Tag Archives: horror

i guess this ain’t no playground anymore

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the rain came down in torrents

on Easter Sunday

drowning the little babies swaddled in shiny pink hay

the baby ducks survived for they could swim you see

but the babies

oh my oh me

i guess this ain’t no playground anymore

the jungle gym is stained with blood

because the cub scout was dressed in a suicide vest

oh my what a mess

cross my heart and hope i’m blessed

’cause the milk has soured and my cupcakes are filled with tacks

some kids can’t walk, some can’t talk, some can’t see, some can’t pee

i guess this ain’t no playground anymore

not today

Easter Sunday

with this rain and all

oh my oh hell

oh bloody bloody hell

 

GHOSTS

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GHOSTS IN THE PARKING LOT

WHERE I HAD MY BREAKDOWN

GHOSTS IN THE CLOSET WHERE I KEEP MY KEEPSAKES

GHOSTS PUSH OUT  THE HEAT

AND  SPOIL THE MEAT

GHOSTS CAME CRAWLING ACROSS MY FLOOR

LIKE A WISH THAT CAME TRUE

AND ALMOST KILLED ME RIGHT THEN AND THERE

ALMOST LEFT ME STRUGGLING FOR UNCONTAMINATED AIR

GHOSTS ARE THERE

THEY WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND

THEY WANT TO COMB YOUR HAIR

THEY WANT TO SET YOUR HOUSE ON FIRE

GHOSTS DON’T CARE

THEY DARE

GHOSTS DON’T LOVE

WITHOUT GOUGING OUT YOUR EYES

AND SUCKING YOUR BLOOD

Chaos reigns

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Things just build up

Thought by grisly thought

Till it bursts forth and many people die

I don’t know how to deal with this thing

Chaos reigns within the heart of things

Sheer terror in the night

I feel it on the bus every day

I see it in the faces of the crazy motherfuckers

Who rule the streets of hell

I have told myself to just ignore it

Otherwise it could drive you mad

But Chaos is real

Dark Knight, Dark Night

Life and art implode

And real flesh and blood appears

Real death stands stark and naked on the page

Chaos reigns

Don’t know what else to say

How to prevent it? You tell me.

But perhaps we could stop courting our worse tendencies

And try to love those lost souls who hate us

Good advice, but good luck with that one

The Grinning Man

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I sit outside within the crowd

naked to the world

Below the tower on the hill

The Grinning Man is there as well

wearing a bad brains t-shirt and crazy shades

He chuckles at my precociousness

My lust gives this man a thrill

and as I sit here at home wrinkled and alone

He is grinning still

below that tower on the hill

I can stake my claim on this windy bustling day

show myself to be unafraid

But his face haunts me taunts me

My pain is this man’s pleasure

This Grinning Man with the sunburned face

and the nervous dance

I go about my business studying the ground

while he stands there grinning

Below the tower on the hill

Night Train

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memengineering
peter lach-newinsky’s word and image lab

Never know what I’ll see on the Night Train

I’ve seen the shells of people long past death

Hanging on to the putrid stench

For a single distant hint

So horrible I can’t think

I let the Night Train carry me deep

So deep that I cannot recognize my face

Gazing at the ruins of a world that’s gone daddy gone

But the beatniks in their shit stained clothes

Play their bongos all night long

On the Night Train

Sometimes I think this night will never end

I’m tired, so tired, tossing and turning in my seat

Is this trip for real? or am I lying in bed?

Longing for sleep.

Kept awake by neon skies and cocky young ghosts

Their voices drone on making me sick

On the Night Train

Creepy Faces in the Woodwork

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something strains to be let in to our world from URL http://vals366.blogspot.com/2011/07/definitely-creepy.html

SOMETHING STRAINS…..IT GROANS…IT MEANS TO FIND IT’S WAY…..IN…TO…OUR…WORLD. Lurking about in the furniture. You see it in the woodgrain of your magnificent dresser. It lies in wait. For what? Our consciousness embraces the physical world in strange and inexplicable ways. Faces peer out at us from beside the bathroom mirror, you turn to confront your intruder and it is gone. Fleeting impressions prefer the borders of our perception. 

Are you scared? Does it trouble you that many things are unexplained? We still huddle down in our little huts, protected by our electric lights from the deep, dark depths of uncharted domains, just out of reach. They haunt us nevertheless, these faces. The remains of some of the victims of 9/11 are destroyed without honor or respect, and the faces grimace beside the stove. Bodies tossed down a well by a thoughtless killer. The faces scream. silently…..just past the back porch screen. And what of Hitler? you hear whispered faintly from beyond the grave. What of my mother, my sister? Gone now. Faces remain in the ancient stained wallpaper of the upstairs bedroom used no more. Faces.

Have you passed by faces in the strange little buildings in the odd little alleys where no one goes anymore? Except you.

Something’s speaking, lonely grieving for a world lost long ago. Just a flickering flame remains. Faces you cannot face. Faces that scare you to death. Such faces! Filled with hate!

I have seen such faces in the stillness, in the spaces between my thoughts. The faces are the traces of the lives cut short. In the lightning In the rain You see faces. Face the blame.

I cannot continue to write of such faces because the current is so dim. It is hard to make out the faces. We need to come to terms with the faces, for they are our responsibility. You must learn to love the faces, or they will give you no peace. Faces in the waxworks, rigid in their righteous resolve. Beyond this point, no more!

It is unwise to peer into the eyes of these faces, lest the faces pull you in.  A mind cannot bear such faces, it preys upon it’s roots. Faces know no truth. Only a vague and pitiful pout. The faces must go out. out of my miserable sight. Something creaking crawling, straining to get out. Faces implore us, faces implore us, oh please sir, is this death?

 

Don’t ask me what this one is about, it was written after midnight on the fringes of consciousness. Who is this gothic scribe that possesses my tired arthritic  hand so late at night?

Death is God’s F**k You

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Why?

I don’t want to be overly coarse and harsh, so I choose to use asterisks for the title of this post. But my feelings are raw. It’s about Death. Death really pisses me off. Why Death? No. I mean, really! Why Death? What kind of sick trick is this? God is one sick f**k! We are brought into the world just to die. Think about it!! Whitney Houston is dead. Normally I would just feel badly and let it drift away into my already wounded subconscious. Not this time, though. I was already sad. I was already pissed. I did love the way the news announcer looked when she gave the news. It was like “Oh God do I really have to lay this one on them?” I mean she really didn’t want to give us that news. I could tell. It actually touched me. We are all victims on this pitiful Earth. Because we die. We get a brief glimpse of the divine only to die as an animal. It makes me angry. God is an a**hole!

Why all the asterisks you ask? Because if I let myself get into a rant it wouldn’t be fun to read, it would just be sad. So I temper my feelings just a little. So I can say what I really want to say. Why is it that we die? Who is responsible for this? I don’t want to hear all the usual metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. It fits into the grand scheme of things blah blah blah. I have done this stuff too, even in a very recent post. Maybe we will discover our own true nature. Yeah, right. Maybe we are just f**king dead! Dead meat. Maybe somebody f**ked up, and the results were dumped on some God forsaken planet in a God forsaken galaxy, We are somebody’s abortion. I swear I feel like an aborted fetus at times.

Death is an outrage!!! We should not be happy with it. We should not justify it. We should overcome it.

Now I can feel my sense of outrage subside and rationality setting in. That is how it works. Our reason serves as an anaesthetic, numbing us to the truth. Because the truth is sheer terror. A gaping maw of nothing. NOTHING Get your head around that! You can’t. So you rationalize. “It’s all so sad.” we say and of course it is inadequate. We can’t address this horror with words. I can remember vividly the horror, the outrage I felt when I was at my Mother’s funeral. The grotesque, surreal scene of my Mother’s body, an embalmed chunk of meat, lying in a coffin, surrounded by roses. What the hell is this? Somebody’s idea of a sick joke? She’s dead, and you stick her corpse out here for us to see? How sick is that? It felt like the entire fabrie of the world should be rent asunder. No, the wind is not allowed to blow, the birds are not allowed to sing, all must come crashing down and end. For my mother is dead. Nothing is right about that. Nothing is right about anything, it is all one flimsy prop on a rotting stage.  A badly written, and even more badly performed joke. That is death. It rips away the polite facade and exposes this worst of crimes. There can be no justice, so long as there is death. I indict God as the arch criminal, No loving God would deliver such a curse.

I know there are other ways of looking at Death, but that does not concern me now. I am not rational. I am not sane. I am alone, facing my death with a defiant stare. You brought me into this world and now you take me out. I hate you with all of my righteous power. Death has no place in my universe. I refuse to grant you this authority. F**k you, God. The Lord of Deceit should be your name!

This is how we should address the whole issue of Death. Philosophy be damned!