Long Skulks Poems

Long Skulks Poems. Below are the most popular long Skulks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skulks poems by poem length and keyword.

He loiters in shadows in line for no harp
The tools of his trade all surgically sharp
He slices their throats before they start yelling
The Lord knows his name but the Lord isn’t telling

So prowling these lanes seeking hooker or stripper
To bolster the legend of Mister J Ripper
He skulks in the gloom, an All Hallows’ day tripper 
His yen to splay female flesh wide like a kipper 

Thus, nervous and pretty with Lilly-white skin
Her blood gushes free from just under her chin
A flash of a blade in the moonlight is made
And she lies agape and ravaged and flayed

His lust and sick love precludes notions of rape
He melts in the night with a swish of his cape 
They don’t understand so they call it a crime
But Jack will be back... at least one more time

But there’s no monopoly on London’s streets
And angel or Satan... everyone eats
Yet too many nutters the law cannot track
So, why not blame all of the carnage on Jack

And when Jack returns to a lust fuelled delight -
(A lady who markets her wares in the night)
A chilling voice whispers, ‘Wrong alleyway bud’
And the Vampire moves in to savour Jack’s blood



4 May 2021
Contest: A Poem of Horror
Sponsor:Funom Makama

© Terry Flood  

The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker

I love walking 
the rutted roads 
Running in 
hidden groves 
Through  
      the residential jungles

the rambling 
backyard boulevards 
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel 

A straight line between 
Picket fenced fortresses of 
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by 
dumpster divers

I love listening 
		To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of 
wildland 
Overruled by skulks of city foxes 

I love trekking 
	The pioneered turnpikes 
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between 
the telephone lines 
mapped by

XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities 

I love the 
	Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be 
Needed anymore 
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters

© David Walker  

Shadows detach at dusk to sneak silently away 
to roost together like bats in rookeries,
hanging upside down, wrapped in black mantles, gossiping.

Each shadow reborn each morn seeks out its host
like a parasite seeking sustenance and succour,
for a shadow detached is inanimate and non-existent.

Shadows need light and objects to cast silhouettes
to give shadows life, substance and vitality.
Only things of this world cast shadows,
So things and beings that cast no shadow are spooky.

Shadows follow you around mirroring every move you make.
In endless shadow-puppet performances
they often give you away when you sneak up,
and showcase your slinks and skulks when you slither away.

The brighter the light the stronger the shadow.
Multiple lights cast multiple shadows.
Shadows are too dark and foreboding of death and evil to be friends
For shadows are cast by the living, the dead and lifeless things.
But only the living animate shadows into life.

© John Anderson  

Kirk is a rooster in a suit,
yelling “freedom”
while polishing his boots
so no mud ever touches him.
He’s all mouth,
no fight,
selling rage like it’s champagne.

Vance skulks in the corner,
smokes his own shame,
pretends he’s the last honest man
while sniffing nostalgia
and blaming everyone
for everything he hates.

Kirk’s dreams are neat,
Vance’s are crooked,
both lie like toothless gamblers
pretending their debts don’t exist.
Kirk waves banners,
Vance waves ghosts—
same emptiness,
different dress code.

They think they’re fighting wars.
They’re not.
They’re clipping feathers
off each other’s parrots
while the world burns
and nobody remembers their names
tomorrow.

Politics?
It’s just theater for men
who smell like fear and whiskey,
and both of them—
roosters or ghosts—
stumble drunk
on the same cracked stage.

© James Mclain