Dark Poetry
Poetry by Brendan Sullivan and Jason Constantine Ford
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
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 -
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

I made a god
of her,

left her smiling,
bleeding out

her fortune.
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.
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