Dark Poetry



Rat-Squalor

By Paul Tristram



Sssh, calm yourself down…

it’s just Jimmy ‘Spare A Penny’

strangling another rat.

I know, it’s horrid,

they screech like blue murder.

He scavenges the City Dump

in the mornings,

and the metal skips behind the supermarkets

in the early afternoons.

They’re attracted by the constant smell

of gone-off food

which lingers about him.

That’s why he kips in the other room

on his own.

We’re alright in here,

besides, Barry and Davey’s dogs are close by…

and we only smell of dirt, tobacco and cider.

At least we’ve got the upstairs

of this derelict old Brewery

to skipper down in.

Wooden floorboards beneath our aching bones

instead of cold concrete.

It’s a nightmare down in the woods,

trust me, with the badgers and foxes.

They don’t attack you,

unless provoked,

just cause a bloody nuisance

and keep you awake all night.

There’s nothing worse

than begging in the February Rain,

with only half hour sleep behind you.

If you nod-off on the job,

they’ll arrest you for being ‘Drunk In Public’,

whether you’re sober or not.

Then there’s Court Fines you can’t pay,

and the DTs in an unforgiving Prison Cell.




3-Officer Unlock

By Paul Tristram



It started with a prod from behind one day.

I ignored it, they got no reaction.

The second time was a different kettle of fish,

I’d already been fighting

the Dark, Sinister Voices all morning, I snapped.

Berserk isn’t quite the reaction they were hoping for,

but it’s what they ended up getting.

I had an almost out-of-body experience

as my psychopathy outmanoeuvred.

I frightened everyone within the general vicinity,

both Staff and Inmates, and eventually Medical.

I’m peaceful and quiet when left alone,

spend most of my time reading, writing and drawing…

but, they just will not leave you alone.

They badger-bait until it is too late.

I do not approve of Violence, but I understand it.

Each step down its ruinous path

drains precious colour and light from my world.

Sterile, and uncomfortably contained is my life,

and a 3-Officer Unlock is now my only company.

Who suffers when I explode? We all suffer!




The City’s Ghosts

By Paul Tristram



You were up on top of the Plymouth Gin Distillery,

last night, a few minutes to midnight.

You didn’t break in, steal, or damage anything…

but, it was upsetting to the passers-by down below.

You were engaged in conversation with someone,

or something… that wasn’t actually there

… and if that wasn’t strange enough,

the urban seagulls have chicks on the rooftops around,

and they were viciously dive-bombing

everybody upon the pavement… but, left you alone?

Someone shouted “Hark!”, although it wasn’t you,

we could see that it wasn’t you plainly…

then two women spectators started screaming

… and you disappeared into thin air…

reappearing from behind us all a minute or so later

with an “Excuse me, does someone please have a light?”

There are no Charges, on this occasion, only a Warning

… stay on the ground, and leave the City’s Ghosts alone.



About Paul Tristram: Paul Tristram is a widely published, Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way.

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Clyde Loves Bonnie

By Christopher Hivner



We could meet

under the big maple tree,

the one we scratched

our initials in

after we buried

that hitchhiker.

I thought that was to be

the first of many for us

but you disappeared

the next morning.


I’d love to see you again,

we could talk in the dugout

of the old ballfield

where you cracked

your brother’s skull

with a softball bat.

That’s when I knew

I liked you,

I mean really liked you.


Do you remember the town

we spent the night in

after we ran away?

The food at that diner sucked

but the waitress squealed so pretty

while we dislocated

her shoulders and knees.

I feel bad about the tip

I left her.


I know you’re afraid

I’ll ask why you left me,

and I do want to know,

it would be great

to see you though

and reminisce.

I see stories on the news

that sound like you.

I wish I was with you,

I know, too maudlin,

but give me some credit,

sixteen years later

and that carnie with the dragon tattoo

is still chained up

in the abandoned warehouse

we used to sleep in.


I wanted to present him to you

as a gift,

let you finish him off

because he’s sick,

coughing and

shitting blood,

I can’t keep him alive

much longer.

I hope you’ll reconsider

and meet me,

I miss you

like that hitchhiker

misses his head.




Htaed Ma I

By Christopher Hivner



A black line

leads straight to my heart,

the terrible sound

of screams

plays on a loop in my ears.

There is a drumbeat

under my skin,

a steady bass pounding

on the walls of my veins.

I am a creature

with the look of a human,

but I can’t find compassion

or sympathy,

only tantalizing breath

that must be mine.

I’ve seen my own demise,

in virulent, semi-conscious dreams,

under water,

in the belly of a plane

filled with

charred bodies.

These issues haunt me

to the point I can’t sleep

for days at a time

and I don’t recognize

my own voice anymore.

But I know yours.

Your words are like honeysuckle vine

entwining itself around my groin.

I hear it through the night,

in the morning hours,

under the noonday sun.

I’m at your door,

sooner than you expected.

My belly gurgles,

the inside monster awakes

to the sound of your perfect diction

as you welcome me

into your home.

No, this won’t take long,

not with my skills, desire

and heavy, meaty hands.




Neighbor Bob’s Hootenanny

By Christopher Hivner



Oh my God

that song,

every time I hear it

I think of that one time.

You remember, right?

That was so much fun.

Of course,

that song

also reminds me

of another time,

Yeah, that one.

Sorry, sorry,

I shouldn’t have brought it up

but the guitar riff

sounds just like

the chainsaw

neighbor Bob used

to cut off your arm.

Oh, oh, and remember

the music he played

when he cut off your dick?

I HATE that group,

no bass, weak drums.

Hey, don’t yell at me

with your squeaky voice.

I didn’t feed your balls

to the pigs,

that was neighbor Bob.

And those pigs while they ate them,

they sounded like

a bad country song,

or just a country song

am I right?

Christ, you’re no fun anymore.




Worst Vacation Ever

By Christopher Hivner



The gull’s beak,

rubescent with my blood,

came at me again

stabbing into the hole

in my guts once more,

piercing my intestines.

I cried out in agony

as its wings spread

and he took off,

unraveling my insides

like it was dragging

a string of sausages

into the air.

This year’s trip to the beach

is not going well.

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