I see you evil eyeball in the dark,

You twitch , roll, spin and watch

Please stop your spinning to and fro

Or else, Squish! you go between bare toes.

By Philip Wardlow

Outside your Window –

Have you ever had evil imaginings,

awake or dreaming,
and confused the two?

A  palpable scene,

with the texture of  black  silk covering

from head to toe,

wrapping around your neck as your breathing slowed?

The dark outside solidified against the glass

as something settled it’s gaze.

A pinprick of pressure to the skin at

the nape of the neck.

It’s waiting to be let in.

Your hand rises to the latch, as you wonder

at  the horror that seeks you and the  curiosity in

which you seek your own demise.

Perhaps this will be the night

you finally die.

by Philip Wardlow

The Skeleton Prince,

with eyes dark and vacant

as an empty mouse hole,

looked down from his lofty

perch.

Feet dangling over  a crescent Moon.

Halloween had come again.

All the little children

were scurrying about from house to house,

collecting their useless tidbits

of candy.

During the year as always,

ignored he was, no matter how

how loud he yelled down through

the clouds.

The children didn’t like him.

He supposed it had to do with his lack of skin.

It was just skin.

Who needed skin on the moon?

But Halloween had come, and for one night a year

the children looked up and saw past his

lack of skin and smiled.

And he smiled back and even waved

at some who stopped and took the time to

really look up.

He knew it was fleeting,

for soon Halloween would be gone.

and the loneliness would return.

But he reveled in their…

They enter,

meat sticks wearing sacks of white.

The meat sticks tell me my name is Mikal

I don’t believe them. What do meat sticks know?

Then the static returns, and the distortion sounds

loud in my ears.

Red and black swirl like a tornado to my eyes.

I wake to screaming.

My mouth is full  of something and I am chewing.

It is a meat stick.

Why do they scream so?

Isn’t that there purpose? Food for me.

Hunger pervades like a demon sitting

squat legged in the middle of my

gut.

The demon rules.

Mikal?

Always they say that.

My heart beats faster…

Vibrating my ribcage,

for not much fat or muscle

surrounds it.

I am not Mikal…

Mikal was weak…I ate him a while ago.

By Philip Wardlow

Devil May Care

They call me Mr. Mysterious,

Darkness who wears a black hat and a devious grin.

Clever, crude, quick to charm but  never

a prude.

Your sins have invited me in.

So there is no need for fear, for you

see, I truly care that you see me

as I see you.

Shadows dance for my pleasure

For they are the ones you cast

and fling out with pure abandon.

I am a hunter in my heart.

Pure and simple, you are my prey.

Collecting you as simply as a little butterfly in

a mason jar.

And how I love to see you flit and

fly about, reckless with no direction

until SNAP!

You sit upon my myriad of shelves

far far below.

Simple part of my collection until

time runs out of time.

on your miserable little soul.

by Philip Wardlow

The Night Entreats

The crows rested in the trees;

for the killing was all done and they

were full.

Their caws as they conversed,

sounded like laughter to my ear;

as if the murders they had committed

 had been all in good fun.

The wind whistled in the trees

and nudged the dead leaves

to life across the road.

Brown and gold skittered like roaches

and hopped like bulbous toads

traveling in a disorganized parade

for the dead.

The bright moon held no warmth

for it worked with the cold wind

and played through the trees to

cast pale blue shadows upon me.

Figures of dark demons, witches, and imps

danced in front and behind as I  softly crept

 lest they hear me trespass in their day they

called night as they played.

My step quickened as the wind seemed to thicken

and pushed at me like a hand on my back.

I…

No Where People

You may see them as a flit out the corner of your eye.

A inky deja-vu at midnight as you walk the dark street.

Always at the edge they lurk.

Waiting. To pull you in.

If you are  open to the blackness within their  world,

just climb through the mirror or fall into the

mists which lay low to the

ground just before the break of dawn.

They perpetually linger, so

never think you are alone as you

slip into bed.

See that shadow playing off in the corner?

Simple a curtain through which they

stare.

Do you dare to pull it aside?

By Philip Wardlow

My Dear Psycho,

Strip me bear and lead me to the bath tub

naked and lay me

within.

Slit my wrists, slit my throat and have

my deliciousness drain from me

and let it feed the sewers below.

Watch the light slowly leave my eyes,

as you hold me close in a lover’s

viscous bloody embrace.

Sing to me of your wanting,

Sing to me of your loss you hold

deep and dark as pitch that never

knew love.

My Dear Psycho,

Dip a finger or two into an open

wound that you so choose and

paint a caricature upon me of you.

Leave me smiling,

leave me bloody and blessed by your touch.

Leave me dead

In my own bathtub.

My dear Psycho.

By Philip Wardlow

Haunted Baby

While I slumber you climb  out  from your graveyard crib

and creep.

What foul revenge do you seek?

Baby Baby , Haunted Baby.

Stay Away!

But to my kitchen you do go,

to grab  the sharpest knife you see,

then toddle and teeter on unsure feet

with a sure grip on blade in hand,

you make your way to where I sleep.

Baby Baby, Haunted Baby

Stay Away!

I toss and turn,

for in the dim fog that is my brain,

I feel a nightmare approach

in a slow dead march

down my long dark hall.

Baby Baby, Haunted Baby

Stay Away!

With dead baby teeth you pull your way up

my crisp linen sheets like

an animal enraged.

The moon shining through my window

is the sole witness

to your evil

as you plunge

the blade deep.

It is only then a smile

replaces the snarl

on your lips

as you fade off to

sleep.

Baby, Baby.

By Philip Wardlow

Death Waits

Blackness stands vigilant

over a life you deemed

of no worth.

It sees your path laid out like a meandering stream,

soon to dry out in a dead valley gone from tall green

to wilted brown.

Patience is one of its skills for

the time it will take  you

to slowly unwind from your mortal coil.

But unwind you will.

With a keen blade

as sharp as the sickle moon which hangs the sky,

it shall cut you from the

thread of life

you never cared

to hold.

By Philip Wardlow