Grey Harlowe Sampler: Poetry Corner!

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.

*

Gothic

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.

Just kidding.

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.

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