John Grey

Poetry

 

 

In for the Kill

 

Nothing like a heart

that’s still beating,

the blood flowing,

muscles pulsing,

purple-red meat 

in one large, delicious blob.

 

Oh I’ve had liver

and kidney 

and even brain

but my senses revel

in the taste of

man’s core on my tongue,

a maw full of his being. 

 

The heart must be 

ripped from the living,

devoured in one 

ferocious, ravenous, meal

of chamber and atria,

raw tissue and pericardium.

 

It’s a craving satisfied,

an inrush of supremacy 

invigorating, intoxicating,

a beast’s heaven

torn from a stranger’s hell.

 

 

For Your Information

 

The living dead

have neither

the advantages of living

nor the eternal peace 

of death.

They can’t form

loving long-term relationships

in this world

nor loll about joyously 

in the pleasure gardens

of the afterlife.

The living dead 

merely wander 

the streets at night,

blank-eyed and silent,

feeding on human flesh.

Most are zombies.

A few, I cooked up in the lab.

 

 

Having a Bad Patch

 

desiccated,

four nights, no blood,

not even a bird

or a wolf cub

 

my shameful tears,

the only liquid for miles

 

houses locked tight,

virgins protected

by crucifix and garlic vines,

no wonder my ageless 

silent scream

 

come dawn,

I slink into my coffin,

parched,

defeated

 

on my bed of centuries,

skin not only pale

but old

 

ungrateful villagers

 

I’ve done so much

for their nightmares

 

but they will not quench

my dreams

 

 

In the Torture Chamber 

 

I would have fallen into the crocodile pit

if you hadn’t reached out, grabbed my hand.

I briefly glimpsed the swirling scale-backed water below 

and the jaws opening in anticipation.

 

You were saving me for the rack, cat-o-nine tails 

and the freshly sharpened spikes of your iron maiden.

“Whew, that was close,” I said.

You had your heart set on something much closer.

 

FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

Buddy's still cursing that other driver.
Brenda can't get over the body's treachery.
Alec says it wasn't- him who left that soap
in the bathtub.
Lisa can recite the number of times
she asked Amos to fix that top step.
Veronica has changed her mind
about there being no such thing as vampires.
Bruce figured cancer maybe or a heart attack -
but a serial killer? Never.
Roy says that if he comes back as an archaeologist
he'll take any warning on a pharaoh's tomb seriously.
Jake says it was the oysters.
Billy knows it was the shark.
Keith can tell you that there really are werewolves
roaming the forest - take it from one who knows.
It’s not so much a graveyard

as a complaint department.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He has recently been published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes Review.