Hound of hell (with the softest ears)

Spaniels are all docile and friendly, right? Wrong - this one hails from the fiery doom-filled depths and manifested at the Strummerville all-dayer in The Joiners last weekend... Audio version here.

Hound of Hell (with the softest ears)

Sir Teddy Devil-Spaniel
swallowed the manual
on evil, and he liked the taste –
don’t let the soft ears fool you,
he’ll eat your face,
if you don’t offer him snacks,
he’ll bite and Darth Maul you,
piss on your remains
and in dog-speak call you
‘breakfast’, ‘cos that’s how he rolls,
a blood-sucking demon who’ll drain your soul,
then look at you like a harmless pup,
but approach with caution or he’ll fuck you up,
if you stare into his eyes you’ll pay the price –
give him onion rings as a sacrifice
but never let him get his fangs into your wrist,
so wear gauntlets and bring an exorcist.

Well, it is Halloween (part 2)

Disrespectful Horrorshow

Pinhead,
you’re just a skinhead,
who’s been used as a dress-maker’s
tabletop accessory.

Freddie,
you’ve got finger-knives,
but frankly you’re already dead,
and though I like your jumper,
menaced Dennis all in red and black,
I don’t live on Elm Street,

and ghost-face guy,
there’s worse than you,
unmasked each week on Scooby Doo,
I’m more likely to laugh-in-your-mask than scream,
not to mention blue Grudge-boy,
and his croaking lank-haired sister –
J-horror’s fashionable ploy,
soon a Tokyo Z-lister,
Leatherface and Voorhees too,
I’ve seen things scarier than you too –
Anne Robinson’s botox-stung lips,
leftover bits from tucks and nips,
Stringfellow’s leopard-print man-thong
(in every way so very wrong)
the ‘Hoff all biker-trousered, putting out
another German pop-chart song,
but if ever something meant I might
need cushions to hide underneath
the unexpected late-night fright
of an ad for Meryl-as-Maggie –
that was real horror…

Well, it is Halloween

Things that are 'meant' to be scary aren't...

Unexpected creeps

Not fox-screams,
horror films,
graveyards or fog,
not even when accompanied by theremins,

but:

lime-tree branches stridulate
against bus-shelter perspex,
pigeons echo-howl through chimney cowls,
taxi brakes cry out in the night,
anguished X-Factor faces captured as stills,
Atlas of Parasitology,
CGI babies-in-adverts gyrate,
landlady half hidden by an architrave,
light-bulb reflection (bathroom mirror),
space behind,
next door’s stone garden menagerie –
they stare so benignly,
some fish at certain angles
(Lovecraft knew about angles),
collections of old dolls
tiny porcelain teeth,
pretty much all dolls,
including Resusci Anne;
empty corridors,
abandoned doors,
trash-to-treasure TV presenters,
hydrangea petals so like peeled skin,
monochrome wind-sway of tall grasses,
dark cumulus in summer –
press ‘pause’ to shudder.

If we treated humans like we treat animals

Soylent Red

Merchant Ivory poachers
shoot Emma Thompson on set,
hunt down
Helena Bonham-Carter,
even sweet Winslet
for their perfect teeth,
roots ripped out for ornament,
(Austen adaptations are depopulated overnight)
cut off sex-symbols’ horns,
grind them down
into Shanghai aphrodisiacs,
while in Chelsea,
prize yummy-mummies
are plugged into
serried ranks of udder suction-cups –
never mind the pus,
just pump up the antibiotics,
stalls more cramped than
Wimbledon strawberry queues
or Fat Duck reservation lists.

Down side-streets,
the obese who cannot flee
are caught
and shackled for unanaesthetised liposuction –
oils and fatty acids,
heads vacuumed for human spermaceti,
vomited ambergris,
all essential ingredients
in soap, candles,
microwave meals –
any of low quality
or over-quota
are left to die
in the gutter
with the guts.

Post-war,
those deemed cowards, different or dissenting
are tasered,
hung upside-down
to writhe, groans ignored
as the throat-cutter comes –
contents drain into troughs.
Next door,
embryos
(wanted or unwanted, no-one asks)
are sorted by size,
stamped and dated,
boxed in 6s, 12s, even 24s
as spare baby boys
are minced en masse for happy meals,
just like the Somme
or Stalingrad.

The fur-farm
would give even
Josef Mengele nightmares.

Does something lie beneath?

Lake of Flies

The lake looks still.
The lake has only gentle ripples.
The lake hosts clouds of swarming flies.
The flies are unaware
The lake emits an air of menace.
The lake has great, dark conifer-reflection teeth.
The lake wants to drag me in and drown me.
The lake-spirit is not friendly.
The lake-spirit is malign.
The lake-edge is slippery –
All the better to grab a sliding limb
And pull it in;
I pull back.
The lake-water is black.
The lake may be deep or shallow.
The lake is a mirror of obsidian.
The lake stares back.
The lake dares you to stay too long.
The flies do not care.
The flies hum and hypnotise.
They bite and breed,
They breed and feed.
The lake holds onto secrets.
The flies suggest you seek them out.

The lake seems calm.
The lake is.

The Promise

Today, feeling just a little Poe-faced...

The Promise

Giggling, she led him up,
Ever up the winding stair,
Skirts a-swishing, tresses fair,
To a quiet landing where,
With a lewdly knowing wink,
She drew him to a closed oak door,
With promises of much and more,
Their way lit by her candlestick,
Turned the brassy handle – ‘click’,
And pulled him through, where lay a room,
All walled in, no sun, no moon,
Behind them swung the door, locked fast,
He bore down on her, eyes dark-cast,
“What have you done? We’re trapped inside”
She met his gaze, “Just you, not I”
And disappeared with spectral sigh.