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Poetry competition CLOSED 29th October 2022 2:01pm

Fireside Tales

poet Anonymous

Poetry Contest

Write a story for Halloween

You can include graphic sex and violence if you want, I’ve no objection, but use your common sense and think about what you’d like to put out there as representative of your creative efforts.

Beyond that, not many rules for this one. Imagine that you’re one of several people gathered around a campfire on Halloween night, telling scary stories. What would your story be?

It can be in either poetry or prose, and there are no limits as to length (to quote your dad’s Grindr), although bear in mind that if you post a novel I’ll probably be skim reading it.

poet Anonymous


watch your thoughts
growing repeatedly,
through the forest
into the sea
they're blooming
underneath your feet,
breathing as flesh
passes on by
entwining in
violent crimes,
earth blushes  
at her own
poet Anonymous

Fun and fear

Halloween night
A quiet neighborhood
A quiet street in a sleepy suburb
Lovely houses, greenery and shrubbery
The kids laughed as they walked by the open coffin
With the skeleton in it, a skeleton minus the head,
Laughed at the mechanical doll hanging from that high wrougth iron fence
And vomit coming out of her mouth
The missing head from the skeleton in the coffin was stuck on a spike in the grass
They also laughed at the witch sitting on that big branch on that nearby tree
It was getting darker and spookier by the minute yet the kids enjoyed the outing
And the load of candies they were getting.
They laughed....but suddently they screamed when they saw
As the witch started moving from her tree and as she swooped over their heads
Image of Dark Ombrage over the upcoming Total Darkness.
poet Anonymous

Lunatic's Moon...

Those forever days of the past  
it lay quiet in tranquil sleep,  
save for visitor's noiseless blasts  
of meteor's falls from the deep,  
raising silent dust's slow, slow, leaps  
in dance, gift of ghost's ballet shoes  
Ad agio A cappella,  
hypnotized my eyes, seek the moon...  

I see Hekate through my glass  
of spirits, as I start to dream,  
a virgin god, did she think, alas?  
I hear her hounds, Hades guards supreme,
I burn, tremble dreaming see gleam  
hot eyes, click of claw come to choose...  
nails pierce my clenched palms like claws, I...  
moth I, pinned by crazed magic moons...  

Constricted chest, sweat drowns my Sass,  
smell of wet dog fur make me freeze,  
my drink or some Satanic Mass  
make these demented visions stream  
across my glazing eyes, two-dog-teams  
of Hekate's hell-hounds stiff stalk move
nip heels, thighs, herds me hell bound, I  
cowed, bare throat to lunatic's moon...  
poet Anonymous

It Was At This Halloween Party

It was at this Halloween party
that my once good friend Jason
had thrown that I joined a friend
or two in the basement in time to
see some redhead with her rear end
on the floor and hot wax slightly
dripping out of a Jack O' Lantern highly
hanging over her tits while the mansion
guests kept on watching her eagerly.

That was before Jason removed the gag
and... to prove that he was not a fag...
let that chick do the cock sucking mission.
poet Anonymous

The Knock Not Heard on All Hallows' Eve

 "The scariest story knocks on each mortal's door."
-- a mortal humbled whose knees knock


The knockings at the gate the porter's bellyache awake,
flesh hungry innards thirsting blood dispiriting to slake,
in spite of bags of candies costumed at a discount store,
all sinews, thews, and bugaboos still treats to die stuffed for --

the little witch slow drowned, the tiny ghost dead eating lead,
the vampire nipped sans teeth, the mummy tripped to hit his head,
the Prince and Princess Paradigm of Once Upon a Time,
the villain quelled, the hero felled before her timed spring prime --

the creatures vast created by the Doctors Frankenstein,
experiments on which intestines portal eager dine,
the sweetmeats shoveled in the maw disposed as garb-aged rot --
when diggers grave off boots dirt knock on filling each wee plot.


a dedication of Respect
the Fear
that walks alone

a revolving helios rhyme/menippean satire

october, 2022 -- still nobody waking
to the tapping of the earth
on a door sealed shut
poet Anonymous


in the darkness of thought where I reside
is a chilling tale of dread in need of letting
curdle your blood then dine off the unwilling
I am the greed inside of you

feasting off your fear I conjure you own worst imaginations
the flicker of doubt on your face says you are confounded
treacherous need has you seeking men at night
sexual desire fueled by fire

a thrill a minute humiliation at the hands of a stranger
your demons linger after they fuck you
beating on your self esteem they eat you tears
reaping your fascinations and acting them out on the innocent

did you know you inspire the deviant?

who stalks your visions
you are the soul serial killer
minions pick up knives in your honor
all to feed the depravity inside you

do you feel the chill upon your back?

it is the cold of steel of the seeker
who will drag you in chains to your end
torturous flesh, a penny for your thoughts
you manifested killers in the field

now eat your is justice

poet Anonymous

Closing Time at the Dead End Pub

Laughter howled from the bowels of carpets
Stained, trodden to the bone, unsanitised….

The Landlord played prodigal son to
Infirmed and illegitimate infants.

Salavation Army tambourines trilled
Redemption against a deftly death score,
Lonely leitmotif asked who should I frame this evening?
A sea of cataract stars seemed open to invitation.

Pat returned from the bar
His leg trailed as a girder through sand.
Red eyes met mine in complicit communion

Even the rain is not brave enough to fall in this town
Remember that night we went fishing and it snowed in April

I returned my catch to their lake home,
Pat stoned their heads until papier-macabre.
He smirked that kind of smirk
Which only killers can do.
It’s written in stone.

Streets upon streets of granite slate,
‘Baron Munchausen Syndrome’
Medicates witheringly dull lives,
Fear is the phone ringing during soap-opera tales:
Not for Pat and his kind.

Pat’s gaze drank the window,
Coughed first sight of Christmas
Into tinselled coffins, decorated cell.

The world is full of bastards Rob.
You see they not only killed him
When they left my brother’s body
Astride our parents’ grave
Stabbed to fuck….they killed me

Even in the shallowest water
We can be out of our depth.
An intake of breath, heavier
Than Pat’s knuckles creased into the table.

Oh, how they begged me not to avenge
Revenge should be left to the courts
Fuck that Rob, on my parents’ grave……
On knees, bent and buckled they begged
Eileen already cried for forgiveness
For she knew, she cunting knew

Broken jukebox would have played Johnny Cash,
Pitney’s ‘A Town Without Pity’ -
“Why don’t they help us, try to help us.”
Vinyl veranda of song cement the foundations.

He gurgled you know, gurgled like a bastard baby
The blade felt good in my hands, but better in him
The police knew me and I just………

His voice trailed like a siren
Into the never-ending distance.
“Haven’t you all got a home to go to?”
The barmaid’s cleavage beckoned lost souls
Last orders, to hills only alive with the sound of mucus.

I kissed him on the cheek and was gone.
Turned my collar against the iced arrows,
Salt rain began to fall from heavenly skies.
It swept my quiff into the gutter.
poet Anonymous

The Puritan and The Maiden

-~{ The Puritan and The Maiden }~-

A Puritan of Salem town, a swordsman of high renown,
Went riding out of the gates, of the ancient stockade…
Oh fare ye well to town, said the swordsman of renown,
For I have been a militiaman, and I shall not be afraid!
And so he spurred his horse along a trail little traveled…
Through Indian country and beyond, in places so dark,
That any lesser man would feel all his nerves unraveled…
But steely was that Puritan’s resolve, and so on a lark,
He journeyed beyond lands called civilized by mankind,
Saying fare ye well to the place of his birth and family.
He was always a man so different in spirit and in mind,
Unafraid: of the things that oft haunted the wild country.
But oft a snow-white owl watched him on his journeys,
Seeming to mock him, when he did only as he pleased.

Whilst riding along an autumn trail covered with leaves,
From high oak trees: of fiery orange and yellow colors…
Seeking after the kind of adventure as nobody believes,
The Puritan saw a gray landscape, cold and dolorous…
Where the mists of a recent rain made wet those roads,
The few of which crossed marshes thick with old toads.
Dying were the woods that grew from out fouler bogs…
Than any the Puritan had seen before in all of his years.
Villages here and there: their fences all of rotting logs…
Empty of life, he passed through and heard loud tears.
Wept by ghosts unseen, and so assuming it the wind…
The Puritan left those villages behind and set out again.
But as evening came, his breath was cold and laboring,
His steed was pushed too far, and both were suffering.

Finally, he came unto a graveyard perched upon hills,
Surrounded by a low stone wall broken with neglect…
He passed the wall, as his horse shook with foul chills,
Dying beneath him, and so he had not time to reflect…
Only to leave the beast behind him: and journey along.
But all about him the sound of a violin playing a song…
Familiar and haunting: that called the dead from sleep!
And so, the dead of ages did from the evil soil creep…
To the tune of a white-dressed figure by some old oak,
Who sat upon a log playing the tune, but never spoke.
The Puritan saw the dead begin to join in a dire waltz,
As he thought he heard a voice recalling his old faults.
The pale one with the violin, a raven-haired maid she,
Stopped only to light candles all around, for all to see.

The dance of the dead continued long for it was night,
And long were the hours, before the break of dawn…
With those grim dancers: the Puritan’s long-dead wife,
Did plead for him to join her upon the graveyard lawn.
And thence, the dead encircled the Puritan all about…
He could not fight them, for his sword but only metal.
No silver had he to ward off death; only cruel doubt…
And that was not enough to postpone his death rattle.
He danced with his wife, and upon the break of morn,
When the pale one’s violin had played its’ final note…
The Puritan lay lifeless, his finery all tattered and torn,
And of his tragic tale: nothing more, the tellers wrote.
But on cold nights in autumn, a pale white maid plays,
A lonely violin: until the coming of the sun's gold rays.
poet Anonymous

The Ghost of Castle Keep

On a gloomy rainy night, with lightning in the sky,
Sounds of howling winds, seem to moan and cry.
There lies a steep mountain with a castle keep,
On a narrow road where the darkness does sleep.

There is a small village near by, within a tavern stay
The late night patrons gather, whom have tales to say.
They speak of the castle, dark, remote and dreary,
And about an angry ghost that searches the halls, so weary.

The phantom wears heavy chains, links made by his deeds,
Weighing him down in frustration, where his evil breeds.
They say, his sinister screams are heard to pierce the night,
Those whom foolishly venture near will leave in violent fright.

It was said that the ghost was once a mean and handsome knight,
Who was dressed in shining armor, and was a fearsome sight.
He had a selfish manner and from his vanity sprang,
To possess the beautiful queen of the king who did reign.

He killed all comers with his lance or his sword,
Death for those who crossed him, or when easily bored.
Soon everyone feared him, or they wound up dead,
He manipulated those whom he could, or were easily led.

The queen was of rare beauty and skin that was so fair,
He longed to possess her, and it became his only care.
He laid plans and plotted to have the king put asunder,
But the one he had entrusted so much, had made a blunder.

Ten men had him forcefully taken, drawn and then quartered,
To be put upon wooden pikes; then on the lands they bordered.
It was to remind all comers of a sure and damning fate,
For, those who dare to challenge their king and the state.

As, for his mean and wicked heart, it was placed alone in a box,
Then buried in a secret place, under a mighty pile of rocks.
Where? Nobody ever knew, and the king had never said,
Now, the ghost searches for his heart, even though he is dead.

He is damned to roam and search forever in the night,
For a heart hidden for eternity and completely from his sight.
No peace will come to a fated knight, who will roam, but never rest,
And no comfort will ever come to he, who bears an empty chest.

poet Anonymous

Black Van

Children and pets wiggle impaled on wooden poles
Dead grown victims have fucked out assholes
While the wicked wind blows devilish cold
And my black van is parked on the side of the road

Sitting on a dead body as I use her cell phone
Convincing her daughter her mama want me to bring her home
She says she’s at school and I’ll be waiting
I jump in my black van without hesitation,

How long this been going on-days, months, years
And with this happy hobby ending is my only fear
But as long as there is life there is continued dark hope
Because torture, rape and killing to me is better than dope

It started when I was the age of ten
By killing my sister; the courts deemed it an accident in the end
Then next came my older cousin
I can still hear the bees in his throat still buzzin

Then a year later eliminating my grandmother
Injecting her with ammonia as I fingered her pussy under the cover
And my first girlfriend at a slumber party
Till this day they’re still finding one inch pieces of her body

My black van rolls up, I call –here she come
A few more steps and her limited life is done
Before getting in she ask can her friend get a ride
A two for one sale brings a tear to my eye

They have a hard time opening my van door
I get out to help, but from the early killings I’m still sore
Assisting one in-deciding who will be the first slut
Then helping the other with a firm grip on her butt

Suddenly I’m stunned as I’m knocked off my feet
And when the shock wears off I’m looking at the police
Head on the concrete as my face is embedded in the ground
Because like my rape victims they have me pinned down

I listen to their conversation as they laugh and talk loud
While I look at my lost prey staring at me from the crowd
A smile crosses my lips while my eyes illuminate a soft glow
As another black van roll past them real slow
poet Anonymous


Beset by melancholy  
chilled to the bone  
alone he trudges  
ever higher  
on the remote mountain trail  

Wishing instead  
to be laying next to her  
their naked bodies pressed  
in warm, euphoric embrace  
measureless love forces his exile  

His pale complexion glows  
illuminated by the moon  
full and ascending rapidly  
in the clear Autumn sky  
he trembles neath the beaming visage  
Exhausted body and soul  
he curls up under a majestic pine  
dreading the rising tide of transformation  
eyes shut tightly yearning for sleep  
knowing tonight there will be none  
Excruciating cries-turned-howls  
shatter the nocturnal calm cursing heaven  
tufts of dark gray fur erupt through skin  
sharp fangs rupture tender gums  
eviscerating claws sprout from hands-cum-paws  
Awakened by the stench of rotting refuse  
he lay bare naked and shivering  
prostrate on the alley’s frigid pavement  
the sweet perfume of his beloved penetrates the stink  
clenched fist reveals bloodied, shredded lace  
Bitterly he weeps
poet Anonymous

"Joker's Rulebook"

I'm the Joker who laughs hysterically
Footsteps of murderers methodically
I make you all best jokes of the day
Yes that's right fall down as my prey

My voice echoes your ears until deft
A slicing tongue leaves your mind cleft
Glistening bullets charge from my gun
My wikked ways are webs I have spun

Roars into a hypnotic trance of silence
I have a dream,it's filled with violence
No living soul safe from deadly wrath
No stones unturned it's simple math

Make up on my face to hide my scars  
Choked breath on this killer's memoirs
Cat & mouse my favorite skilled game
Inscribed on Hollywood's walk of fame

Beg me to show you mercy, this I dare
Lunatic with sympathy, an unlikely pair Rewarded when you put up a struggle
Learn when to give into your old uncle

My heart is ebony made from granite
Everyone I meet will suddenly vanish
I own the streets I'm banging the gang
From my noose you will swing & hang

Who gave the orders is what you ask?
I have no-one that I need to unmask
I dwell harvesting in midnight's garden
Dead by my selection, eat me Darwin!

My home rests in any void vacant soul
I have the upper hand I am in control
This was your life, but now it's all mine
There's no escaping the sands of time

Under your ribcage a spraying of lead
I splatter your brains out of your head
Visions of puppies & kittens will cease
Godsmacked by reality you're deceased

The Punk Poet…
  Always Be Punk…
Always Be Drunk…
  (On Poetry)

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