Nosferatu, etc.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Nosferatu
Of light and darkness, good and evil, pure, impure
The churchmen and the scientists alike seem sure
But nothing they can say will ever set me free
From shadows that take shape to mock the mad allure
Of Nosferatu calling from the swollen sea.
And when his ship comes slyly sliding into port
The city will be shrivelled by the plague he’s brought
But I will be a vessel for his dark to fill
As if I was an empty mind and he was Thought
As if I was a nerveless hand and he was Will.
A sacrificial victim for his bloody lust?
A trickster to betray to death his loving trust?
I only know that this is how it has to be
A night of passion ended in a pile of dust
And Nosferatu calling - yes, still calling me.
Pipeline
Inspired by the cover photograph by Trevor Rogers for the album Rattus Norvegicus (United Artists, 1977).
Stuffed heads are staring, gobbet eyes, crunched teeth
Snarl as they burrow from the walls. Below
Rain-coated strangers come and can’t quite go.
Stairs to the street afford a dim route out
For those who have fathomed what the tune’s about
Before they have followed it to what’s beneath.
The clock stopped at midnight. There’s a red/green glow.
Low-hanging lanterns pin the patterned floor.
Hide-coated stranglers drape the gloss-black door.
Don’t be surprised at what you might do here
Rapt as the vermin of the brain draw near
Danced from the sewers where the rat-streams flow.
Out in the city children still roam free
Blithe in a world in which they might grow old.
Stuffed Mr Fox is saying bold, be bold
What’s left to lose except your entrails, child?
Lost in the tunnels where the dark runs wild
That’s where you learn to pay the piper’s fee.
Fang
Once past the ribs it slides in like the fang of a snake,
Swift if they’re sleeping and slow if I catch them awake.
Then the soft pop of the heart,
Burst by my long loving dart!
Nothing compares to the joy of a kill with the stake.
Sometimes one fries them, exposed to the glare of the sun;
Sometimes a crucifix; all of those methods are fun,
And others have come into fashion,
But all lack precision and passion;
The thrill as the stake-tip slips home can be equalled by none.
Dracula, sadly, eluded it, slain by the knives
Of hasty companions, come late and in fear for their lives;
A loss, but a loss I can bear,
For little enough need I care
For dusty old Counts, when my stake wins the hearts of their wives.
So swoon as you wish at the vampire, his soft bloody kiss;
Those fumbling caresses comprise but a prelude to this:
The shock when you wake in your grave
Transfixed by the gift that you crave:
The point at your breast and the knowledge that I never miss.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, such as 7th-Circle Pyrite, Bowery Gothic, parABnormal Magazine and many others.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Nosferatu
Of light and darkness, good and evil, pure, impure
The churchmen and the scientists alike seem sure
But nothing they can say will ever set me free
From shadows that take shape to mock the mad allure
Of Nosferatu calling from the swollen sea.
And when his ship comes slyly sliding into port
The city will be shrivelled by the plague he’s brought
But I will be a vessel for his dark to fill
As if I was an empty mind and he was Thought
As if I was a nerveless hand and he was Will.
A sacrificial victim for his bloody lust?
A trickster to betray to death his loving trust?
I only know that this is how it has to be
A night of passion ended in a pile of dust
And Nosferatu calling - yes, still calling me.
Pipeline
Inspired by the cover photograph by Trevor Rogers for the album Rattus Norvegicus (United Artists, 1977).
Stuffed heads are staring, gobbet eyes, crunched teeth
Snarl as they burrow from the walls. Below
Rain-coated strangers come and can’t quite go.
Stairs to the street afford a dim route out
For those who have fathomed what the tune’s about
Before they have followed it to what’s beneath.
The clock stopped at midnight. There’s a red/green glow.
Low-hanging lanterns pin the patterned floor.
Hide-coated stranglers drape the gloss-black door.
Don’t be surprised at what you might do here
Rapt as the vermin of the brain draw near
Danced from the sewers where the rat-streams flow.
Out in the city children still roam free
Blithe in a world in which they might grow old.
Stuffed Mr Fox is saying bold, be bold
What’s left to lose except your entrails, child?
Lost in the tunnels where the dark runs wild
That’s where you learn to pay the piper’s fee.
Fang
Once past the ribs it slides in like the fang of a snake,
Swift if they’re sleeping and slow if I catch them awake.
Then the soft pop of the heart,
Burst by my long loving dart!
Nothing compares to the joy of a kill with the stake.
Sometimes one fries them, exposed to the glare of the sun;
Sometimes a crucifix; all of those methods are fun,
And others have come into fashion,
But all lack precision and passion;
The thrill as the stake-tip slips home can be equalled by none.
Dracula, sadly, eluded it, slain by the knives
Of hasty companions, come late and in fear for their lives;
A loss, but a loss I can bear,
For little enough need I care
For dusty old Counts, when my stake wins the hearts of their wives.
So swoon as you wish at the vampire, his soft bloody kiss;
Those fumbling caresses comprise but a prelude to this:
The shock when you wake in your grave
Transfixed by the gift that you crave:
The point at your breast and the knowledge that I never miss.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, such as 7th-Circle Pyrite, Bowery Gothic, parABnormal Magazine and many others.
