distant wolves sniff at the winds,
sense what you do not.
your death hums in the air!
pings run through your heart
to raise a berm of hair!
Baskerville hounds now shift
from lope to lunge.
their thirst for blood has come!
rapacious tongues make clear
your death is in their mouths!
Behold the cold village Baskerville fog
and holiday summer fields bundling hay,
the Officers Club back door buying grog
till all our money slowly pissed away!
And lock and load shoot to kill in dead fall
the winged corpse of blackbird, gull, and pheasant
when fools and tricksters and gamblers staked all
in the gaming rooms of Hitchcock Crescent!
Touching in the bus stop her milky skin -
running like a fugitive in the night,
and as the last beer and hormones kicked in
so did crimes of passion in the moonlight.
And when the lusts of youth had lost its thrill
I would walk to the house up on the hill.
Written: April 2000
Living in fear of trou-de-loup
Jittering teeth as terror unfurls
Fingers of mist become pea soup
Unfamiliar with alien world.
Muffled sound hear dog bark
I think Hound of Baskerville
Vision has fled but fear is stark
Paralyzed ridged standing still.
Wendigo watching I am sure
Dorian Gray has left his attic
Amityville Horror is there more?
Spectors stalking truly traumatic.
Staggered onward now am home
Shaking fingers grip house key
Horror unfolds am not alone
The Changeling awaits just for me.
Information: Pea soup fog is caused by air pollution that contains soot particulates and poisonous gas. There was a particularly nasty one in 1952 London
image by KellePics Pixabay
They are so harsh others said, and they will peck you. They are mean
She ignored their warnings and concentrated on loving her rooster
Named him Codymyer a name that appeared to fit for some odd reason.
He had a crow that would wake the hounds of Baskerville,
and they lived in Nebraska.
Codymyer followed her wherever she went; she had to drop out of school.
She did not mind; what she was studying no longer held her interest.
She was falling in love with her rooster; was this normal?
It was for her anyway.
They became a couple, deciding nothing would come between them.
They allowed each other to have separate hobbies and interests.
But the one rule was - we will always be each other’s best friend.
And they were for twenty-three years, until Codymyer’s death.
She was incredibly sad until a new rooster came to call.
He was upbeat, friendly, and a wonderful neighbor.
In a few years, she was in love for the second time.
A rooster is only around for about twenty years.
Was it worth the risk? Yes!
There’s a man in a box they told us that day
Come down by the park. He cannot get away!
We can hear him silently screaming,
And snoring, so he may be also dreaming
We all ran down there with a picnic lunch
Most of us feeling we knew him, a hunch.
We all sat around and sang a sorrowful song
The box did not move, though we were there real long
We had a campfire and ate sickening sweet s’mores
We partied that day like Baskerville whores
But we never saw the box move or heard a man
So we packed it all up and smoked joints and we ran
The Gargoyle Yawns
The Fogwalker searches for clues in the moist darkness of early morning. The mist feels it's way through empty alleys and vacant lots.
Cautious footsteps crackle from the gravel pathway lined with broken glass and dry leaves, evidence the Autumn Equinox has smothered the last breath of summer.
Gangways between decaying brick buildings echo from dogs sounding an alarm with menacing Baskerville howls and barks.
A garden of flickering street lights blossom under the black canopy of darkness. These twilight flowers reach for a lazy moon with the dim enthusiasm of jaundice fluorescence.
The Diogenestic odyssey by the nocturnal straggler is an exercise clothed in failure. Honesty dressed in shabby clothes is disguised as a fictitious conviction. This quality that measures the value of character is a virtue that few possess and is rarely practiced.
Who does this best policy of honesty benefit? Is it the one divulging the truth or the recipient of honesty? The best part of this said truth are the lies.
Standing at the edge of night peering over the ledge into dawn the Gargoyle yawns.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
Calibri and Arial are nice, but a little too common for me.
If I were to be a font,
I would pick which one with care;
Old English Text, French Script and Matura are cool, but I don’t quite have that flare.
If I were to be a font,
I think it would have to be bold;
Aharoni, Copper Black and Elephant might all be in the fold.
If I were to be a font,
It would have to be descript;
Baskerville Old Face, Broadway and Forte my personality just doesn’t fit.
If I were to be a font,
I would want to be understood;
Times New Roman, Century and Courier, I think, all would be good.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
And whatever font I happened to be,
I hope that you would choose me.