Acting the Part of the Victim

By S.L. Robinson

Pretend eyes don't follow you
to the mailbox
as leaves crunch underfoot,
covering other footsteps.

Pretend the telephone call was merely a wrong number and not a whisperer of threats.

Pretend you're unaware of the shadow that falls across the bedroom window as you undress.

Pretend the water glass fell from your hand at the same time window glass broke downstairs.

Pretend to ignore the thrill that courses through you as the knife is placed between your breasts.

Pretend you're not clinging to consciousness just to prolong the fear and decadent pain.

Pretend death doesn't come sweetly to your deliciously bruised, battered body as you sink into the warmth of your own blood.


About the Author S.L. Robinson's work has appeared in several horror 'zines such as HAUNTS, DREAMS OF DECADENCE, ALTERED PERCEPTIONS, SHADOWLAND and 69 FLAVORS OF PARANOIA. She is a member of Horror Writers Association and Garden State Horror Writers and lives in the Great Northwest with her husband and two large, scary dogs.







*~_The Burning Temple_~*

Waiting for the storm to pass 
   while I sit in the chilling wind;
      While spirits flow through my body... 

The burning sensation of the erotic feeling
   I mourn for.....
Now I know; don't let the storm pass,
   I want the wetness of the rain to fall.....
      Upon my body ...........

For the alluring temptations 
   to take me with them 
      and lure me into 
         the burning temple of Forevermore.



No Vampires for Me Today


No vampires for me today 
Their black shadows ran away 
Ran into the light to hide 
From my deeper dark inside 

No nicotine for me today 
Nor my lungs the price to pay 
For what now I breathe inside 
A much more deadly genocide 

No prozac for me today 
Or other drug my mind to say 
That happy wind I tried to ride 
Left when my illusions died 

Because I'm running 
From my insides 
But I can't run 
and I can't hide 
For the thing I try to flee 
Lives and grows inside of me.
  
Sarrah Desmonda of Dreams of Darkness




The Muse Tickler


sps
                                         name this poem.....
                                       Sat Jun 5 13:43:01 1999


                i admit it. i swiped this one, lock, stock and barrel from one of the Anne Rice disc. lists.
                           but i am dying to know who wrote it, and what it is called.

                                    ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~
                        "From the panes a green mist swirls, Is it a shadow of reflection?
                                 This apparition in moon beams bathed...
                                 A voice like wind through trees beckons
                          Cool rain on hot summer stone, The odor fills my presence
                                Of freshly dug grave and death and night...
                                     These things are her essence.
                                    Nocturnal Mistress, Spirit Lover,
                                Your mouth of wine and woodsmoke taste...
                           My Goddess of the violet twilight, You are lust incarnate
                           In the sweat of my bed, The eastern sky hints of dawning
                                  Alone and awake but exhausted I lie...
                                      Oh how I hate the morning."
                                    ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~ ? ~*~

                                       my philosophy, exactly!
                                               luv,
                                              mom




Eric, Baron von Stryker



Beware

We are the same -
They walk the Night
They Laugh
They Sing
They Take, They Drink...
They Kill.
As do I.

....And yet....
Their Eyes are Dark (All?)
Their Hair is Dark (ALL?)
They Dress in Black (...all.)
Through Critical Sarcasm
They set Standards
Of Attitude and Behaviour...

These, who by their Nature
May best Express
Infinite Variety
Would make of Wonder
A Refuge -
for the Mundane.
A contemptable form
Of Suicide.

The Same?
...not quite.

- Eric, Baron von Stryker


The Prize

Out, into the evening, my companion so lovely as to take the breath away. Of recent aquaintance, we are near that state in which one loses all concern with others, seeing only One.

Moving softly through the Night, by chance we meet Another I have known. Pausing to speak to this one, exchanging pleasantries, I do not see the change in my companion.

This Other turns, to go her seperate way. And, as I turn to my companion, she is not at my side. Where, I wonder, has she gone? I do not wonder long.

I feel the pain, as the knife enters my back. Snarling, I turn -
only to see my new love, object in hand, recoiling from me in fear.

Wounded, I begin to ask "Why..." - but then, looking within her, I see the near-fatal error. I will not harm her, I know. For it is my blindness, born of a desperate desire to abate the loneliness and solitude of my Existence, which has made this one seem other than she is.

I cannot harm her. In pain, I can only depart. 
Does a heart never lose it's ability to break?

- Eric, Baron von Stryker



Baron von Stryker's Website


(Untitled)

Would that there could be
One, loving Night,
To walk this earth with me;
One who, in Loving, might 
Embrace Damnation;
And thereby set us Free.

- Eric, Baron von Stryker   


Aluka Sarasvati's Gif & Website


Poetry    of    Exquisite    Darkness....

Dark Embrace

.... dark embrace ....
against a back drop of stars
in a night dress of lace
........my dreams pound in color
yet subdue with such grace
the sound of your heartbeat
........forever sets the pace
as the clock chimes midnight
........i do crave your embrace
and dark kisses in the night
........nothing can dare replace
my penny in the wishing well
........vanished without a trace
in the deep dark of dreams
........i'm haunted by your face
until daylight slams reality
........into another time
...................and space 

-QS-

By Quicksilver of the Quicksilver Messenger Service 



Victoria's Secret

Vicki is secretive
  Vicki is furtive and sly 
what is it that Vicki is hiding from curious eyes?      
what is it that Vicki conceals? 
  what presents of silence and zeal? 
what strange words are trapped in her mouth which she cannot reveal?

When Vicki is hungry her breath smells of roses     and blood; 
her eyes are like oceans, 
  they rage and they threaten to flood.

I see Vicki tenderly sway in her casual seductive way; 
  her smooth looking skin will know you like soft razor blades 

So tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's secret?
tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's lie?
tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's secret?
give me the key to Victoria's mind
give me the key to Victoria's mind 

Vicki is ancient
  her body unscarred by time
Vicki is perfect
  a marriage of movement and mind
Vicki is selfless and proud
  Vicki is silent yet loud 
    what mystery is it that Vicki has under her shroud? 

The air that surrounds us would kill her 
   in under an hour; 
Vicki is hospital clean but she never takes showers
with Vicki it's best not (to) bet 
  cos you won't enjoy paying your debt

tell me if you know
  what is Victoria's secret? 
So tell me if you know
  what is Victoria's secret?
tell me if you know
  what is Victoria's lie?
tell me if you know
  what is Victoria's secret?
give me the key to Victoria's mind
give me the key to Victoria's mind 

Vicki can feel your heart beat from over a mile;
  Vicki has taste 
Vicki has unsurpassed style
Vicki has teeth like a saw
  they rip and they maim and they gore 
what form of payment is Vicki kissing you for? 

So tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's secret?
tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's lie?
tell me if you will
  what is Victoria's secret?
give me the key to Victoria's mind....
repeat....


Raif, posted completely without permission, but he's a nice guy so i'm sure he won't mind... ;) if ya like the words, you'll love tha cd... most impressive guitar i've ever heard... the album is called 'the horse i rode in on'. ScatterbuG--posted to alt.vampyres


Vampire's Plaint



(published in Deathrealm Magazine, Issue #26, Winter 1995/1996) 


Would that I could explain what you have done.
Would that I could find the right words,
the right language, to speak the turmoil you have wrought.

I am exhilarated.
I am undone.
I am enthralled. 
Yes, I am enthralled. 
Enslaved. Held in bondage by amorphous fetters;
chained by the tenuous fibers of imagination and speculation.

You have awakened within me an awareness of possibility.
You have opened a portal through which I have seen
the realm of passion and the promise of rapture.
And I am captured, frozen like the deer
in the spotlight of the hunter,
unable to flee even facing the certainty
of my own destruction.

You have mesmerized me. 
How? 
Through which word or thought or deed
did I fall to your guile?
What magical sword did you wield
to cut through the armor of my insouciance? 
When did you cast the enchantment that even now
tangles its threads of yearning about me,
tripping me, ensnaring me? 

There are words I could use
in my meandering attempts to give shape to what you have done:
arouse, excite, inflame, ignite.
Competent words all, but lacking in
the depth and breadth and width of that in which I am lost. 

Imagine, if you will, if you can, an infinite ocean of color
where every hue is a feeling, every shade a sensation,
every tint and tone and intensity an assault upon the senses.

Feel the tides, at once constant and everchanging,
eroding the shores of my reason. 
Or perhaps not color, but sound.
Every touch, every breath of wind,
every texture an arpeggio
that dances upon the source of me,
ravishing my soul and mind,
making me, destroying me.

I am lost.
I am found.
I have become a thing of need, of want.
I desire.
I crave. 
And that which I most crave,
I cannot have. 
It is denied me, forbidden.

By that same spell in which you entangled my passions,
my regard, you shackled me with silken plaits of trust.
Bonds fragile as the character of the maker and the chained,
they hold me as no other might achieve. 

Yet am I allowed to dream. 
Through dreams may I yield to that gentle seduction, that allure.
Dreams are the land in which the forbidden is allowed,
the unattainable is reached, touched, and lost upon 
waking.
Waking is the forfeiture of dreams, the ruinous return to reality
and denial and unfulfilled desire. 

But I would dream, and dream again,
for that fleeting ecstasy,
that taste of culmination,
however brief. 

With your words, you have sown.
In my dreams, I would reap. 
Would that I could explain what you have done.
I cannot.

Would that I could find the right words,
the right language, to speak the turmoil you have wrought.

Lyn Nichols