John Grey

Poetry

 

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A Bedroom Ghost

 

The more familiar it gets,

the more it terrifies the furniture,

blows the curtains into a frenzy,

rattles the glass of water on the bedside table.

 

It wants its old life back.

Time is not afraid.

It knows better.

But the room still believes 

that the impossible can happen.

 

And then the phantom,

before it can properly materialize,

catches itself on a thorn 

of self-awareness –

it has no self –

of this it is aware.

 

So it disassembles,

the furniture calms,

the curtains likewise,

the glass of water stops shaking.

 

In the meantime,

the clock on the wall 

hasn’t missed a tick.

 

Time is fortunate.

It’s got more past than anything

and it’s not haunted.

 

The Prisoner in the Dungeon

 

dank and dark dungeon robs me

of my eyes -

 

below I hear the rush, the rumble,

of the sewers –

 

on all sides, 

rats scurry - 

 

but all I see 

are the sores on my legs,

throbbing,

discharging pus

down recent scars - 

 

the sun delays 

its approach through the high barred window,

until it feels I’m suitably chastened 

by the overwhelming blackness -

 

waking dreams 

intertwine with pain: 

a whore’s breast

is tangled in barb-wire nerves,

a battlefield reeks

with the smell of all my abscesses –

 

fifteen years shut up –

 

who am I?

who keeps me here?

 

the guard has a bad cough

but no face –

 

time is like a thought

I’ve grown too tired of thinking

 

There's More

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Body found in inner city alley,

stomach eviscerated.

Rabid bat bites young boy.

Woman electrocuted in her bath.

A blood-curdling scream at midnight.

Unknown footsteps on the stairs.

 

Wait.

There’s more.

A baby, newly born, 

with nubs on his forehead 

that look like nascent horns.

A hairy half-man, half-beast,

spotted in the nearby woods.

A floating head

in a moonlit bedroom.

 

And not just those.

What about the young girl 

possessed by demons.

And the sweater that strangles

whoever dare wear it.

The abandoned house

where strange lights glow at night.

And the giant wolf

that patrols Main Street after dark.

 

Not enough for you.

Then stay tuned.

I am a horror writer.

Watch this space.

  

 

At the Guillotine Museum

 

I stand before Madame La Guillotine,

a relic from the reign of terror.

 

All my life I’ve wanted to see

this glorious machinery of death,

its trestle, lunette,

and that shining sharp blade.

 

But the highlight is

when I peer into the bucket,

where 18th century aristocratic heads

once dropped.

 

Are those stains on the sides?

Is that the blood of some unfortunate comte?

 

What a joy to be here at last.

No bucket list is complete

without a bucket.

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Danse Macabre, Orbis, Dalhousie Review and 3rd Wednesday. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.

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