Poetry

All tongues were grafted in places 
where they could learn to deceive:
"Voices," he told the jury. "They made
me do it." And they believed him, sent
him to the asylum that was supposed
to end his corruption of flesh. But no 
secrets could hide underneath the skin;
the backbone could not be battered forever.

My memories of uncle could fit in a teacup.
The black stirrings, broken leaves washed in dark water.
Before they carried his coffin over the threshold,
we struggled to find words to wreathe around him;
unmarried, childless, his dark eyes like anvils.
Even the dogs would not come near.

She found a wizard
made of wax,
dismissed his magic,
lit his staff,

On a tumbledown tract
in a lampless lane
at the end of the end of the end
stands old Doc's house,
porch boards popping
and rank rooms peeling

Whatever that man may claim
I did not turn him into a worm.
If I had it in my power

From dawn to dusk he lives
And breathes like any other soul.
Yet his changeling self arrives
Whenever the moon shines full.
Although he's only temporary,
Beware the werecanary!

Only one succubus allowed in each bed
No showers for werewolves, it clogs the drains
Banshees, stop shrieking, you’ll wake the undead
Keep Kerberos off my carpets (droolstains)

I’d like to go on holiday
To someplace really far away.
A bed & breakfast, lunch, and tea
At some remote locality.

Stone, silk, and silence fill
the barrow past the door
it is old, the door, and iron-barred, 
and it leads to the windy toor.

we are alone

every world we visit
every system 
lies empty