Despite my many prompts to AI, it just could not stop that spider from looking fake…
Trickle-Venticules
Condensation is the creeping horror, Bleeding walls with sweat – Seeping, silent, dripped in poison, Rotting morals wet. But here comes fresh-air thinking, As a purgative for pores – To sweep the stale and musty rooms And desiccate the spores.
For where we find the spiders, We find a fresh, hygienic room – They lurk within such ducts, Where only dry arachnids loom. They nest besides the breeze That comes to tickle and sedate – For a sanctum that’s as dry-as-bones, Has webbing in its grate.
Zombies aren’t the problem That the movies try to claim – They aren’t reanimated for a start. For how could they get energy To move their dead-meat frame ? Their ATP’s as lifeless as their heart.
No, they aren’t corpses yet – It’s mind control That makes them shamble on. So I can rest assured They have a soul, Cos they ain’t dead-and-gone.
They still must breathe in oxygen, And need it pumped Throughout their veins. And calories, of course, Or they’ll be slumped, If all they eat is brains.
Their glycogen is running out, Their fat reserves Are getting thin – But they still have Their pain-relaying nerves, And chafing, aching skin.
I just must keep on running, Till they overheat Or dehydrate. If they aren’t drinking water, Then I’ve got them beat, I just need wait.
In three days, maybe four, They’ll drop the act – No, they can’t collar me. I mean, I think, I hope, They can’t outlive the fact Of brute biology…?
Halloween is a night of shivers, Frosty in the air – For fancy dress is under-dressed, With indoor-shoulders bare. A shame our fav’rite characters All wore no hats and coats – But then, how can their creeping flesh Be shrouded to their throats ? So zombies rags are full of holes, And so are those of crones, While skeletons are so undressed, They shiver in their bones. I guess the undead feel no cold, Or come from Hell-hot berths – And so, to scare the neighbours, We must turn as blue as Smurfs.
Porcelain spiders, That’s what I call them – Trapped in the bath, Its walls too smooth. Porcelain spiders, Frightened and fallen, I try to cup one, But watch him move…! Running-down to the plughole, But never To slip through its grille To the pipes below – I could wash him down, And flush him forever – Or will he come back Through the overflow ? Instead, I persist To fish him out, With only the slightest Tremble and squeak. Porcelain spiders – They’re always about – But are you the same one I rescued last week ?
Black is the cat who stalks my garden, Golden are his eyes. While turnips shine in windows, And the dead are in disguise. As if he knows his time is now, To pounce and colonise.
I know what he is after – It is shelter and a lap. My neighbours, when they spy him, Try to shoo and hiss and clap. But purr-by-purr, so slowly, I am falling for his trap.
I like to call him Pluto, As he slinks across the night – As if master of the underworld, And looking for a fright – As black as human folly When the Devil takes delight.
I know a gloomy author With a gothic sense of gore, Who would turn a black-clad cat Into a tortured metaphor, And would torment alcoholic pessimists For evermore.
Now, I’m not such a superstitious sort – Unlike my wife – She shivers in a hushed tone, Or she cries a merry strife. But I just see a lonely cat Who wants a quiet life.
The thing is, my good lady Is much smarter than you’d think. So she knows this talk of spirits Is the stuff of too much drink. But her Sunday mornings linger And can slip-through any chink.
It’s not like she objects to cats – We’ve housed a dozen yet. Though not these days – they’re sadly gone, And left us in their debt. It’s time, I say, to open-up, And love the one we get.
I need to ask her blessing, though, If I’m to bring him in. To stand-up to the neighbours When the prattle-mouths begin. For he may be a demon straight from Hell – But that’s no sin.
After an exhausting month of Inktobers, here is a bonus horror poem…except it’s not at all scary…sorry about that…
When writing poetry for all that time – Will I get that back ? Those wasted hours when searching for a rhyme, Am I in the black ? Can I cash-in ev’ry ballad For some sunny afternoons ?, That I missed, when wrought and pallid, In my garret all those Junes.
When writing poetry instead of life, Am I still in debt ? I must have words enough to ease the strife – Am I winning yet ? Can I tot-up all my labour due For nights upon the town ? I think I have some years in lieu For ev’ry sonnet down.
Day 31 – Flex – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
This is the body of Christ. As long as it’s made from wheat – For Jesus is no rye-bread hipster, He’s all-carbs while lacking meat. Add no salt and add no yeast, The Son is stodgy stale. And God hates celiacs, it seems, And TTs may not sup his grail. For Jesus does not save the strange, Or bodies less than able – But if this wafer is truly a host, Does that make him a veg’table ?
Day 30 – Cookie – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
My wisdom teeth were swiftly pulled When I was barely twenty-four – That seemed too young, to tell the truth, To call me too long in the tooth. They were impacted, it was ruled – I wouldn’t need them anymore. But suddenly my cheeks felt thin – I’d sacrificed my toothy grin.
I should have fought them tooth-and-nail, I should have made them hand them back, And if I can’t undo the wreck, I’d wear my pearlies round my neck. I felt that each must hold a tale, But now alas, my jaw is slack – As rare as hens’ teeth, grown awry, They were impacted – so was I.
Day 29 – Tusk – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
Is the Brazen Bull on Wall Street Just another Golden Calf ? Well, so what ? Don’t we have the right To choose on our behalf If we worship God or Mammon In a land where freedom’s cheered, Without three thousand slaughtered By a zealot in a beard ?
Me, I worship nobody, And laugh at those who do, But I must admit they have the right To follow gods that moo. As long as no-one forces me Within the public square – But if pressed, I guess I’d grudgingly Affirm a Rusty Bear…
Day 28 – Trophy – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
