Submissions by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I write poetry on a range of subjects and in a range of styles. My privacy is extremely important to me, though I hope that you enjoy my work and that I enjoy yours.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
29th Oct 2021 6:04pm
29th Oct 2021 6:04pm
Men at Funerals
Men are not good at funerals.
They're not sure what to say.
Untrained in all arts of keening
and life's broad emotions,
instead they lapse into cliche.
'Of course it did', perhaps,
when told by the grieving
that it came as a shock.
'There, there', or that old trope,
the mediocre blues:
'Come far today, have you?',
used in conversation
with someone new to you,
and whom you'll soon forget.
At all of the funerals I've been to
my brothers and I have been asked
'you're David's boys, aren't you?'
One...
They're not sure what to say.
Untrained in all arts of keening
and life's broad emotions,
instead they lapse into cliche.
'Of course it did', perhaps,
when told by the grieving
that it came as a shock.
'There, there', or that old trope,
the mediocre blues:
'Come far today, have you?',
used in conversation
with someone new to you,
and whom you'll soon forget.
At all of the funerals I've been to
my brothers and I have been asked
'you're David's boys, aren't you?'
One...
#death
597 reads
4 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
25th Oct 2021 6:09pm
25th Oct 2021 6:09pm
Mr Right
I used to think that Mister Right
was a well-built buck
with perfect skin,
hands blushed as they grip
a riding crop,
lip sneered in disdain.
but as I've grown I've learned
that cruelty breeds wanting cruelty...
and there were lots of us.
boys who wanted to be hurt by men
just like they'd been by fathers,
brothers, even friends, interpreting their hate
as love, and thinking that's
what's needed to be loved.
sometimes I don't allow myself to think
how many gay boys have been lost
in...
was a well-built buck
with perfect skin,
hands blushed as they grip
a riding crop,
lip sneered in disdain.
but as I've grown I've learned
that cruelty breeds wanting cruelty...
and there were lots of us.
boys who wanted to be hurt by men
just like they'd been by fathers,
brothers, even friends, interpreting their hate
as love, and thinking that's
what's needed to be loved.
sometimes I don't allow myself to think
how many gay boys have been lost
in...
#love
#depression
#gay #sex
#gay #sex
516 reads
3 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
24th Oct 2021 10:56pm
24th Oct 2021 10:56pm
Sad Fact
I spit upon this dreadful banker's grave
who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn - John Berryman, writing about his father’s suicide
I don’t visit stepmother’s grave.
Never been obliged.
My family brings a practicality
to its emotions.
Illusion of control
though none’s in evidence,
from all the needless rage I’ve seen.
She was cremated. Urn buried.
And when we came home
I picked up the phone
and was greeted by a woman’s voice
asking if my father’s wife was there.
We’ve just come from her funeral, I said.
...
who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn - John Berryman, writing about his father’s suicide
I don’t visit stepmother’s grave.
Never been obliged.
My family brings a practicality
to its emotions.
Illusion of control
though none’s in evidence,
from all the needless rage I’ve seen.
She was cremated. Urn buried.
And when we came home
I picked up the phone
and was greeted by a woman’s voice
asking if my father’s wife was there.
We’ve just come from her funeral, I said.
...
#suicide
412 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Oct 2021 10:52am
23rd Oct 2021 10:52am
How I Write Poems
I Clarity
We start with the subject meeting object, via verb.
The man walked down the street.
So long as he walks down that street,
we have a place from which to start.
Let's set his toes alight.
II Imagery
Now that we've got clarity,
let's carry on with imagery.
How does the man walk down the street?
Like a clown on its way to a crisis centre?
Sharp-suited, with painted grin,
but haunted, hollow eyes?
What does the street look like?
I'm picturing a British one,
with concrete kerb
and...
We start with the subject meeting object, via verb.
The man walked down the street.
So long as he walks down that street,
we have a place from which to start.
Let's set his toes alight.
II Imagery
Now that we've got clarity,
let's carry on with imagery.
How does the man walk down the street?
Like a clown on its way to a crisis centre?
Sharp-suited, with painted grin,
but haunted, hollow eyes?
What does the street look like?
I'm picturing a British one,
with concrete kerb
and...
#WritersBlock
#LifeAsAWriter
#WritingPoetry #art
#WritingPoetry #art
400 reads
3 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
19th Oct 2021 7:28pm
19th Oct 2021 7:28pm
Autopsy of a Slasher Film
We always begin
with original sin. What made him
pick up a knife and walk the streets
like a death-dealing door to door salesman?
(‘Would you like to try one of our knives?
You’ll never leave meat on the bone again.’)
Often it’s humiliation, something
to prick the male ego like a pig’s bladder
and watch it expel air, an old Halloween trick
for “haunted” suburban houses.
Sometimes it’s just grief, or even
mere insanity, alone. Throw in
some Freud, for Good Measure.
...
with original sin. What made him
pick up a knife and walk the streets
like a death-dealing door to door salesman?
(‘Would you like to try one of our knives?
You’ll never leave meat on the bone again.’)
Often it’s humiliation, something
to prick the male ego like a pig’s bladder
and watch it expel air, an old Halloween trick
for “haunted” suburban houses.
Sometimes it’s just grief, or even
mere insanity, alone. Throw in
some Freud, for Good Measure.
...
#dark
#narrative
#PopCulture #art
#PopCulture #art
472 reads
5 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
14th Oct 2021 1:16pm
14th Oct 2021 1:16pm
Work Story
I picked up an email at work
about "homosexual gang rapists".
The writer had tagged in
several media outlets
and law firms which must
have her name on a list.
I sighed and looked out the window.
But it was night, and anyway,
the blinds were drawn.
about "homosexual gang rapists".
The writer had tagged in
several media outlets
and law firms which must
have her name on a list.
I sighed and looked out the window.
But it was night, and anyway,
the blinds were drawn.
#narrative
495 reads
2 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
12th Oct 2021 11:31pm
12th Oct 2021 11:31pm
1930s Double Feature
Please take your seats and do not have nightmares.
God will keep these phantoms black and white.
I
The Vampire Bat (1933)
Let me take you back in time
and place, to a town
with sloping rooves
and cased windows.
It’s always night,
and black-and-white.
A woman cries out,
in lamplight.
A doctor seeks to find
eternal youth
in bodies drained by what
crawls on those rooves.
And sneaks in by a cased window.
A bat whom only Hell can know.
II
White Zombie...
God will keep these phantoms black and white.
I
The Vampire Bat (1933)
Let me take you back in time
and place, to a town
with sloping rooves
and cased windows.
It’s always night,
and black-and-white.
A woman cries out,
in lamplight.
A doctor seeks to find
eternal youth
in bodies drained by what
crawls on those rooves.
And sneaks in by a cased window.
A bat whom only Hell can know.
II
White Zombie...
#scary
#monsters
#PopCulture #historical
#PopCulture #historical
517 reads
1 Comment
EROTIC POEM
Published
9th Oct 2021 11:43pm
9th Oct 2021 11:43pm
Icons
Kurt Russell was one of those movie icons
who made me realise I was queer.
Everyone likes a rough bastard
from time to time. (I do, at least).
And as a young man
I'd go loose in the knees
reflecting on his rough, stubbled,
and whiskey’d kiss.
who made me realise I was queer.
Everyone likes a rough bastard
from time to time. (I do, at least).
And as a young man
I'd go loose in the knees
reflecting on his rough, stubbled,
and whiskey’d kiss.
#gay
#PopCulture
#sexy #apathy
#sexy #apathy
714 reads
5 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
8th Oct 2021 2:38pm
8th Oct 2021 2:38pm
Learning to Love While Queer
How many times were you told that
it would destroy you? Tear you up
like a tissue in a toilet bowl.
It could never be loving, beautiful,
or even enjoyed. To be sought
like a drug in a bar’s backroom,
another draught from a whiskey bottle
kept locked in an office drawer.
A vice. Something to wreck your liver with.
I ask that you seek love before you die.
To kiss, to give, to take, to cry,
in ecstasy both animal
and divine. And see that what
your parents taught was just an obstacle.
it would destroy you? Tear you up
like a tissue in a toilet bowl.
It could never be loving, beautiful,
or even enjoyed. To be sought
like a drug in a bar’s backroom,
another draught from a whiskey bottle
kept locked in an office drawer.
A vice. Something to wreck your liver with.
I ask that you seek love before you die.
To kiss, to give, to take, to cry,
in ecstasy both animal
and divine. And see that what
your parents taught was just an obstacle.
#love
#gay
#sex #LGBT
#sex #LGBT
439 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
6th Oct 2021 1:32pm
6th Oct 2021 1:32pm
Goddess in a Clown Suit
on listening to the album Seventh Tree
The harlequin of discotheque.
Mischievous and sensual.
Cavorts with giant owls, baroque
and russet-curled. Anarchical
without an ideology,
as utterly serene
in green insanity
as -eval glens and glades. The London clown
wears leather boots, a pirate's hat,
and sings to seven trees, of seventh sons.
Anatomy is fraught. Tradition rent.
Druidic priestess of the marsh,
a pagan goddess drawing near.
Her clownery is cellular.
The harlequin of discotheque.
Mischievous and sensual.
Cavorts with giant owls, baroque
and russet-curled. Anarchical
without an ideology,
as utterly serene
in green insanity
as -eval glens and glades. The London clown
wears leather boots, a pirate's hat,
and sings to seven trees, of seventh sons.
Anatomy is fraught. Tradition rent.
Druidic priestess of the marsh,
a pagan goddess drawing near.
Her clownery is cellular.
#nature
#music
#pagan #Britain
#pagan #Britain
361 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
5th Oct 2021 6:33am
5th Oct 2021 6:33am
The Comeuppance
The MP stood aside to let the police in. He said that he’d found her after turning up for a dinner date (not romantic, he stressed. Purely business. We just needed to compare notes on an upcoming event) and finding her door open. He walked in, calling her name. He could tell that something was off, but he was a decent guy and couldn’t just turn around and leave. And then he found her. Swinging from a bizarre contraption in her bedroom. It was like a cross between a sex swing and an interrogation device from the Inquisition.
Several detectives paled on seeing the aftermath. One...
Several detectives paled on seeing the aftermath. One...
#murder
#BDSM
#ghosts #ShortStory
#ghosts #ShortStory
438 reads
2 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
4th Oct 2021 6:43pm
4th Oct 2021 6:43pm
Pagan
We fall in many bodies, many times.
Outside the Christian faith, the tower chimes
our deaths, but also our rebirths.
We do not sing dirges,
nor proceed in black garments, cross
the squares or streets with gold aloft.
As graveyards gather damp and moss.
We sing to dance, we laugh, we croft...
We share and love our bodies like
they weren't just an old man's mistake.
As if the rotten dike of time
must be observed always, to never slake
a human heart. Which is,
when all's been said, a reddish blade of grass.
Outside the Christian faith, the tower chimes
our deaths, but also our rebirths.
We do not sing dirges,
nor proceed in black garments, cross
the squares or streets with gold aloft.
As graveyards gather damp and moss.
We sing to dance, we laugh, we croft...
We share and love our bodies like
they weren't just an old man's mistake.
As if the rotten dike of time
must be observed always, to never slake
a human heart. Which is,
when all's been said, a reddish blade of grass.
#religion
#Christian
#spiritual #pagan
#spiritual #pagan
563 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
