Dark Poetry
Poetry by Judson Michael Agla, Ana Butnaru and Denny E.
Marshall
A Warning From The Meek
By Judson Michael Agla


Sharpen your Tomahawks; lace up your boots and turn on your war machines. A Hurricane of spleen and
bone is coming, with the tortured souls of fury at the head.
You’ve built faulty systems to repair your faulty systems; nothing you’ve conceived ever manifested into
anything before it turned to dust and blood. Your numbers are wrong, the calculations have handicapped
other systems and they’re really quite fucking angry about it. Haven’t you ever wondered why in all the
prayers in all the world there isn’t any that don’t ask for something?

Trial Of Alternative End
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About Judson Michael Agla
About Ana Butnaru
On The Front Porch
   By Denny E. Marshall


On the front porch watching the rain
See falling headstones from the grave.
The city said it would not save.
The cemetery on fourth and main

Behind a gate locked with a chain.
Progress of the public domain
Stones cut down with bulldozers shave
See falling headstones from the grave

Plan to cover over the terrain
Machines dig holes like a cave
Filled in with coffins, wave after wave
Crew running out could not explain
On the front porch watching the rain
Four Vampire Haiku
   By Denny E. Marshall


Vampire mummy
Never goes out for a meal
Thieves visit often

Vampires join forces
With the extraterrestrial
Now called empires

Vampire armies
Only fights when attack ends
Battlefields bloodless

The werewolf feeding
Killed in swipe of assaulting
Hungry grizzly bear
Camp Zombie
   By Denny E. Marshall


I walked upon a campsite of zombies
Am hoping that they did not notice me
While lost in one the many grass prairies
I walked upon a campsite of zombies
Then appear some jet fighters on sorties
I run for cover behind a large tree
I walked upon a campsite of zombies
Am hoping that they did not notice me
My first flower
By Ana Butnaru


Songs come from waves of mucilage,
As thoughts from my obsolete conscience.
Stripped crusts are hanging in vain,
As forgotten desires are drifting
Into the slops of the mind.


My second flower
By Ana Butnaru

My deep swirl of shadows
Gathers in itself;
And the lump which is red
Spreads forth in frail petals.
How sublime is rottenness blooming
In the depths of my red flower.


My third flower
By Ana Butnaru

My flower mouth
Frowns dry.
In vain words are trying to howl,
For sear is my throat
And sear are my lips
They break in desire
To utter furthermore.
But from putrid
Can only rise putrid.


My fourth flower
By Ana Butnaru

I thrill once more
In laughter
Of musty tar,
With its strengthened crust
Underneath which is pounding
The feverish delirium.
-My still valley of thoughts and flowers.


My fifth flower
By Ana Butnaru

Inside me my flowers lay
Putrid and wet
Lingering
Beneath my heavy mind.
Of thoughts I find myself empty
And my profound oblivion
Takes the shape of bitter tar.
Dragon Spit
By Judson Michael Agla


Dragon Spit is born of the abyss, delivered on the wings of sparrows and the tongues of liars and
madmen. Kingdoms will fall brick by broken brick. Politics will advance into comedy with every crushed
bone, rolled over by the enterprise of genocide and twisted beliefs of a brighter future where good men die.
Living Under A Broke Down God
By Judson Michael Agla


I’ve started to hear the voices again; I can see creatures out of the corners of my eyes, strange furry things
that leave a slimy trail then disappear when I turn my head. I don’t leave my house anymore; I’ve taken up
living an ascetic existence alone with my ghosts, they keep to themselves mostly and I don’t have to feed
them.
God started breaking down ever since I can remember, like an old rusted out car or ancient plumbing. He
gave me a brain that contains only squeaky gears and few aspirations. The world is dying for us; child
abductions, suicide bombs, starvation, mass insurrection, mad rabid dogs roaming the streets waiting for
you to give up your weak and tired. At least they brought back cherry coke, but even that is just a tease, a
proverbial carrot to chase smack into a brick wall .     

I
Into A Zombie
   By Denny E. Marshall


Died years ago, while working on the farm.
Shot by unknown prowler with firearm.
Plot located near wide-open prairie.
Wakes from the grave turned into a zombie.

Looks for guilty party, stiff walks to town.
Soon the news spreads that a local had drown.
Reports blood soaked pool, used the word eerie.
Wakes from the grave turned into a zombie.

After the deed, he knows he must depart.
Of his newfound dead life, he wants no part.
Like bad actor cast in a B-movie.
Wakes from the grave turned into a zombie.
Zombie Park
   By Denny E. Marshall


The city park is now a zombie clan
No one goes there anymore day or night
Yesterday ate a news cameraman
The city park is now a zombie clan
Attacked a lady in a minivan
She steps on the gas and runs the red light
The city park is now a zombie clan
No one goes there anymore day or night.
About Denny E. Marshall

Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry,
and fiction published. One recent credit
is poetry and artwork in The Stray
Branch Spring/Summer 2017. See more
at www.dennymarshall.com.
For poems by Judson
Michael Agla, ana Butnaru
and Denny E. Marshall,
click
here


For poems by Holly Day and
John Grey,
click here

For poems by Ken Allan
Dronsfeld and Robert
Beveridge,
click here