| Dark Poetry |
| Poetry by Brendan Sullivan and Jason Constantine Ford |
| Ted By Brendan Sullivan I dream in cold blood where air coagulates and legs slip on plastic chairs. I like the way blond women paint their toenails red and wear tiny gold hoops in their ears. I can imagine them on the chairs - perfectly still as they run out of things to say to me. So many of the same questions - and I just make up answers - things about my mother and their sons, stories not found on TV or in their magazines. But they leave me gifts - mementoes, really - rings from their toes lips carelessly left behind on my glasses and hair - clips of fake yellow and that shade of brown you find underneath sinks. I keep them all... And dream in cold blood. |
| To read other short stories, click one of the titles below. |
| About Brendan Sullivan |
| The Charm By Jason Constantine Ford Between the hands of a priest, a charm is held up high As it is exposed to people who believe a lie That a worldly kingdom exists with pleasures sweet. People are gazing at the charm with their ears intent Upon hearing lies designed to circumvent Their minds on a slide down to ignorance complete. From the mouth of a serpent’s head embroidered black, The darkness from the underworld is coming back As a host of words nurtured in the depths of deceit. The charm is speaking to the crowd with a voice from hell Requesting that they make a final farewell To a society destined to become obsolete. As the charm continues with a darkened voice, It promises people that they will rejoice At the sight of a kingdom not seen by human eyes. With each passing moment, darkness becomes thick Inside each mind as the charm is playing a trick Upon people’s foolishness unto their demise. |
| About Jason Constantine Ford |
| Haunting By Brendan Sullivan She felt no enchantment there the bony parts of men left to tangle in the air For she will haunt you in the worst way possible - through skin and blood and malformed dreams through all the stories from her mother's tongue, She will hide and wait for morning to come crawling for August's harshest breath left beating in your breast She will be your crippled arms your womb left underneath her window the heart she could eat whole and beating on a plate your protests a cold dinner left waiting at her door. |
| Mea Culpa By Brendan Sullivan Surely you see just how wrong this is? Even the streetlamp agrees; then again, it saw the whole thing - woman crumpled in a stairwell, only bricks for company. Oh my hands found her so ready and willing - needy, the fog of rapture wreathing her head. My knife found her best parts tucked in and plucked - that treasure from her belly - and took it home. I made a god of her, left her smiling, bleeding out her fortune. |
| Changeling By Brendan Sullivan Within her garden roses bloom beneath the cankered worms a darker growth within her womb will watch its sibling turn It swells with heat, her lover's sin the cankered worm that grows within It swells with heat It swells with heat Its muscles strong; its blood so thin A changeling child is evil fruit to welcome to this world its darkness burrowed in the roots where hell itself lies curled It rests and grows as time abates And shackles her beneath its weight It rests and grows It rests and grows And time delivers wretched fate A mother's love will never know the sting of cold regret or how the world reaps what it sows too harsh to ere forget. She only knows her heavy heart will tear the heavens wide apart She only knows She only knows The ill bred blessing of the dark. |
| Mage By Brendan Sullivan Blasted blistered roots of trees, limbs askew in knotted knees, darkling bark of branches grows- turning back, my fever flows, Maudlin madness chills my veins, wretched reek of death remains - draws me dreaming to this place, sallow streams and wallowed waste. Twisted thoughts begin to creep into woods where willows weep. Turning twice I light the flame no one there to bear my shame. Burning bright, my sacrifice beacon blazing in the night warning all who wander here that God's truth will cost them dear. |
| A Subversion of Minds By Jason Constantine Ford When a lie has quickly spread itself around Minds already lost in depths of false belief Regarding riches reaching heights profound, A charm is stealing Wisdom like a thief. Pocket after pocket is emptied to status dry As people’s ears are fed with a callous lie Of being given wealth no eye has seen In a kingdom of pastures moist and green. A charm in the form of a serpent’s head Is placed upon an altar made of stone As a line of followers are starting to tread One by one on a carpet that makes them prone To believing that a new kingdom has come In a state where their intellects are numb. Along this carpet, ignorance is walking straight Across a set of minds that cannot grasp their fate. |
| The Pilgrimage By Jason Constantine Ford A path is set for states of ignorance to spread Among deluded minds already locked in lies Regarding new terrain they seek to tread Within a false kingdom that leads to their demise. A cloud of smoke immersed with curses dense Is leading blind followers to a new pretence Of gaining wealth immense within a land Where a multitude of deadly sins expand. After hours of walking with no sign of day, The people start to fall beneath the weight Of night as hordes of bones appear in full display Revealing truth of their approaching fate. As darkness gathers round each form of prey, People’s minds and hearts are fading to status grey. |
| A Cloud of Smoke By Jason Constantine Ford A cloud of smoke is speaking to followers misled By a promise of wealth that was set to spread. A burst of laughter is heard from where it floats As it is filled with relish over each fate it gloats. While drums immersed with curses are being played, A sentence of impending Death is now conveyed. Although the followers are filled with desires to flee, Their throats are gripped by the might of Death’s decree. Vapours of decay no human hand can hold Are passing through lungs as cries of pain unfold. With the sound of the drums rising in the air, Each cry for assistance is swallowed by despair. As the melody of Death infects each ear, All traces of human life slowly disappear. |
| The Sound of Drums By Jason Constantine Ford Among a host of bones spread along the ground, A set of drums is played by hands unseen As people’s minds awaken to lies profound Regarding a kingdom to which they have never been. As a melody is emitted by the drums Which gather strength from those already dead, Each follower’s strength of will slowly succumbs To a multitude of doubts that quickly spread. A lie of wealth immense is now replaced With news of their fate coming from a cloud of smoke. All hopes of an earthly kingdom have been effaced As they sense approaching death they cannot revoke. |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| For poems by Brendan Sullivan and Jason Constantine Ford, click here For poems by Judson Michael Agla, Martin Westlake and Alexa Findlay, click here For poems by Paul Tristram and Brian Vorwald, click here |