Red Moon Demon, etc.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Red Moon Demon
The moon glows redly on Burntwich Street,
Hot as a pitch-soaked brand,
Where the wizard’s stoking his magic’s heat
Round the corpse of one who is demon’s meat,
Dead by his magic’s hand.
And the demon comes through the moon’s round eye
With a rustle of moon-charred wings,
And it eats of the corpse, then it speaks. Sir, why
Have you called me here from beyond the sky
To this stone where some dirt still clings?
“When they burnt my dam in the square that night
I determined to burn them all.
I have learned that the moon is a pit of light,
And its funnelled fire’s what I now invite
By the curse that became this call.”
It is true that the moon is the mouth of Hell
As the sun is the mouth of God.
But you’ll surely die if you use this spell
To cascade the lake where the angels fell
On the ground that your dam once trod.
“May the flames fall swift on this foetid town,
May its flesh and its timbers scorch,
And the death of all be my lifework’s crown,
And revenge’s pyre be my sole renown,
And my body its blazing torch!”
So the demon howls and the moon gapes wide
And the world has a blackened death.
But the sun and the moon and their love abide
As the mouth of God keeps the demons fried
With the kiss of inferno’s breath.
Neon
“He hadn’t been through Times Square in a while and he’d always been fascinated by the facade of glamour that failed to disguise the squalor beneath.” - Ray Garton, Live Girls
Neon, blood-red. (Have you fed? Have you fed?)
The city makes predators out of us all.
The victims you bled, in a booth, in a bed
Came eagerly, not even waiting your call.
Living but dead.
Wings in the night, your glitter-strewn flight
Your claws at his window, your fangs at his throat.
The only respite is the sting of the bite.
“If you want to get laid, don’t choose women who float.”
Too fucking right.
Under the floor, the ones you ignore
The sad freakish failures who couldn’t survive.
They rattle the door, the vagrants, the poor
They shouldn’t be living but still they’re alive
Hungry for gore.
Innocents die and the world passes by.
Only a tabloid would run such a story
Gripping and sly, with truth in the lie
New York in all of its blood-hungry glory.
Come, don’t be shy…
The Prophet
There’s a wound on my face that they won’t sew shut
In a while it will bleed me dead
For the words gushing out from the twisting cut
Leave a sick empty hole in my heaving gut
And I’m done when they’ve all been said.
There’s a blaze in my head that has boiled my eyes
Now they stare but they never see
Past the dream-bright pyre where the future fries
In a frenzy of probable truths and lies
In the be and the not to be.
There’s a stench in my nostrils - the stink of shit
But I’m used to this world of sin
And the vapours that rise from the barbecue pit
Where the consciences roast on the red-hot spit
That the priests and the kings pushed in.
There’s a roar in my ears from the reeking crowd
Who would pull me apart if they dared
But I stand in their midst unashamed, unbowed
For a prophet is naught if he can’t be proud
Of the fatal disease he has shared.
There’s a saviour who’ll be here soon - oh, yes!
For to prophesy is to precurse
But I promise you’ll like him even less
For there’s evil enough in a prophet’s guess
But the certainty’s much, much worse.
Simon MacCulloch's horror poetry can be found in Spectral Realms, Black Petals, Lovecraftiana and many other publications. He lives in London.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Red Moon Demon
The moon glows redly on Burntwich Street,
Hot as a pitch-soaked brand,
Where the wizard’s stoking his magic’s heat
Round the corpse of one who is demon’s meat,
Dead by his magic’s hand.
And the demon comes through the moon’s round eye
With a rustle of moon-charred wings,
And it eats of the corpse, then it speaks. Sir, why
Have you called me here from beyond the sky
To this stone where some dirt still clings?
“When they burnt my dam in the square that night
I determined to burn them all.
I have learned that the moon is a pit of light,
And its funnelled fire’s what I now invite
By the curse that became this call.”
It is true that the moon is the mouth of Hell
As the sun is the mouth of God.
But you’ll surely die if you use this spell
To cascade the lake where the angels fell
On the ground that your dam once trod.
“May the flames fall swift on this foetid town,
May its flesh and its timbers scorch,
And the death of all be my lifework’s crown,
And revenge’s pyre be my sole renown,
And my body its blazing torch!”
So the demon howls and the moon gapes wide
And the world has a blackened death.
But the sun and the moon and their love abide
As the mouth of God keeps the demons fried
With the kiss of inferno’s breath.
Neon
“He hadn’t been through Times Square in a while and he’d always been fascinated by the facade of glamour that failed to disguise the squalor beneath.” - Ray Garton, Live Girls
Neon, blood-red. (Have you fed? Have you fed?)
The city makes predators out of us all.
The victims you bled, in a booth, in a bed
Came eagerly, not even waiting your call.
Living but dead.
Wings in the night, your glitter-strewn flight
Your claws at his window, your fangs at his throat.
The only respite is the sting of the bite.
“If you want to get laid, don’t choose women who float.”
Too fucking right.
Under the floor, the ones you ignore
The sad freakish failures who couldn’t survive.
They rattle the door, the vagrants, the poor
They shouldn’t be living but still they’re alive
Hungry for gore.
Innocents die and the world passes by.
Only a tabloid would run such a story
Gripping and sly, with truth in the lie
New York in all of its blood-hungry glory.
Come, don’t be shy…
The Prophet
There’s a wound on my face that they won’t sew shut
In a while it will bleed me dead
For the words gushing out from the twisting cut
Leave a sick empty hole in my heaving gut
And I’m done when they’ve all been said.
There’s a blaze in my head that has boiled my eyes
Now they stare but they never see
Past the dream-bright pyre where the future fries
In a frenzy of probable truths and lies
In the be and the not to be.
There’s a stench in my nostrils - the stink of shit
But I’m used to this world of sin
And the vapours that rise from the barbecue pit
Where the consciences roast on the red-hot spit
That the priests and the kings pushed in.
There’s a roar in my ears from the reeking crowd
Who would pull me apart if they dared
But I stand in their midst unashamed, unbowed
For a prophet is naught if he can’t be proud
Of the fatal disease he has shared.
There’s a saviour who’ll be here soon - oh, yes!
For to prophesy is to precurse
But I promise you’ll like him even less
For there’s evil enough in a prophet’s guess
But the certainty’s much, much worse.
Simon MacCulloch's horror poetry can be found in Spectral Realms, Black Petals, Lovecraftiana and many other publications. He lives in London.
