Within, etc.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Within
“A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master.” - Edgar Allan Poe, “The Fall of the House of Usher”
Within the house, within the crypt,
The foggy moisture seeped and dripped,
A dank foreboding bleeding the embrace
Of tarn and sedge and crumpled cloud
That draped the turrets in the shroud
Of fear that was the spirit of the place.
Within the crypt, within the box,
It creaked the lid and rattled locks
And scratched like rats with ravenous intention,
While in the chambers just above
The living dreamed of death and love
And something in between that none dared mention.
Within the box, within the skull,
The maggot-heavy brain throbbed dull
With thoughts that tongue would nevermore express,
With gnawing doubts that squirmed within
The slow decay of ancient sin
And reeked of crimes too ghastly to confess.
And all it took to break the spell
And free them from their ingrown hell
Was simply that they set a foot outside;
But that it seems they never did,
So, restless under coffin lid,
The corpse of introspection will abide.
X My Heart
The blood is not mine to give,
only the pain of the piercing
and the surrender of eternity
to an instant of ecstasy.
But I have carved my commitment
in the shape of a kiss
seven centuries long,
so you will know when you come
that my faith has been kept
in the moment of meeting,
in the last lick of sunset,
in the strength of your arm,
and the hammer of heart-burst
as your eyes lock with mine
and you stake your claim.
Collection
Not you, not you, not you, he said;
Their faces wobbled by,
Oblivious to the thrust of his inspection.
So many dead, such tiny dead,
The soldiers whispered - Why?
One laughed - It makes a change from tax collection.
There must be more to come! he cried,
You haven’t got them all!
The men crept out again with uncleaned swords.
You have to search, he knows to hide!
They filled the banquet hall
And dripped their cooling blood upon the boards.
The palace quiet once more, he sank
Upon a cushioned bench.
He’d have to have the heap of failures burned.
They irked him with their stares, and stank,
A breastmilk-bloody stench.
He gulped a cup of wine. His stomach churned.
I’ll know him when I see his face,
He told himself again;
He’d seen it in his dreams and on his waking.
But even after, just in case,
To let no doubt remain,
He’d tell his bloodstained troops to go on taking.
He died eventually, and now
His madness is a tale,
And children sleep at Christmas unsuspecting
That Santa’s sack must fill somehow,
And if his love should fail
He’ll not be out delivering but collecting.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, including Spectral Realms, Yellow Mama, Black Petals and many others.
By
Simon MacCulloch
Within
“A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master.” - Edgar Allan Poe, “The Fall of the House of Usher”
Within the house, within the crypt,
The foggy moisture seeped and dripped,
A dank foreboding bleeding the embrace
Of tarn and sedge and crumpled cloud
That draped the turrets in the shroud
Of fear that was the spirit of the place.
Within the crypt, within the box,
It creaked the lid and rattled locks
And scratched like rats with ravenous intention,
While in the chambers just above
The living dreamed of death and love
And something in between that none dared mention.
Within the box, within the skull,
The maggot-heavy brain throbbed dull
With thoughts that tongue would nevermore express,
With gnawing doubts that squirmed within
The slow decay of ancient sin
And reeked of crimes too ghastly to confess.
And all it took to break the spell
And free them from their ingrown hell
Was simply that they set a foot outside;
But that it seems they never did,
So, restless under coffin lid,
The corpse of introspection will abide.
X My Heart
The blood is not mine to give,
only the pain of the piercing
and the surrender of eternity
to an instant of ecstasy.
But I have carved my commitment
in the shape of a kiss
seven centuries long,
so you will know when you come
that my faith has been kept
in the moment of meeting,
in the last lick of sunset,
in the strength of your arm,
and the hammer of heart-burst
as your eyes lock with mine
and you stake your claim.
Collection
Not you, not you, not you, he said;
Their faces wobbled by,
Oblivious to the thrust of his inspection.
So many dead, such tiny dead,
The soldiers whispered - Why?
One laughed - It makes a change from tax collection.
There must be more to come! he cried,
You haven’t got them all!
The men crept out again with uncleaned swords.
You have to search, he knows to hide!
They filled the banquet hall
And dripped their cooling blood upon the boards.
The palace quiet once more, he sank
Upon a cushioned bench.
He’d have to have the heap of failures burned.
They irked him with their stares, and stank,
A breastmilk-bloody stench.
He gulped a cup of wine. His stomach churned.
I’ll know him when I see his face,
He told himself again;
He’d seen it in his dreams and on his waking.
But even after, just in case,
To let no doubt remain,
He’d tell his bloodstained troops to go on taking.
He died eventually, and now
His madness is a tale,
And children sleep at Christmas unsuspecting
That Santa’s sack must fill somehow,
And if his love should fail
He’ll not be out delivering but collecting.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, including Spectral Realms, Yellow Mama, Black Petals and many others.
