Two More Halloween Poems


Deadwood

We found you among the deadwood that collected
In the river’s crook. Beavers stood over your body like
Kiddy crossing guards fattened for slaughter.

They did not want to give you up. Apparently
Your body’s newfound stiffness fooled them
Into thinking you were driftwood, also;
That you belonged to them.

We absorbed the scene awhile, pondering,
Then went back home without you.
Who the hell were we
To argue with beavers?


The Pumpkin Fucker

O, how I like to fuck pumpkins!
How tantalizing it is to carve a hole
And know it waits only for you!
How round and cool they are on the outside
Yet all yielding, stringy delight within!

A man could find true happiness in
A ripening pumpkin patch, ass up
In all that sweet orange melon.

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Three Halloween Poems I Have Dashed Off


The Fire

I stoked the fire
Until the wood turned blue
And it was hot enough for you.

The Beastie

Spiky furred, razor teeth clacking like typewriter keys
You rolled through the old forest through the dense briars
Under the dead leaves over the hollow skulls
Searching for drowsy prey fat from its own conquests.

You’d appeared in the forest centuries ago.
Different from any other earthly creature,
You were the unwelcomed wickedness
The forest had dreamt up.

Because life in the woods isn’t hard enough,
I guess. Not desperate not clawing not howling enough.
No. Even in the most desolate backwoods,
I suppose the Devil will have his say.

The Skull

Nothing but bone without a face
Without skin, without the warm
Mask of blood.

The skull lies abandoned in a clearing
Staring up at the bright stars
It cannot see.
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I Like This Bukowski Poem


"Writing"

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
from blank gun silencer


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