Margot (midnight_birth) wrote in margot_quotes,

Now We Are Sick: An Anthology of Nasty Verse by Various (edited by Neil Gaiman and Stephen Jones).


Title: Now We Are Sick: An Anthology of Nasty Verse.
Author: Diana Wynne Jones, Richard Hill, Kim Newman, David Garnett, Simon Ian Childer, Alan Moore, Stephen Gallagher, Harry Adam Knight, Terry Pratchett, John Grant, Brian Aldiss, Galad Elflandsson, David Sutton, Colin Greenland, Ramsey Campbell, Garry Kilworth, John M. Ford, James Herbert, Sharon Baker, Ian Pemble, Storm Constantine, Alex Stewart, Jo Fletcher, Samantha Lee, Jessica Amanda Salmonson, R.A. Lafferty, Jody Scott, Gene Wolfe, S.P. Somtow, and Neil Gaiman & Stephen Jones (edited by Neil Gaiman and Stephen Jones).
Genre: Poetry, humour.
Country: U.K., Australia, U.S., Canada, Thailand.
Language: English.
Publication Date: 1986, 1991 (this collection 1991).
Summary: This collection includes 31 poems of the fantasy, humour, and horror genres. In Now We Are Sick (1986) by Neil Gaiman and Stephen Jones introduces the collection to its young readers. In A Slice of Life (1986) by Diana Wynne Jones, the headmaster is on holiday, but the kids suspect he's actually in their daily lunches. In Auntie Ethel (1991) by Richard Hill, the family has Auntie Ethel for tea, literally. You Always Eat the One You Love (1991) is a parody of Wilde's famous lines from Ballad of the Reading Gaol, with a cannibalistic twist. In Chocolate and Worms (1991) by David Garnett, a little boy eats only chocolate accidentally takes a wee within the reach of a raven who has dreamed of chocolate his whole life, and things get surgical. The Dangers of Color TV (1991) by Simon Ian Childer enumerates all the disgusting things the narrator does while watching television. In The Children's Hour (1986) by Alan Moore, the narrator speaks about the horrors and dangers of everyday life that has led to his paranoia that he's learned from children's television. Radio Nasty (1991) by Stephen Gallagher is a poem about a radio station that specializes in the gross and disgusting. In Something Came Out of the Toilet (1991) by Harry Adam Knight, a small boy encounters a horrifying creature that emerges from the toilet bowl and goes after his parents. The Secret Book of the Dead (1991) by Terry Pratchett is a poem about how children learn the facts of death from pets. In Mummy's Blocked the Lav Again (1991) by John Grant, a little boy's mother gets tired of her husbands fast, and has an interesting way of moving on from them. Rice Pudding (1991) is a poem about Mary Jane, whose health situation is unclear and possibly mysterious. In The Good Ship "Revenger", Or, What the Crew Don't Know Won't Hurt Me (1991) by Galad Elflandsson, a man aboard a ship begins to suspect there is something more than treasure lurking in the darkness below the decks. The Dream of Omar K. Yam (1991) is a parody of Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, and tells of Omar's horrifying dream. You're Deceased, Father William (1991) by Colin Greenland is a poem about Father William, who refuses to stay dead. A Landlady's Lament (1986) by Ramsey Campbell is a lament of a lady whose rooming house is overrun by ghosts, who terrorize and scare off all the guests. The Borgia Brats (1991) by Garry Kilworth is a poem about the unfortunate consequences of inviting Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia to a kids' birthday party. Another Cursed House Story (or) Always Enquire About the Prior Tenants (1986) by John M. Ford is a poem about an ancient evil force that feeds on humanity's evils, and gets a new lease on life when a house is built above its dwelling place. Waiting... (1991) by James Herbert is a poem from the perspective of a dismembered victim murdered by a crazed axe-man. In The Thing at the Top of the Stairs (1991) by Sharon Baker, something horrible is living at the top of the stairs, and it needs to be fed. Things That Go Bump in the Night (1991) by Ian Pemble is a ghost-hunter's ode to all things mysterious and supernatural. In the Dark (1991) by Storm Constantine is a poem about all the scary things that wait for children in the dark. Lights Out (1991) by Alex Stewart is a poem about a little boy dealing with something mysterious and probably evil lurking around the dark after bed-time. In A Mother's Tender Love (1986) by Jo Fletcher, a loving mother comes back for her daughter, but unfortunately from beyond the grave. Catcawls (1991) by Samantha Lee is a poem about monsters called Catcawls, that are rumoured to have once been very very naughty kids. The Haunted Henhouse, Or The Irate Ghost of Thomas Hood (1991) by Jessica Amanda Salmonson is a poem about two sisters dealing with a horrifying haunted henhouse. When The Music Breaks (1991) by R.A. Lafferty is a poem about a city that was created and lives to haunting music, and the awful thing that happens when the music stops. Nasty Snow (1991) by Jody Scott is a child's ode to cocaine. Why Private War Or, "Why They Pinned This Name on My Progenitor" (1986) by Gene Wolfe is a poem about the educational and sometimes violent knowledge that lays on the other side of the Men's Room door. The Answering Machine (1991) by S.P. Somtow is the description of two children's violent, sexual, and chilling experimentation with the occult. Warning: Death May Be Injurious to Your Health (1991) by Robert Bloch is the author's humorous take on his own eventual death.

My rating: 7/10.
My review:

♥ If our fancies, grues and glories,
Ever cause you needless worries
We are very very sorry—
But they're only fairy stories.

Dreams won't eat you, nor will mist,
Wicked witches don't exist,
Clowns are friendly, rabbits tame,
Dead don't walk nor mutants maim...

This, and more, we here declaim,
(Just be careful, all the same).

~~from Now We Are Sick by Neil Gaiman and Stephen Jones.

♥ A rumour went round in Assembly:
"Our Headmaster's gone to Wembley
To have a rest, and Mrs. Todd
Will be in future known as God."
I found some toenails in my stew.
I don't believe that rumour's true.

♥ Mr. Grundy's back! He's here!
No teethmarks on him anywhere!
And Mrs. Todd sits looking sweet—
But we know what we've had to eat,
And everybody wants to know
Whose eyeball is this? Whose big toe?
And if those sausages weren't Grundy,
Who have we had for lunch since Monday?

~~from A Slice of Life by Diana Wynne Jones.

♥ There were policemen and men from the papers
And a nice man from the BBC
And some very odd looks from the neighbors
When we had Auntie Ethel for tea.

..The police took us away and I'm sorry to say
With our cooking they didn't agree
Though we promised them that was the last time
That we'd have Auntie Ethel for tea.

~~from Auntie Ethel by Richard Hill.

♥ You always eat the one you love,
The one you shouldn't munch at all,
You always take the sweetest rose,
And chew it till the petals fall,
You always gulp the kindest heart,
For that tasty snack you can't recall,
So if I ate your heart last night,
That's because I love you most of all...

~~You Always Eat the One You Love.

♥ The raven dreamed of chocolate,
The boy unzipped his flies.
Edgar yawned and stretched and stared,
He couldn't believe his eyes.

Small and quiet, John stood no chance.
Edgar screeched out "Caw!"
Big and strong, the bird swooped down...
Little John was no more.

John survived the raven's beak,
But never was the same.
Taken to the hospital,
He later changed his name.
Wearing ribbons and a dress,
He's known as little Jane.

Edgar's wish now had come true,
The memory to savor.
A tasty, chewy, wriggly worm,
Chocolate was its flavor.

The moral of this story, kids,
Is really very easy:
Always eat your dinner up,
And be careful where you wee wee.

~~from Chocolate and Worms by David Garnett.

♥ And yet, there, in that tedious televisual terrain
Stood one oasis of morbidity:
The Public Safety Broadcasts! They could petrify the brain
And quite dispel one's appetite for tea.
They spurned the happy images of childhood and instead
Portrayed a world both desolate and grim
Where smoking ruin lay in wait for tots who smoked in bed,
Or weed-choked ponds for those who couldn't swim.
Small children playing happily beside a busy road
Became a prospect tinged with doubt and fear,
As fatherly narrators calmly read the Green Cross Code
Then smashed eggs with a brick to make things clear.
The Unattended Gas-Tap! The Over-Loaded Plug!
The Fridges, where you'd suffocate or freeze!
The Badly-Parked Ice Cream Van and the Treacherous Sliding Rug!
What need I of Dracula with these?
I learned how little was requires to cross the River Styx,
How little to e rendered dead and gone;
One partly-senile relative and twenty Number Six,
A horse-hair sofa, and a box of Swan.
Above all else, I learned that other people were the snares
On which one's brief balloon might soon be popped.
They failed to dip their headlights of left skateboards on the stairs,
Or opened doors on trains before they'd stopped.
I've heard of those who say that viewing horrors as a lad
Will lead to complications late in life,
But speaking for myself I'd say I've not turned out too bad;
I have two children and a lovely wife.
I keep them in the cellar, where the walls are nice and soft,
Preventing sudden falls from causing harm.
They're padded with the stuff I use to insulate the loft;
So far, at least, it's working like a charm.
We don't go out, or walk about. We seldom even stand.
We boil our water twice before we drink.
My childhood terrors caused no lasting damage, Life is grand,
And me and mine are safe at last.

I think.

~~from The Children's Hour by Alan Moore.

♥ A glistening liquid came from it
That might have been poison, or not,
But then it could well have been tears
Or a trickle of luminous snot.

♥ I should really have run away shouting
But instead I stayed very still too.
I just stood on the landing and watched it,
Wondering what it would do.

♥ The black creature's single damp orifice
Was attached to the side of the head
Of my father who seemed to be sleeping
In the duvet-warm comfort of bed.

But sleep was just inconceivable
In view of what I could hear,
For the noises of slobber and slurping
Meant it was sucking his brain through the ear.

With a sudden slight gasp and convulsion
My dad's head appeared to deflate
As the creature moved back from its sucking
With a grey lump it hurriedly ate.

Before I could take any action
It moved with its mouth open wide
And repeated the whole grisly business
Around at my mother's side.

When its feast was apparently over
I wondered if my time had come.
If not me there was only the tom cat
And a parrot that had a sore bum.

♥ For a moment it stood there all rigid
As I watched, hardly daring to blink.
And it seemed, just before it sank downwards
That its orifice gave me a wink.

In the stillness I sat and I wondered
What would be the best thing to do.
I knew that I ought to tell someone
But I wasn't exactly sure who.

I finally decided the police force
Would not disbelieve a small boy,
Though at first, for safety before phoning,
I'd a black magic book to destroy...

~~from Something Came Out of the Toilet by Harry Adam Knight.

♥ They don't teach you the facts of death,
Your Mum and Dad. They give you pets.
We had a dog which went astray.
Got laminated to the motorway.
I cried. We had to post him to the vet's.

You have to work it all out by yourself,
This dying thing. Death's always due.
A goldfish swimming on a stall,
Two weeks later: cotton wool,
And sent to meet its Maker down the loo.

The bottom of our garden's like a morg-you
My Dad said. I don't know why
Our tortoise, being in the know
Buried himself three years ago.
This is where the puppies come to die.

Puss has gone to be a better cat
My Dad said. It wasn't fair.
I think my father's going bats
Jesus didn't come for cats
I went and looked. Most of it's still there.

They don't teach you the facts of death,
Your Mum and Dad. It's really sad.
Pets, I've found, aren't built to last;
One Christmas present, next Christmas past.
We go on buying them. We must be mad.

They die of flu and die of bus,
Die of hardpad, die of scabies,
Foreign ones can die of rabies,
But usually they die of us.

~~Book of the Dead by Terry Pratchett.

Ken, Ken, poor old Ken
Just like all her other men
Grew rather boring when alive,
So, goodbye, Daddy 25.

~~from Mummy's Blocked the Lav Again by John Grant.

♥ So's I asked him about the bilges, I said,
As we stood off the Windwards one night
"Oh Cap'n we're made, like King Charlie's own jade
But there's somethin' belowdecks ain't right!"

Then Bart gave a start, wi' a belch an' a fart
An' he whacked the ship's parrot fer good measure
"What the hell d'ye mean?" he said, turnin' a mite green
"There's nothin' down there but the treasure!"

"God help us!" I said, wi' a shake o' me head
"But there's more'n just timbers an' swag
In the bilges last night, I seen eyes blinkin' bright
An' a chill at me innards didst nag..."

"The de'il ye say!" sez Bart turnin' grey
As he turned for a swig o' his toddy
"Ha' ye been at the rum, ye snotty wee scum,
Or are ye plain goin' half-wit an' noddy?"

"No no, sir," sez I, trotters ready t'fly
As he looked t'be gettin' sore angered
"I'm certain I seen 'em, great peepers a sheenin'
An' teeth champin' I wot, or I'm hangered!"

Then Bart put his hand on me shoulder belikes
An' he grinned an' he simpered real sickly
An' he poured us a tot which he drank like a shot
Afore he turned back t'me right quickly.

"Laddie," sez he, "mind close-like t'me
An' mayhap ye'll l'arn somethin' worth knowin'
For yer share's down below, an' likely t'grow
If some good sense ye're mindful o' showin'..."

So's I drunk down me drink, all mummed by his wink
An' repaired me t'bed all a-shakin'
For I know'd Bart real good, as his cabin b'y should
An' fer damn sure I know'd he warn't fakin'.

Now I'm snoozled wi' rum, playin' blind dead an' dumb
An' so what if I'm damned for a sinner
The crew's gettin' smaller, but my pile's gettin' taller
An' that sure as hell beats bein' dinner.

~~from The Good Ship "Revenger", Or, What the Crew Don't Know Won't Hurt Me by Galad Elflandsson.

♥ And when the dawn with shining sun did vent
His bedroom and he awake, Omar still dreamt:
Festooned in gaily-color'd crimson his spiteful sister sat
Not staring, still: Her body from its clotted head was rent!

~~from The Dream of Omar K. Yam by David Sutton.

♥ "You're deceased, Father William," the young man said,
"And your skin has become very green.
But you stroll down the boulevard toting your head:
Don't you think this is a trifle obscene?"

"In my youth," grinned the spectre, "I read many books
By Campbell and Barker and King
Which convinced me that lipless, cadaverous looks
were demonstrably every year's thing."

♥ "You're defunct," said his junior, "starting to bloat;
Your flesh is no longer intact.
Yet you ravish young maidens and sometimes a goat.
How might one account for this act?"

♥ "In my death," howled the zombie, "I eat many brains
Which I scoop from their shells with my claws.
You can write the expense off as capital gains.
Be off! or I'll breakfast on yours."

~~from You're Deceased, Father William by Colin Greenland.

♥ When you saw how upset I was
you tried to make amends.
You filled up all my rooms again
by bringing in your friends.
They did their best to cheer me up
with all their little tricks,
him crouching in the firewood
pretending to be sticks,
then scuttling up the chimney
and down the outside wall,
and peering upside down at me
though he'd no face at all.
Her who'd hang above my bed
to wake me in the morning,
and make her eyes roll down her cheeks
if I ever started yawning.
The other one who'd say good morning
shyly round the door,
then sag until his head was spread
across my bedroom floor.
I do appreciate the ways you try
to keep me company.
I just wish sometimes I'd one guest
a little more like me.

♥ And now you've got him in this state,
I'm not at all amused.
He's still our newest guest, you know and
I won't have him abused.
I want him sitting properly
before I serve the meal.
I know you like to play with him,
but I never thought you'd steal.
Just put back everything you took.
You've started my head hurting.
I see where someone's got his legs—
that's them behind the curtain.
And put them back the right way round!
I'm in no mood for japes.
Stop playing with his head at once!
You're like a pack of apes!
That's right, make sure it won't fall off.
And now, what do you do?
Apologize to him and me,
and I should think so too.

♥ Now then, let's make up and be friends,
and when our dinner's done,
let's try to have what I like best:
a nice quiet time at home.

~~from A Landlady's Complaint by Ramsey Campbell.

♥ The thing was in the ground when humankind was in the trees.
It watched their race evolve with an amused and vague unease;
It snickered when they stumbled and It giggled when they fell,
And when they took up arms, why then It knew that all was well.
A human hurt another, It delighted in the taste;
A human slew another, and It gorged upon the waste.
Consuming passion, blood, and death, and battening on pain,
It lived and was well nourished on the ancient curse of Cain.
But meals came far apart and accidental—till the day
The humans built a house upon the soil in which It lay.

There's a puddle of blood in the parlor,
There's a body stone dead in the hall,
And belowstairs somebody is screaming,
And Something's enjoying it all.

♥ The tenants came and went (mostly went mad). It found this nice,
For meals became monotonous without a little spice.

The windows are shuttered and dusty,
The gardens are strangled with weed,
The cobwebs hang thick from the ceiling,
And Something is eager to feed.

♥ There are boards coming down from the windows,
There's a car being parked in the drive.
There are sounds of unpacking and cleaning,
And Something long dead is alive.

~~from Another Cursed House Story (or) Always Enquire About the Prior Tenants by John M. Ford.

♥ Who feed the thing at the top of the stairs?
I do. I say, "My folks went to Des Moines.
Want to see my new Walkman, boom box, Dad's gold coins?
That mew? Just the cat. After you!"

~~from The Thing at the Top of the Stairs by Sharon Baker.

♥ Let's drink a toast
To the study of ghosts
And things that go bump in the night,
For the ghastly phenomena
Of these goings on're a
Source of intrigue and delight.

Now some think my mission
To track apparitions
As dull as ditchwater—or duller.
But their size and dimensions,
Their astral pretensions
Never pall—and they're often in color!

♥ The ghosts around Bude
Are invariably nude.
Is this rude? No, it's merely transparent.
They have strips down their sides
In the Outer Hebrides,
But in Hampshire, near Havant, they haven't.

♥ I've hunted for specters
Over millions of hectares,
And I ust say I rather like ghosts.
They don't leave a mess,
Never talk to the Press,
And eat children scrambled on toast.

♥ Ah, those were the days...
But I'm sorry to say
They're becoming quite feeble and gaunt.
There used to be hosts
But they gave up the ghost
And are not seen around their old haunts.

~~from Things That Go Bump in the Night by Ian Pemble.

♥ To mount the creaking stair by dark,
to pass black, open doors;
Nighttime beckons, little one,
To settle somber scores.

..Lights off and down beneath the quilt,
You burrow, child of trembling heart,
To listen to the shadow hiss,
The faintest terror in the dark.

♥ Gently rasping, monsters stir,
Shifting foulness, rot and fat.
Is their purpose to annoy
Or worse, chastise, a wilful brat?

♥ Can't they hear the muffled snarls
From their room across the hall?
In the morning, when they wake
Will you still be here at all...?

~~from In the Dark by Storm Constantine.

♥ Little boy shivers alone in the night,
And hides under blankets, heart pounding with fright,
Stilling his breathing as much as he dares—
For Something Unpleasant is creeping upstairs.

♥ The house breathes around him like something alive,
Allowing his terrors to blossom and thrive,
And the specters that whisper their way through the door
Chill the child to the bone as they blow round the floor.

Little boy shivers alone in the night,
Until terrors dissolve with the dawn's gentle light—
And Something Unwholesome, of shadows and dread,
Creeps away down the stairs, now contented and fed.

~~from In the Dark by Storm Constantine.

♥ Bethany, Bethy child,
Golden-haired girl,
Can you not hint where you've run?
Tresses entangled, curls ripped and torn
Like hell-hounds pursued you—and won.

..Bethany, Bethy child,
Corpse-pallored babe,
Now you are orphan no more.
Ah, don't pull away with such terror-glazed mien
From a mother who loves you so sore.

Bethany, Bethy child,
Dear daughter mine,
Why don't you smile and be gay?
Your mother has come back from so very far,
Come back to take you away.

Bethany, Bethy child,
Frail young thing,
Why do you hopelessly moan?
When I have travelled from death—and beyond
I've come to take you... home.

~~from A Mother's Tender Love by Jo Fletcher.

♥ Beware of the Catcawl
Who's frequently found
By gravediggers working
The fleshly tilled ground.
..It's hard to mistake them
When once they've been seen.
Their noses are wormeaten,
Mouths are obscene,
And their eats are like cabbage leaves
Wrinkled and green.
Their teeth are like razors
Stained bloodily red.
They have one eye which sits
On the top of the head.
They're covered in hair.
They're disgustingly fat.
A kind of a cross
'Twixt a frog and a rat
And their breath...
Well, their breath has
The stench of the tomb
And their catcalling calls
Like the knelling of doom
As it gloats through the gloaming
And girns in the gloom.
They chuckle and chortle
And cackle in glee
At the prospect of meeting
With you or with me.
So it's best to stay in
When you've finished your tea.
For the prowl through the night-time
Like Vampires, like voles.
And they're not altogether
The kindest of souls.

♥ So if you've been wicked
You'd better watch out.
Make sure you behave
If a Catcawl's about.
For if this story's real,
Yes, suppose it's all true,
The next to creep out of the Crypt
Could be YOU!

~~from Catcawls by Samantha Lee.

♥ Our mum—Who Bess and I found dead
Out back inside the chicken shed
With eyes pecked out and nose pecked blue
In pools of blood and chicken goo—
Was seen today with feeding pail
Of chicken mash. We hear her wail,
"Here chicky-chick. Here chicky-chick."

~~from The Haunted Henhouse; Or The Irate Ghost of Thomas Hood</u> by Jessica Amanda Salmonson.

♥ "Mama, Kirol died just now when he was playing the piano. I know he is dead—I can tell by his eyes. But he keeps on playing after he is dead. Make him stop."

"Oh, let him alone, Alcestis! It's the prettiest I've ever heard him play. And besides, dead people have few enough pleasures as it is.

Enniscorthy Chronicle, 1826.

The city built to Music nears its term,
(on upright instrument that's ten feet tall.
or is the player-genius rather small?),
It sounds a bit like "Nocturne of the Worm".

One thing is real, The Pinnacles of Hell;
But if you build the music very high
You'll rise above them to the slippery sky
And build a City for a Citadel.

Oh shaky n a tinkle-music sky!
Oh tenuous as is the smell of nard!
Collapsible as any house of cards:
And, should the music stop, we'll fade and die.

The City Built to Music breaks its tune!
(Small hands were never meant to stretch so far.)
Like fractured pieces falling from the moon.
Like sudden blood out-spurting from a star.
(Oh, fall like lightning, fall so very far!)

But 'twas a tallish town for several whiles,
With fewer than expected flecks and flakes,
A Blessèd City with a blessèd sound.
Immediately everyone reviles
The shattered carcass, when the music breaks
And rolls the little pieces on the ground.

~~When The Music Breaks by R.A. Lefferty.

♥ O how I love to go snorting cocaine
Up in my playroom blue,
Yes I do think it's the loveliest thing
Ever a child could do.

I poisoned my relatives, Mummy and all
With tasty cyanide toddies
Then doused the gazebo with plenty of fuel
And burnt their writing bodies.

♥ For nothing is finer than snorting 'til dawn
Safe from the cops and the rain,
With the door nailed shut
And the phone wires cut
In a child's own world of cocaine.

~~from Nasty Snow by Jody Scott.

♥ There breathe no dragons anymore,
And throttling bears is such a bore,
It's always sloppy at the shore,
And you're too young to get a whore.

~~from Why Private War Or, "Why They Pinned This Name on My Progenitor" by Gene Wolfe.

♥ You must be quite upset to hear
This brusque machine intone;
The babysitter, though, we fear,
Can't make it to the phone.

We'd loosen up the ropes and leave
Un-noosed that shapely nape,
But tightening makes her bosoms heave,
And Teddy so loves rape.

I'm just amazed at Teddy's skill
At violating virgins;
And at that huge and fleshy drill
That from his trousers bugeons—

I can't wait till I grow a dick!
It must be very nice,
For now, alas, I have to stick
To human sacrifice.

♥ "Old man?" I hear your worried voice,
"Molesters are a danger!"
But dear Mama, we had no choice,
Besides, he's not a stranger.

He often visits our boudoir
A helping hand to lend,
And all the time you thought him our
Imaginary friend.

It's all your fault you felt that book
Beneath the cookie jar,
And for a school text I mistook
That leather-bound grimoire.

When I asked Teddy if he might
Read me a bedtime story,
Our friend breezed in that very night,
In aspect grim and gory.

♥ But now our fun has grown complex,
Our kicks sophisticated,
Our pleasures laced with kinky sex,
Our violence X-rated.

Wide-eyed I watched dear Teddy flay
A hapless cat alive:
"Oh, let me skin one too, I pray!"
"Perhaps when you turn five."

♥ Tonight we'll cast this awesome spell,
And you'll come home to find
Your darling ones enthroned in Hell,
The contract's just been signed.

There;s one condition though, in fact,
On which these prizes ride;
Your darling cherubs must enact
A grisly matricide.

The line's gone dead! Where are you, mater?
Fled the theatre lobby?
Forgetting that you've planned, for later,
A tryst with Uncle Bobby?

I watch the babysitter's fear,
I watch her features wilt;
"Yet—must we kill our mother dear?"
I feel a twinge of guilt.

But Teddy's confident reply
Inspires me to the core;
"It's right and proper that she die—
Because she is a whore!"

~~from The Answering Machine by S.P. Somtow.

♥ I'll have no mailing address
But postmen soon will learn
To bring me anything that's marked:
"Tomb it may concern."

~~from Warning: Death May Be Injurious to Your Health by Robert Bloch.
Tags: 15th century in fiction, 1980s - fiction, 1980s - poetry, 1990s - fiction, 1990s - poetry, 1st-person narrative, 1st-person narrative (poetry), 20th century - fiction, 20th century - poetry, american - poetry, australian - fiction, australian - poetry, british - fiction, british - poetry, canadian - fiction, canadian - poetry, cannibalism (fiction), crime, death (fiction), death (poetry), dialect, dialect (poetry), drugs (fiction), fantasy, fiction, ghost stories, haunted house (fiction), horror, hotels/inns (fiction), humour (fiction), humour (poetry), italian in fiction, music (fiction), nautical fiction, nautical poetry, occult (fiction), paranormal investigations (fiction), parenthood (fiction), parody, poetry, rape (fiction), religion (fiction), religion - satanism (fiction), sexuality (fiction), thai - poetry, zombie fiction

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