I Fell in Love with the Bride of Frankenstein – a poem for Halloween


I fell in love with the Bride of Frankenstein
I don’t know whose heart she has, but I’d give her mine.
I think we’re made for each other it must be said.
Even though I’m alive and she’s fictional and dead.

When that lightning strike bought her to life,
I was well pissed that the monster wanted her for his wife.
“The monster need a mate,” it growled, things were looking grim.
Luckily unlike me he’s an ugly bugger, so she jilted him.

She gives me funny feelings all over, right down to my socks.
Even though her hair looks like a badger that’s had an electric shock.
I love all her stolen parts, from her eyes to her mammary glands,
I long to hold her but worry she’ll come apart in my hands.

But sadly my bride’s deceased, so I must try to be brave,
And swear not to write bad poetry while I cry at her grave.
Instead above her remains each night I plan to fly a kite,
Hoping beyond hope that once again lightning will strike.

 

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I am


i-am

I am the faint sound you hear on the breeze
I am the creek of your door at night
I am the one tapping on your window
I am the hand that turns out your light.

I am the chill on the back of your neck
I am the sigh only you can hear.
I am the silence on the end of the phone
I am the thing you should fear.

I am the grip you feel on your throat
I am the noise that makes your heart race.
I am the static on your TV screen
I am the unseen touch on your face.

I am the one that will end your days
I am the one that on your bones will chew
I am the one that will snuff out your life
I am the one coming for you

 

Halloween Poetry Blues


sad-halloween-pumpkin

They said my Halloween poem needs to be deep,
They said it also should be dark.
But how can I embrace this poetic style,
How can I produce a poem so bleak and stark?

I had an idea, so I went into the garden,
Then found myself my spade.
If I wanted to become deep and dark,
Then a hole needed to be made.

Then once dug I began,
Into the deep dark hole I leapt.
To hopefully compose,
A deep dark poem I expect.

All I found in the hole was dirt,
Mind you it was certainly deep and dark.
I passed the time by teasing a mole,
Then I annoyed a worm for a lark.

But despite being brave and bold,
I was no closer to poetry.
All I was getting was cold,
Plus soggy jeans up to my knees.

So I decided right there and then,
That today deep dark poetry wasn’t for me.
So I went back to bed,
But I didn’t fill in the hole you see.

I thought if I ever need inspiration,
Then back in the hole I’ll go.
To hopefully write a Halloween poem,
If I do you’ll be the first to know.

Catch me doing my Halloween poetry at Waterstones in Birmingham this Friday and Southcart Books on Saturday. I promise I’ve come out of the hole with lots of new scary poems and some old favourites.

Serial Killer I Love You


killer knife

When we first met I thought you were weird,
But it turned out it seemed I had nothing to fear.
Because even though you’re a serial killer I found out
That of your love for me you said I should never doubt.
And now as I look back on our years together,
I should never have worried that our love wouldn’t last forever.
At first I found your life odd and I had to remember,
That I shouldn’t interrupt you while you dismember.
And I shouldn’t worry that you still have your mom’s clothes,
Or that upstairs her body is starting to decompose.
I learnt to ignore murder reports on the radio,
And not to question what you buried under the patio.
But I still get anxious when you go out to paint the town red,
And I worry for you as I lie awake with your mom in bed.
Wishing that you and your axe were here beside me,
But knowing how important it is that you finish your killing spree.
However I do have doubts that your love for me has passed,
When I discovered you’d dug a large hole in the vegetable patch.
And I wish I hadn’t bought you that saw for your birthday,
As you look at me funnily when you sharpen it every day.
We can’t part now I get on with your mom so well,
I’ve even managed to get used to her smell.
You know that I’m not someone of who you can casually dispose,
As who will wash the blood off the patio with the hose?
Who will everyday your knives and hammers oil?
Who will lie for you when the police call?
Our vows said clearly till death do us part,
So I hope you can find it in your heart.
To forget any thoughts of murdering me,
I mean who will grill your victims for your tea?
But you smile at me and it melts my doubts,
And I feel I’ve got nothing to worry about.
You say that hole in the vegetable patch
Is just for a bothersome badger you need to catch.
And as the sky begins to darken,
You take me out to show me this into the garden.
And as you walk behind me carrying your spade,
I wonder why I was ever afraid.

 

 

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The Breakfast Table Massacre


Cereal_Killer

 

You wouldn’t believe I’m a killer,
As to look at me you’d never guess.
That I’m actually a ruthless maniac,
It’s something I’ve got to confess.

You see my breakfast table every morning,
Is the scene of my many crimes.
It’s where I commit my foul murders,
Among the gingham table-cloth lines.

My anger starts when I see the packets,
Their happy coloured pictures rile me.
My hatred rises and rises,
And triggers my breakfast killing spree.

I start with the Shredded Wheat
I smother them in milk and then,
Press them down into the liquid,
And they are never seen again.

I then turn on the Weetabix,
I like to cover them in sugar.
Then crush them into little bits,
So they’re unrecognisable to their mothers.

Then I single out my cornflakes,
And flick them around the room.
My eager evil fingers,
Send them flying to their doom.

Rice Krispies are my least favourite,
With their snap, crackle and pop.
I break them in half slowly,
While they beg me to stop.

My neighbours are getting worried,
As every day I scream with delight.
And shout “death to all cereal,”
So they called 999 the other night.

But when the Police arrive,
They find me with just a cup of tea.
You see they’ll never get a conviction
As I’ve eaten the evidence you see.

So when my name is mentioned,
All breakfast stuff starts to shiver.
They’re worried I’ll pay them a visit,
Me, the ultimate cereal killer.

Happy Halloween


A scaryish poem to celebrate Halloween from the Skaggy archive.

Don’t Pick on me just because I’m Dead

You might call me a zombie or label me one of the living dead,
But in this P.C. day and age I would prefer to be called instead.
Something like terminally disadvantaged or living but impaired,
It would be nice if you could do this, to show me that you care!
So as I stagger towards you with my arms outstretched,
Please don’t try to shoot me, in fact it would be better yet.
If you put away your gun and we’ll have a word or two,
I have so much to tell you from my undead point of view!
I can speak properly you know I just like to grunt and groan,
And I can resist the urge to rip the flesh from your bones
So why don’t we have a chat about something that‘s fun?
How about my embarrassment of being an undead person?
My shameful story begins before I was a zombie you know
Way before the cruel hand of fate dealt me this nasty blow.
When I was alive I used to go to bars and argue with my mates,
That there was no hell or heaven with its pearly gates.
Once your dead you stay that way, I was sure that was the truth,
But now after dying I have found that I am unliving proof
Of the opposite of my argument I thought true I’d claimed.
So I hope I don’t see my old friends, I might just die of shame
However as if that wasn’t bad enough (as if things could get worse
Than stumbling around a victim of this terrible undead curse.
Is that people now call me a flesh-eating barbarian
How I wish I could tell them that I used to be a vegetarian!