Empty
This is my twenty-fifth dark poem in the series inspired by Dharrsheena.
This is my twenty-fifth dark poem in the series inspired by Dharrsheena, though it is leaning towards horror rather than darkness
The music I have chosen is David Bowie's "We Are The Dead" from "Diamond Dogs"
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The Autopsy Starts With A Cut
A Sharp Blade Pierces The Dead Skin
A Little Blood, Now See Within
The Reason That This Life Was Snuffed
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Flesh Pulled Back, Body Is Empty
No Bones, No Organs, A Flesh Shell
Was This A Creature Sent From Hell
Or One From Baron Samedi?
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To My Shock. Itโs Eyes Then Opened
Then From Itโs Mouth A Hellish Scream
This Is A Living Dead Hell Fiend
Awake Me From This Deathly Dream
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From The Slab Rises The Hell Spawn
In This Morgue I Am Not Alone
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More stories from Mike Singleton ๐ Mikeydred and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Recipe for Nostalgia
Preheat the evening to dusk, when the light turns everything soft enough to forgive. Start with one smell you can't explainโstrawberry fields rushing past as she pressed against your back, her arms around you a sign that you make her feel safe. Set your heart to high heatโto that night the security guard found you, his knuckles on glass like shouts in a cathedral, interrupting a sacred moment of worship. Bake with her simple joy until the air remembers how she pulled you onto that dance floor, her hips already fluent in a language your feet were still stuttering. At exactly half-past back when, press play on the song that made her throw her head back laughing when you made up your own words. Let the first chord open the trapdoor under your ribs. Find the old hoodie she borrowed and hold it like a saint's garment (Over-handling may cause her perfume to fade). If it still fits, that's how you know nostalgia is lying; if it doesn't, that's how you know it's working. Add the longing in slowlyโenough to swell every memory of her groaning at your puns, but not so much it leaks into regret. Mix in the three words she finally said for the first time ever. Scatter Polaroids on the counter, shuffle hands until every card shows her mid-laugh at something terrible you said. Fold-in the way her body twinged in anticipation when youโd gently touch it. Beat the urge to call her. Decorate with her last nameโthe one she planned to leave behind for you. Prepare for the ache in your temples; remember, this is a side effect, not a symptom. Garnish with the voicemail she left on your birthday, that you saved to listen to when you wanted to think of her. Serve in porcelain chipped by other lives. Nostalgia is best when shared, but may also be consumed shamelessly, in the blue glow of the fridge at 2 am. Store leftovers in your chest cavity. Reheat as necessary.
By SUEDE the poet2 days ago in Poets
The Saddest Thingโ-โThe Billionaires Who Rule America Aren't Even Enjoying Themselves
This single post says more about our ruling class than a thousand policy papers.ย The saddest thing about today's system is that the men robbing the rest of usโ-โsabotaging our economic prospects, our pensions, our access to affordable healthcareโ-โare not even happy.
By Scott Christenson๐ด5 days ago in The Swamp
Comments (4)
Very cool artwork for this short dark tale.
Ooh, this is creepy. Well done.
Whoaaa, did not see that coming! This was so amazing! Such a creepy story told within a few lines. Very well executed!
Well, that's gruesome! Great imagery, though. ๐ฅด