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 smiles and their laughter.
The witches, the goblins, and skeletons and the myriad
of monstrosities which abounded.
He was one of them, if for the briefest of moments,
and the coldness in his bones seem to lessen
just a bit.
The night flew like the fall winds
and nary a child walked about.
Most were inside counting their candy
from the mountain dumped upon their
living room floor.
Soon there were none save one
in the night.
A little girl, wearing a dress of
gossamer white, with a diamond studded
tiara upon her dainty head. Crying.
“Why do you cry so.” the Skeleton Prince asked
“Two mean trolls took my bag of treats” said the little girl
looking up.
“That is no way to treat a Princess,” he huffed
“Here, I think you will quite like this instead.” he said, as he pulled from behind
his back a jagged saw which he placed against the moon and began to cut a piece off.
Bits of the moon crumbled and tumbled to the little girl
below and fell into her lap.
“Take those pieces and place them under your pillow.
Make three wishes before going to bed, and in turn you will wake to them
fulfilled in good stead. Now GO!” the Skeleton Prince commanded
The little girl ran.
With that, the Skeleton Prince went also to bed,
head hanging low to wait for next Hallow’s Eve.
A knocking awoke him, and that knocking
was inside his own head.
for the little princess was their tap tap tapping
on his bony skull.
“I made Three Wishes dear Skeleton Prince.”
“One was for candy, and oh, did it come in loads!”
“The second was to be your friend. So here I am!”
“And the third…?” The Prince asked
“Why, for it to be Halloween every single day of the year.”
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.
There is no need to fear, for you
see, I truly care that you see me
as I see you.
Shadows dance for my pleasure
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 oh, 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.
Simply 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 grabbed myself against the chill which
ran deeper than it should this fall night.
This hallowed eve, it seemed, held more magic than ages
past, more power, more darkness than the last.
An ancient magic flew on a mystic wind
That brought to my soul a feeling of dread and
memories of evils best left long gone and dead.
The night entreated and beckoned
me to come and walk off the path I was on,
to follow the dead parade as it marched on.
Perhaps I could join in the fun
and dance with the minions
of the night who ate and drank of sweet
things they called treats.
They grinned at me from out of the dark,
but I saw the trick in their eyes
as they wiped the blood from their lips
I would not be fooled
So I ran,
faster than the wind could find me,
Faster, faster, faster I ran.
until I reached my hallowed home.
and clicked the lock shut tight.
The night retreats.
by Philip Wardlow
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?
Simply 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
The Strength of Her – A poem
She is solid.
A brick wall could not withstand the onslaught she takes
upon herself in a day.
Crumblings of broken mortar would be the only memory of it.
Limits in place may try and take hold
of a body pushed to the extreme,
but her mind says. “Nuh, uh. I ain’t having none of that”
Tired, but tireless.
Her core is molten lava
never cooling,
always moving,
burning through
shit as it travels.
Stay the fuck out of her way.
Back up.
Let her work.
Just smile, and admire, and admit
silently to yourself
how you wish you were her.
By Philip Wardlow
undone in spectacle
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Health, Reflection, and Poetry for the Journey of Life
Dating, Poetry, and More
Ignorance is bliss / truth is necessary / rust in the soul
Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
Erotic Fantasies
Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
A Place to share My Love for Painting, Design, and Pottery
Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
weird alien 👽
undone in spectacle
she writes
A Wheel of Time Community
Health, Reflection, and Poetry for the Journey of Life
Dating, Poetry, and More
Ignorance is bliss / truth is necessary / rust in the soul
Where writers gather
Realise your innate perfection
poetry, fiction, and musings
Poetry
Erotic Fantasies
Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...
A Place to share My Love for Painting, Design, and Pottery
Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013
Reviews, raves, and rants. It's all about the books we read
weird alien 👽
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 