Dark Poetry
Poetry by John Thomas Allen, Cindy O'Quinn, Alexa Findlay
and Lewis Humphries
The Blue Ministry
   By John Thomas Allen

They found me in the graveyard
I found a tooth and been drinking laid up
it was her grave, good as any
The rain was a ministry
the brambles broke in my mouth
I didn’t care at all
The cops came up
said what you doing boy
I said just killing time he said it’s killing us
Both of em kicked me
He said you don’t bother potter’s field
or it’ll bother you
I put the tooth in my pocket
They dragged me to the exit clawing
There wasn’t any car there
It was a police boat the streets were flooded
I said what in the hell
They said shut up boy
Everyone got to go some time.
I said I get sea swoll on them things
One had sunglasses the other had coalminer’s eyes
bitter as the moon
He said don’t worry I got something
And there was orange Dramamine
flake on a wafer
Things got cool and slow
I fingered my lips they was all red
Red on my fingers
I raised my collar proud
It was clown silk
The rain was a ministry.
My cheeks were rouged in small hexes
I stood we went over Miss Ahuata’s grave
I said I’m in a painting for damn sure
I tried to light a cigarette
but my arms were paddles.
And the police had gone
said to no one I knew
“This is cool and slow”
Slower than I’d thought
I sucked in

I spit the tooth out
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About John Thomas Allen

John Thomas Allen is a 34 year
old poet from Upstate NY.  He
really likes experimental poetry
and if he can understand the
poem right away, he has to
question the poet’s real intent.
He was recently published in
Veil: A Journal of Darker
Musings, has a story in
Ghostlight: A Magazine of
Terror, and prefers a blend of
macabre/surrealist poetry in the
"tradition" of HPL, Poe, and
Clark Ashton Smith.
About Cindy O'Quinn

Cindy O'Quinn writes dark
poetry and fiction on her
working homestead in northern
Maine.  Author of the poetry
collection, _Return to Graveyard
Dust_, and the novel, _Dark
Cloud on Naked Creek_.  Works
published or forthcoming in
Lycan Valley Press, Blood Moon
Rising Magazine, Rat's Ass
Review, Black Petals, Rag
Queen Periodical, and others.  
Member of HWA and New
England Speculative Writers.  
Follow Cindy on Facebook for
updates @CindyOQuinnWriter.
A Purpose in the Hollow
            By Lewis Humphries

Too late to save the seeping life of day,
where moonlight spills in tricks of hoary shine,
a rebellion bleeds beneath the raging sky.
Between the street’s glow and the shade it swarms,
its motion fleeting as felled slants of light
sweep across the flagstones in relentless chase.

Whilst footfall pounds against the cobbled stone,
and beats the cadence of an anguished song,
it’s quarry falls before insistent will.
Stood still between the contours of shadows,
where all is hushed but for his heaving breath,
he bows beneath the weight of cruel intent.

As hands to fists that bray the lifeless form
shape crimson moulds beneath the silver sun,
and puncture life with thrusts of a pointed blade.
Until bruised and steeped in a bloodstained hue,
they are pressed into pocketfuls of nothing,
restless for the remnants of the day.

As middle England rests in content sleep,
it’s children seek a purpose in the hollow;
denied them through the motions of the day.
Though strangers in a small square of being,
they acquiesce to an ambiguous yearn,
to belong beneath the smoulder of a midday sun.

Through a portent of the fractured day,
where blue smoke embers haunt the cerise sky,
slow bleeding colours birth the working hours;
when they must live the dreams of elders,
through the dint of toil and token craft,
By Cindy O’Quinn

She steps from the shadows of bones,
belonging to the ghosts of horror fame,
creating devastation among those once known.
Destruction is her middle name,
and she kills everyone in order to be alone.

Webs of darkness fill her eyes.
She takes you down for the thrill –
strike a match and watch them die.
Toasted almond is the scent of her favorite pill,
she takes two before kissing the sky.

Pull the trigger and laugh as they fall
all over town up and down.
The big ones tumble on top of the small.
She does it for free
just to watch as they hit the ground.

Beg if you want,
but she can’t hear your plea.
She is back from cotton candy skies
tearing a page from history,
and kissing your ass goodbye.
The Whisper of Fingertip
            By Lewis Humphries

As one beneath the spill of moonlight,
their essence braced against the cold,
as slithered, silver seeping
engulfs the twilights' mould,
and hues the pale
of winters drift
a deeper
shade of
words are
spoken in
the moment, no
trace of sound is made;
instead, his muse slow creeps,
by whisper of fingertip,
each hushed stroke a faithless promise,
About Lewis Humphries
By Cindy O’Quinn

sitting on top of the world
he looks down his crooked nose
at all those he left behind
hair like thick pelted fur

hanging around his shoulders
matted in strands yet held in place
long and crooked nose
in the center of his lonely face

father gone from the picture
and mother now displaced
he leaves her to rot in the asylum
like a broken stone fixture

he’ll continue to fly
fly away from the pain
of a severed family
all that makes him a disgrace

he escaped his past
to take the throne
and judge others
instead of fixing his own mistakes
    By Alexa Findlay

staring back at me
with its beady red eyes
its razor sharp claws
and devilish horns
as I cling to my bed sheets
a demon
from the underworld
ready to take my soul—
    By Alexa Findlay

there stands
the woman in black
tears streaming from her eyes
skin as white as a ghost
staring upon the grave
where her husband lies
a shovel in hand
ready to dig
up the man she once loved—
    By Alexa Findlay

on a cold
stormy winter night
stands a snowman
eyes made of coal
teeth made of icicles
extremely colossal
a frozen statue by day
a killer by night
to devour
anyone or anything
who crosses his path
so vile
About Alexa Findlay

I’m an Undergraduate student at
the University of California,
Riverside. I spend my time
writing fiction and poetry. My
work has been featured in
Pomona Valley Review, Better
than Starbucks Magazine,
Adelaide Literary Magazine,
Halcyon Days, Grotesque
Magazine, Blood Moon Rising
Magazine amongst others.
The End of Something
            By Lewis Humphries

Beneath the window’s bay, in a perfectly
angular square of shade, there lies a
sunken hollow and a mound of grassy loam.
And in the space lies her remnants, arched and
lifeless as the void dictates, an existence
rendered idle by the motion of the blade.

She is joined in indolence, just
as in the feats of covetousness,
by her partner lying prone in juxtapose.
They were red hot lovers these two,
joined in a licentious union, until their
ardour paid heed to the soft brogue of steel.

Its' whisper so persuasive, as the
contentions of an adulterous tongue,
beguiling lives along a pointed blade
to meet their end. Fleet, sinuous thrusts,
and their furious monotony, soon
curbed the thrill of lustful promise.

Whilst song, their song, fades out  
through a density of fabric, gallant fleets
of soil march in time to stifled beats.
From a plunging brink towards the fractured
earth, each altruistic morsel gives itself to the
For poems by John
Thomas Allen, Cindy
O'Quinn, Alexa Findlay
and Lewis Humphries,
click here

For poems by Alexis Child
and Meg Smith,
click here

For poems by Christopher
Hivner and Marc Carver,
click here