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.
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 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
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
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
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....
(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