Gothic Poems

Drowning

Written by JollisaRose

The bell tolls
Ringing in the silence
Of my lonliness
Emptiness is full
Of past pain
Overflowing
And dripping into daily life
Flooding who I am
Drowning all chance
Of love, of joy
I wish I knew how to swim!

Show me how...

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Alice

Written by Heslopian

He stares at her across the wooden desk,
She grins and asks for another cigarette,
He’s seen her before, in a club burlesque,
Working the floor, and flushed with sweat,

How he’d longed to towel her down,
And dress her in an evening gown.

From his pocket a pack he does draw,
And throws them into her painted fingers,
She inspires in men a real sense of awe,
On her comely being, their eyes do linger.

Her smile, however, exudes a deadly malice,
He asks her name, and she tells him; Alice.

Time has toughened the pretty dame,
Who lives to let men grope and stare,
Men who laugh, smile, feel no shame
As they paw her face and ruin her hair.

She stares him out, it’ll be his folly,
If he treats her like a china dolly.

“No longer will I play your game,
No longer will I be your whore,
My life will never be the same,
For I am woman, hear me roar!”

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Anna Molly and the Cheshire

Written by Xaneie_Sweet_Dream

Oh dear Anna Molly,
How have you been?
We're all still here,
In this beautiful little Wonderland,

But it seems to have gotten a little horrified,
As I shall tell you,
As you shall see

Of course you and the Cheshire,
Left a long time ago,

We still keep the bones of those you've found
We still love you,
As any parent should,

But might I ask dear child,
Why the blood is still so fresh?
It seems like the first time you've spilt it,
Was only yesterday,

Maybe young children shouldn't see,
This awful little mess,
But dear Anna Molly,
You and your demons must not come knocking,

For the time is late,
And we all must forget that little dispute,
That caused you to leave us,
In this evil Horrorland

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Genocide Generation

Written by Deconstruct

Where were you at the conception of a TV genocide generation?
Sitting on the comfortable, second-hand, unemployed emotions
Of a cold, lazy Sunday afternoon? Probably content and satisfied.
But isn't satisfaction in the eye of the beholder? Or is that beauty?

This generation is obsessed with the femme fatale of perverse irony.
The tongue-in-cheek T-shirt slogans that unite a meaningless group of
Irrelevant people, just because they all get the pointless gag.
The 'in-crowd' has been mockingly heckled into the 'in-on-the-joke-crowd.'

Strange how the most spontaneous and slightly erratic event
Looses control and becomes tattooed onto the body of fashionable.
It throws up so many questions that even the convinced and devoted
Self-possessed sheep in society are beginning to doubt each other.

I'm told winning isn't everything but who you destroy on the way
Up that counts. One hell of a virtual reality game don't you think?
'Speeds the buzz. Nothing else matters. Just floor it,
And smash anyone that gets in your way.' - Jez Joyrider. Age 18.

Some misfits have got a face that's just begging to be punched.
But this is our lives and you have to choose life or you'll be left with
The living creeping death of supermarket sales and day-care centres,
Hire Purchase and low interest rates. Thankfully, a drug relievable situation.

But drugs injected just make colourful worlds within forgotten minds,
Altered states within a permanent state of control, a private domain that
Ignores outsiders. These small worlds are intriguing to foreigners with their own
Beliefs and formulae for regulation. A case of E=Mc Section 3, Sub-clause E.

Your worst fears are confirmed by a local paper who labelled you,
'Satan's Offspring' as a crown gathers in the littered street to sing Hymns.
'Shallow be thy personality' would be sung to the music of independence,
So you'd alter your genetic make-up. I guess you knew what you were doing.

There's a subservient reptile inside each and every one of us that wants to
Explore, stroke and say self-destructive things to a self-destructing population.
But never believe that the wool can be pulled down over your own ears.
Change from a battle tank to a fish tank to a think tank and stop being tedious.

We're all getting along horribly and we are not being the nicest television
Assassinated, advertising controlled society so rip out the umbilical cord.
Maybe a gothic sub-culture will bring hope to our kaleidoscopic minds as we
Sleep in semi-detached cardboard homes, disconnected from a TV static sky.

poem was originally posted on Deep Underground 02/22/2000

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Gothic Poems

Drowning

Alice

Anna Molly and the Cheshire

Genocide Generation

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