladyfingers
made from real ladies, and more
disquieting than the single red-stained
low heeled slipper, toe pointed toward
the bloodbath in the room next door.
Red coats the walls.
The kneecaps nauseate.
Does it bother you to hear?
Good. I’ve no other purpose near
one so fragile, yet not my type at all.
You are my type.
And how was it done, the Master Sleuth inquires?
Did I say I’d surrender all my sweet, nocturnal
secrets? My wanderings in prelude
to the slaughter? I make it sound thoughtless.
There was quite a bit of strategy involved.
I learned how to separate the frail from frailest,
how to trap them in my path.
I went slinking.
I was sly.
Count Dracula, Jack the Ripper,
Dr. Frankenstein, Mr. Hyde.
I could be any one of them.
You’ve passed me by.
They say I’m uncommon,
but the graveyards filled with my victims. They still do.
I can yet yank a debonaire cape
over my darkness.