Dark Poetry
         “Just Like Humans”
                         
By Stephanie Smith


Angels scream
when demons pull their hair

When they decorate the sky
with redundant nightmares

they retreat to their lairs
and children’s lullabies

leaving the demons free to
tread on pregnant women’s tummies,

stick needles in their navels,
viscous kisses on their lips

to plague the night with prophecies,
lust for decadence like humans do—

god and lace and liberty
tawdry dreams and hypocrisy,

wrapped up in a web
of flesh-drawn fantasy

Just like humans do
          “Her Body”
                        By Stephanie Smith


Her body was a book –
peeling back pages
like layers of skin

A hunter’s paradise
of wine and flesh
fit for a last supper

Her body bore marks
that even the most
well-versed man
would not decipher

Her body was the poetry
of the people she lured
The rhyme and meter
of their screams

Her dreams were crushed
under the weight of the moon,
strangled by her lover’s insides
            
         “The Place Where You Fell”
                                         By Stephanie Smith


I see your agony in the
reflection of a razor blade
I dream your lips
pressed against mine
Red lines on your skin
formed with precision
Remnants of the lies
which led you to the grave

You’re dressed in white
and Heaven’s own
dirt-caked lace

Here in the place you fell
         Fulcrum
                         By Justin Powell


The tongue,
The fervent exploration,
The foreign introspection of the cavities.
Slender saboteur maps out the skeletal,
Serpentine it swallows the connections between it.

I’d hate the monster more if it did not fascinate,
Nor kill with a kiss.
I’d hate the monster more if there was not beauty in its methods.

Slaughtered as fodder,
The fiend would feast,
The ‘fulcrum’ as it was dubbed,
Would seek out even the marrow after the tendons.
Other-worldly explorer and the beast carrying it within its mouth.

The fulcrum needs no description beyond the tongue.
One does not see it, rather one in fair sight will feel it.
You will feel its French kiss before a tongue sinks past the jaw,
Slides down the throat into a wonder to it as great as it to us.

We are what we consume, or is it with what we consume with?
If it is the latter then consider this an intruder, an invasive marauder.
The wicked tongue seeks more corridors, to investigate your hollows.
The wicked tongue wanders the woods waiting for a skeleton maze to
come.
         Debris
                 
By K.C. Fleming

I take a deep breath,
Hoping it will help to heal the ache,
But as the air moves in,
I feel as though through
my heart has stopped beating
My thoughts are foggy
in this state of vulnerability,
Bound up and tied this way,
They see the way I go limp,
the vultures come
They pick at my bulging eyeball,
And tug on my protruding tongue.
Black crows shriek
As they circle the hot sun,
For you see, I am dead.
Like an autumn leaf in the wind
I’ll drift away and be done.
Cracking at the seams,
Shattering into debris,
But will you remember me?
Poetry by Stephanie Smith, Justin Powel and K.C.
Fleming
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
For poetry by Ed
Pessalano, Susan Shultz
and T.C. Powell,
click
here

For poetry by Emily
Jones, and Benjamin
Blake,
click here

For poetry by Stephanie
Smith, Justin Powel and
K.C. Fleming,
click here