Horrific`a

no Limit on Entries ... all Poems submitted must be Horror/Dark themed ...

           she stands adorned


she stands adorned
above the horrible landscape of her dead and
dying victims, the choking stench of death in
the air, scarlet rivers flowing across the morbid
grounds of her conquest.

madness is her visage. the false mimosa of
her black hair hangs about her head like
medusa-ropes, matted with sweat and singeing
droplets of her victims’ blood.

black patches lie under her dark eyes,
eyes that blaze like unquenchable embers in a
roaring, imperious bonfire. ragged remnants of a
tunic hang around her body almost wistfully, in a
pitiful attempt to conceal her lustrous, lustful flesh.

one victim tries in vain to crawl away. she grabs a
handful of his hair and jerks, snapping his neck,
thus ending his misery.

she stands adorned
perched above the carrion remains of her prey
like a destructive, dolorous guardian angel…

and if she were not,
I would not love her...

Cannibal Vampires

Blood and flesh,
Flesh and blood
Feed the devil
And watch him fuck
Virgin pleading
See her bleeding
Satan’s grinning
His stomach’s churning
She is so tender
And so succulent

The master has feasted, and is sated
For a taste we’ve patiently waited
May we can have bite or a bone to suck
Of a virgin meal, sweet as veal?

Uncorrupted flesh, par broil till ideal
Evil cannot drink enough blood
Nor eat enough flesh
That’s been left untouched

So young women
Who are listening
Preserve your purity
For Hell values virginity
More than angels
Value the Holy Trinity

So keep that hymen intact
Because for the High Black Mass
We cannibal vampires
We’ll be back
In search of pure
Wholesome snack!

Taurek ... love the blade.
John Feddeler ... beautiful evil.
Grace ... such splendid gore.
Snugglebuck ... vampires suck & feast.
Jade-Pandora ... a horrid twist.
Monkeyman ... an epic wrath.

Great entriesthus far ... Thank You much!

Here is a fresh write of a Lovecraftian theme.
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MAGNUM INNOMINANDUM

'Where horizon meets the tired sky
Naked stars would fall behind
The light is ever-lost

Fever hastens through the meek
The mist enrobes, a shadow leaks
Over the eldritch hills

Tower bells would seldom ring
And spirits mourn the fallen King
His sigil encloses over

A flickering hope, it flits about
To die in waves of liquid drought
As elders thrive

In the dim light of Carcosa'

In chambers of doubt I was
Reeling from the pain of life
And the disgusting world
Crowns more resembled tools
And of iniquity I tire
The careless gourmands, fools
Serenading the weak to their avail
Of this, I am reassured

Extinguish the insects

I read the King in Yellow

The void beckons of my ear
In this chimerical sleep
Worship of the parasitic
And to obfuscate thought
From the abyss, the visions are clear
To drown in the maddening deep
And become prophetic
Spread the name that time forgot

I hold the Yellow Sign

I felt vibrations, stirring
Almost felt it's exhalation
An overwhelming sulphuric stench
Bizarre, voiceless speech
He calls to me from his dwelling
From some parallel, veiled dimension
In a form, for mortal eyes meant
Death as audience, witness me

Terror and joy stiffen the neck
Power escapes from the blight
Miasma, thick and revolting
Pour out like a thundercloud

Oh, great malefic horror
Arise from the consuming Atlantic
I call to you from the crossroad of stars

The ground begins to glow
A deep iridescence of colours indescribable

Outside of the range of even four cones
It almost feels alive
As reality becomes like illusion

The ground begins to warp
And gird a blackness immeasurable

My lord has arrived from aeons of sleep

He ascends the pit
Countless tentacles reach upwards like smoke billows
Immediate sensory overload
Clutching my fear now tangible

A thousand voices around me
Screaming and whispering all the same
Growling
Painting in my head what ears cannot
And a tear falls so slowly into the void below

With appendages of darkness aflight
He brings his kingdom with him

And insanity, physically, mentally
Is what remains when he departs
As the slope I stood now crumbles
To dust

And my hands
Dust

UbiquitousVoid ... Love`craftian horror revised.

Awesome entry ... Thank you!

Children by the Lake

They say that some nights before the full moon
You can hear her lachrymal cries in the streets
And that her voice echoes in the stillness
Calling for her children

They say that you can hear their laughter
By the water’s edge beyond the woods
But their laughter turn to ghastly screams
Drowning, drowning in horror

They say that you can see their shadows
In the old roads where no one ventures
And those who thought themselves brave
Died of fright with expressions of terror

Or that some have gone insane
Or they got sick of some disease
Unable to describe or explain
What happened in the night

They say that their spirits still prowl
And that no other creatures can be heard
Not even the wind rustles amid the trees
Until their giggles whisper in the leaves

They say your soul will shake with cold
When you hear their little voices cry
When the children knock on your door
With visions of dreaded visceral eyes

Stalkers

Snow fell at twilight and I was quickly sliding into darkness;
wrapped in wool and flannel, swallowed by overcoat.
The wind blew harsh to my lips, the whistle-sting kiss burning matchsticks.
Screams rung in my ears as my blood-shot eyes tried to find someplace warm, someplace secluded where I could still my tattered mind.

I was being followed, their weight could be heard drudging through the snow with the same pace as mine.
I knew the scent, found it worn on a shop clerk back in town;
she had the eyes of ferocity, flames that told you she was anything but docile.
Tired or not my blood ran hot, savoring the thought of her flesh to my naked wrath and hellbent hungers.

Slipping down the east trail I took the direction of the moon, it was covered by cloud, yet still glowed enough light to know where I was headed.
Echos of groans reverberated from the trees, passing by eyes that peered from behind firs, like diamond daggers awaiting a kill.
My destination slowly took form, a tired old cottage at the bottom of the hollar; one used by every hunter in the area, some point in their life.

I lifted the wooden latch scraping my feet at the entrance.
The stale smell of must and old cigars permeated the wood and rag-tag furniture, awaiting life to be breathed once more into it.

I threw my tied-up belongs onto the make-shift couch and took my coat off to ready a proper fire.
a tee-pee made of sticks with a skirting of crumpled pamphlets would do the trick; warmth and proper lighting was needed for this long-awaited evening.
Two minutes pass,  the proper timing to add the perfect log, then look back to my spoils of the day; still bound tightly by the neon rope I had in the garage.

She had said her name was Rose, I had already seen the name tag but I thought it best to let her speak, all she wanted.
I tore the duct-tape from her lips leaving a red squared stain across her face.
She didn't scream, I must say it surprised me, they usually do.
I pulled out my favourite knife and told her if she would stay still; I would cut her free from her bonds.
She nodded, calm as you please but with that fire raging full now, I couldn't tell which had more flames; her eyes or the burning wood.

I knelt in front of her smelling the waft of perfume as my knife sliced through the rope with ease; knowing how easily it would soon cut into her flesh.

Her hands moved quick and all I saw was a flash followed by the druggy feeling of wanting to sleep.
The floor felt cold against my face as her hot breath whispered in my ear,"Don't You worry now, not a bit of you will go to waste"
As she flashed my knife in front of my eyes, laying her gun to the side.
I felt the warm streams cross my face while her silhouette slowly filleted strips from some unknown part of me.
What a strange dream I thought; slipping further away, crawling deeper into black.


***It's not poem form...is that acceptable Hellion?***

Crescent Banquet

My chest burned
Each breathe landing like an incendiary Zepplin above my belly
My cough produced scarlet spittle
Making the back of my pale hand look like a Seurat painted in Hell

I sniffed...my own rusty aroma...
Still I salivated
It had been days since I fed

The young ginger beauty had weakened my virulence
As four of her dainty fingers lay scattered at  my feet like generous offerings to some foreign God...
She had by my great wonder found it inside her Human to pity my state
And entwined the remaining digits in my length of curls
She had looked into my wild eyes with more compassion than terror....
And I had held her gaze and stood up to kiss her cupids bow pout
But as my rubicund lip were almost touching hers....
She had screamed shattering my delirium

To pity me!?
She was nothing more than ephemeral ooozing
A bonne bouche left to pick from my sharp fang

She had trembled at my recoil
And spasmed as I pierced through her zoftig curves
I tore into her breasts with such delight
Taking her buds off with one snap of jaw each
Looked directly into her fading eyes
The evanescent dimming of death had flared one last time and i heard her utter..
"My heart..."
Thinking she spoke of its last pounds of life i bit down hard
Bursting her nipples like berries
The sweet sanguine juices dripped off my chin....

It was then...
I heard the familiar click...
Her lover was behind me and had taken taken aim..

I howled as the shot rang into the humid darkness
And pounced

The writer who wrote about his own death

John Fink had a love for darkness
which in turn festered his own darkness
A darkness his town could only accept in ink
in order to pay his bills
One day, perhaps a Wednesday
Dear John begins to write
after months of no contact to his dark side
the darkness suffice to say is particularly potent
He writes about a man being killed
nothing new there
and of a murderer
still the usual stuff
and with an investigor
boring
and with a victims family
zzzzz
but
there is a twist
A man wearing nothing but black
with dark glasses to match
This dark man visits the family every month
The family thinks of him
slowly but surely as a close friend
2 years pass by
with no result of the victim
but that very same day
the woman recieves a strange call
A man speaks "You know those pies I send you every month"
The wife replies "Those delicous pies...what about them?"
The man continues "His blood and flesh was a part of those pies
ma'am your husband has finally become his true self"
The woman cries but manages to say "W w what is that?"
The man answers "A piece of shit"
He then hangs up
This story about the pies is a hit
Dear Johnny boy is going to Hollywood

Pity his admirer took the story to heart