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Best Poems Written by Beatrix Macabre

Below are the all-time best Beatrix Macabre poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Makabre Marionetta

Hey mommy I am here to play
Daddy and brother are on the way 
To the underworld where I sent them
By gutting tummies and dissecting 
Innards go to outwards on the floor
Faces you can’t recognize anymore
Low and behold they still breathe
So I drowned them in the kitchen sink
Mommy come here, don’t run mommy
Fine I will chase you if you wish 
But now when I get you — Cheshire grin
I’m going to take your life to the grave
Your going to wish you had stayed
Sparks fly on concrete from my blade
Mommy — I call through the halls
Mommy — my newest leather doll
Mommy! I call through the halls
Mommy, my newest leather doll
Eyes once vibrant and full of life
Frozen in time within glass like ice
Taxidermist sand fills your rinds
Don’t struggle scream or fight 
Or you will feel a slice from my knife
Mommy your lips quiver and shiver 
Bound to the cold ossuary of mischief 
Where I been killing kids that went ‘missing’
You raised the perfect little girl all along
Perfect at whistling a thanatopsis song
Memento Mori-bund and invictus
For I am the necromantic enchantment 
Tragedy fused elegy viral malediction
Feel the sweet steel mommy, not fiction
First cut was to invoke submission 
Writhe and twist against her sentence 
Stand still mommy here comes number two 
Mama's little chef, stirring a stew of soullessness
the final cut, a symphony of silences, as carmine trickles
a crimson recipe, where every piece is digested
and in the cannibalistic dance, I devour your essence 
Glazed icons of madness, Mommy my macabre doll
stitched and serried in the butcher's gallery of my mind
where souls are naugahyde-wrapped, my taxidermied trophies 
of terror, a cabinet of horrors, forever chilled in time
In mother's dark hymn, I'm the soprano of sin
warbling sweet nothings of blood and bone
as Daddy and brother join the hellish song
their voices silenced by my tender touch
mashed and drowned, the reapers brush

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Journey Of A Heroine

My journey of blood
                        Sword of viscera and steel
              The Black Rose Thorn Queen

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Done With Poetry

Golden light upon the shattered wood,
snow upon the worn stone steps.
 A fragment of forgotten rose,
caught in the rusty hinge's bloom.

 Grey leaves cling to winter's bone,
ethereal mist upon the river's spine.
  Frost's pale kiss upon the flagstone.
Crisp silence broken by the wind's score.

I'll attend to the worn wooden gate! 
  Commencing the fragility of things,
Growing fragile with each fading ray.
 Gnawing like the whisper of the wind's prosthetic wires.

Details | Beatrix Macabre Poem

Calls My Name

The orb calls to me, beckons breast beat,
blood in veins permeates, face red with heat,
as I asphyxiate, am dominated, reach climax.

Each time lustful, more powerful, sensual.
I crave this fix, my only reason to exist,
addicted to what only it can give, aahhhh.

Run my hands across thy frame, caress bits,
bite lip, if it wants blood, blood darling dear gets.

Prowl the street cloaked temptress,
lady in the tattered azure dress,
lioness disguised broke innocent.

Stranger approaches flashes bill,
curl thy onyx lipstick, teeth glint,
looks like mama found her kill.

Lustfully signal follow, his pants out fill,
puppy panting as we arrive at house on hill.

Velvet lips embrace his, sinker hook and reel,
downstairs feet flutter, horn dog on my heels.

Stair steps slow when he sees my dark caster,
honey’s veins slither the man spins, foot patter.

Tentacles wrap, bind, whiplash backwards,
shrieks elevate, laced crackle of my laughter.

Appendages worm in orally, lurch, teeth shatter,
man’s skin sinks, bled, swiftly made gray plaster.

Husk flung, tentacles grant thy trophy, fly thigh,
moaning peels into the pale moonlit nigh sky.

Heaving, baby craves more, yes, I too my lovely,
scarlet I will bring you every night, to daylight,
just vow you will pleasure me, my crimson king.

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Bear Cub and Butterfly

Blinking away the last vestiges of slumber,
the cub takes a few tentative steps,
her paws sinking into the soft,
loamy soil.
With each cautious movement,
she pauses,
her small nose twitching,
as she samples the myriad of scents,
that permeate the forest.
The world beyond the den,
is a wondrous tapestry of sights,
sounds, and sensations,
and the cub's dark eyes shine with a curious, innocent wonder.
Emboldened by the familiar surroundings,
the cub ventures a bit farther,
her gaze fixed on a butterfly that dances,
just out of reach.
She crouches low,
her hindquarters wiggling in anticipation,
before springing forward in a clumsy leap,
her paws kicking up a flurry of debris.
The butterfly evades her grasp,
but the cub's joyful grunts echo,
through the tranquil forest,
a scene to her unbridled enthusiasm.

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My Fellow Poets

Does not matter what they say..
Poetry is easy but it’s not poetry…
Hallmark cliché is not a poem I am afraid..
You can spot a poet.. By their words…
Spilt from lips with gusto and fervor!
Grotesquerie gavottes meandering rodents!
Leaving bubonic parasitic critiques!
Would you tell a painter how to paint!?
The pallet they should weave, hehehe…
They’re so underrated, non unique,
sad pathetic ghouls drifting morose,
through the catacombs of their souls,
now chests hollow as is their home,
to breath or hear or feel…. nevermore-

If you’re a poet I care naught your words,
if you’re a poet I care knot your form,
if you’re a poet I care not your sword,
I care that you lachrymose inked your scrawl,
and no one can rate and criticize art,
if they hate your work, remember,
they are critics not artist, ask yourself,
one simple solitary question……

Is it better than a soup can?
Wink*

I am supposed to statuesque a poet/poetess;
But it is not poetry if it is not left to be subjective,
that’s Hallmark and I am not interested in cards,
I am interested in filling hearts or tearing them apart,
metaphorical a woman on here I met is a rampart,
mellifluous canary with crystalline shards her arc,
shooting through the night, a bright light in the dark,
mahogany bonfire in the nigh, ember in the minds eye.

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T Woodys Flower

the azure flower, a lone sentinel, 
stands tall amidst the scorched earth. 

the tornado's wild caress, 
a whirling dervish of destruction, 
unleashes its fury upon the field, 
devouring the vibrant blooms 
with reckless abandon. 

as the last petals are swept away, 
the azure flower remains, 
a frosty jewel, 
polished by the tempest's violent hand. 

it now dances, isolated, 
amidst the barren vastness, 
a wistful beauty sullied by the ravages of chaos. 

in this tragic solace, 
the azure flower finds a strange, 
elegiac beauty, 
a trophy to the brutal capriciousness 
of the universe's whims.

the canvas drained of hue,
except a drop of beau hue blue,
a little color in a bleak landscape.

question is will the bee tricks ever get to thrive,
or will this field be bereft of her flora forever?

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Our Droplet Ripples

Sailing the seas of life, we find ourselves adrift, carried away with no compass or map to guide our way.

Our bodies, two vessels destined for collision on the jagged cliffs of the fray, ensnared by death’s velvet chains bound our amatory embrace.

Shipwreck that leaves us both in the auroral abyss, lachrymose tide drops two ebb us away, but we chose not to fade.

I’ll hold you sapphire sanctuary of solace,
living or stuffed euphrosyne, my ensnared.

Our kiss connects, waves dissolve, waxen effigy
surrendering its form, boundaries blurring ravenous hunger for kisses pulled us through the thunderstorm.

Beloved, promise me, you won’t let go.

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Salvage A Whir

Stair carefully dear into the unknown abyssal void.

Pier was once past and now rotted and rictus, petrified.

Hue manatee threaded ten den and garnet.

Ruby teardrops and crimson Damascus drips droplets,

like a leak key faucet in the dead of night.

Scarlet necklace four by one who did sow much,

kismet of my bloodlust and neck crow man sea.

Fools are all burning with me now, how kris pea.

Cerberus let me pass for free or dye dog,

he growls but I remain steadfast and waltz threw.

Welcome to my finally fore Hades is dead,

only pan door ah re mains.

Details | Beatrix Macabre Poem

Enigmatic Perspective

Amongst the treetops a falcon finds its prey
Swooping down talons open to grasps it
Only to let it drop so it’s bones will shatter
Questions have arisen in the coming days
Am I in the talons or am I the falcon hunting
A gunshot is heard with a burst of feathers
I am the bullet ceasing the existence of fables
My words are the rifle in which they will fall