Candle in the Attic Window(27)
not parchment flesh that scratches
you seek a demon lover through lifetimes
black-lace parties, angst-filled wine and candlelight
rotting breath and broken, blackened teeth chew
greedily your neck, your heart wants more
selfish hunger – you taste false remorse
one-time friends and lovers have turned to morsels
Do not believe it all, my dear
Gypsies caged by flame and shadow
pass bottles more than ancient secrets,
down warmth not found in guarded eyes
smoke sour tobacco, torture tamed wood until it screams
before the flickering fire, cracked bone dice rattle
they lead between the worlds
to crystal balls gorged on lies
half-truths are none at all in clearing the air
your future still awaits, meek and willing
in morning’s scowling light, the Gypsy camp quiets
turn away – you won’t see the poor and persecuted
you have cloaked in mystery, caravans and well-traveled tales
Wait forever, my dear
for a bloated, blood moon full
from forlorn howls, the shaggy man whose beast is
not contained, who pursues you, yet tames
his bite, sees, scents through lupus rage
your nobility does not hear his soulful whimper
prey to mange and blood-sated fleas
his flight, blinded, betrayed by Moon
wolf-pack tracks, slavering to kill
nature’s aberration – he cries out, lunatic
I am not welcome anywhere, two halves that cannot join
you fancy to have leashed the noble beast
the wolves, or he alone, would hunt you if they could
Search ever on, my dear
the shambling, bolted simulacrum is not the sum
but the beginning, a mind hinged to flesh
monster made by machines diabolical
project of a madman who, in creating life, honours it not
the divine escapes as you try to simulate by writing
reconstruct the myths; believe them toys to sunder
yet born a byblow of contrived machinations
these frankensteins serve to scar the pages
journal entries assembled for pity and distress
what sorrowful imaginings, Victorian preoccupation
hoping to be discovered and saved from certain fate
conundrums erected to your mad genius
Be yourself, my dear
not like limpid Gaimanettes, pallid leeches
wrapped in ebon leather, sweating perfume
unsure if they exist outside a frame of reference
or were fabricated within the nimbus of a thought
without the molten core to heat their lives, they try to fit
discarded casings, fallout from courtesy and composition
one sudden solar flare would etch distinction
with the half-life of attention as long as youth
they willingly open any orifice to suck
fame from their dark prince, grow on his glory
you shine as bright in any galaxy, yet set
your sights on this year’s fleeting asteroid, forgotten in a moment
Dream divine, my dear, in dreams
leave life’s nightmare, escape death’s coma
wander the ornate halls of opium infatuation
the shallow dance of guttering candles
pipe smoke curls, a seductive foreign screen
unveils a massaging marriage, hallucinations
delirium’s slow, sensual lovemaking
caresses as you court romantic death
you will not leave, cannot exit quickly
until life has bled youth and vigour
assisted by your ghoulish thoughts, vampiric verses
then, shattered beauty discarded, attired in neither dream nor mystery
Life, a jealous lover, will toss you to death’s portal.
Colleen Anderson writes in various genres and has over one hundred 100 published stories and poems appearing in magazines and anthologies, including, Evolve, Chizine, and On Spec. She has a BFA in creative writing, received an honourable mention in the Year’s Best Horror for her story “Exegesis of the Insecta Apocrypha” in Horror Library Vol. IV, and is an 2010 Aurora nominee in poetry. She also edits for Chizine Publications. New work will appear in Polluto, Witches & Pagans and New Vampire Tales.
Desideratum
By Gina Flores
Another sleepless night, with only the dim glow of her cigarette for company.
Lorena turned on her side, using her elbow for support, and stared out the window. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her breasts and the backs of her knees, at the nape of her neck beneath her thick veil of hair. It was September, time for rain and cloudy skies, cool breezes, but they were elusive this year. She inhaled deeply, using nicotine to get rid of the night-taste inside of her mouth, and pitched the butt out the window. Watched the pale-orange ember until it hit the walk with a small show of sparks.
A few lights were visible in other buildings. Parked cars lined either side of the street, but nothing moved. Only Lorena, awake in the dark. Alone. Wishing for a cat, a television – anything to break the monotony of waking up every night at the same time, to stare out at the same emptiness with the same yearning that kept her from sleep. But cats were not allowed in the building and the television was nothing more than a stand for dying plants and lost books. Books also covered the single sagging shelf in the corner. Two boxes without tops sat on the floor in front of it, leaking paperbacks; stacks piled against the wall wherever there was room.