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Poetic Horror, Dartmouth Centre, NS (2026)

02/25/2026

With Jack Napier – I'm on a streak! I've been a top fan for 5 months in a row. 🎉

02/25/2026

With Christina Faye – I'm on a streak! I've been a top fan for 5 months in a row. 🎉

02/25/2026

Title:Precocious Butcher-

Little Lily, pigtails tied with bows of bone-white lace,
skips through the hallway where the lockers bleed their rust.
Her lunchbox clinks with steel instead of juice and paste—
a switchblade, a scalpel, a claw hammer’s heavy trust.

First bell rings. Mrs. Harrow marks the board in red.
Lily tugs her skirt, whispers, “Teacher, help me please.”
One quick slice beneath the chin—throat yawns open wide,
arterial fountain paints the alphabet in steaming beads.

Blood rains hot across the desks, a scarlet alphabet,
Mrs. Harrow gurgles vowels, fingers clawing air.
Lily dips her braid into the spill, paints crimson lips,
then licks the copper tang and giggles like it’s fair.

Mr. Graves in science lab, dissecting fetal pigs—
Lily swaps the scalpel, drives it through his liver deep.
Intestines uncoil like party streamers, slick and warm,
he slips in his own offal, screaming while she leaps.

She dances on the loops of gut, boots squelching pink,
pulls out lungs still wheezing, squeezes them like toys.
A wet balloon-pop of air, a final crimson blink—
she stuffs the heart inside her backpack, still it throbs with noise.

Principal Crowe calls her down, voice stern behind the door.
Lily enters smiling, scissors hidden in her sleeve.
Two snips—eyes gone, jelly rolling down his cheeks,
then belly opened zipper-wide so organs breathe.

She strings his bowels like Christmas lights around the room,
hangs his tongue from the ceiling fan, still dripping truth.
The smell of iron and s**t and fear perfumes the gloom—
Lily signs her name in entrails: “A+ forsooth.”

Now the school is silent, corridors a slaughterhouse,
three teachers cooling in their own red holiday.
Little Lily washes hands with soap that smells like flowers,
hums a nursery rhyme while the blood dries on her thighs.

Sweet-faced angel, backpack full of meaty souvenirs,
she waits for Monday’s bell to ring again, so clear.
Another class, another grade, another year of tears

the playground killer, grading death with perfect cheer.

Sleep tight, little monsters.
Teacher’s pet just earned her wings
in dripping, dripping, dripping things.

02/23/2026

Title: Parish of Ash and Echo:

The boy was small for ten years old,
With scuffed-up shoes and manners bold,
He raced the twilight down the lane,
Through mist that tasted faintly of rain.
The chapel bell had just been rung,
A hymn half-whispered, half-unsung,
When headlights split the evening’s seam
Like some deranged, unholy dream.

The priest came swerving, red-eyed, pale,
With bourbon on his breath like hail,
His collar crooked, conscience blurred,
A shepherd strayed from his own Word.
The tires confessed with shrieking cry,
The boy looked up, asked only why,
Then silence laid him in the street
Beneath the parish’s cold retreat.

They said it tragic, said it fate,
They locked the chapel’s iron gate,
They washed the blood with holy speech
And kept the scandal out of reach.
The priest knelt long before the cross,
But prayer dissolved in choking loss;
For every psalm he tried to sound
A small fist thudded underground.

By candlelight the frames would tilt,
The crucifix would drip with guilt,
The organ groaned without a hand,
A tremor moved the altar stand.
The boy came back in rapping knocks,
In shattered glass and ticking clocks,
In whispers curling through the nave
Like breath displaced from a shallow grave.

He tugged the sheets from off the bed,
He perched beside the priestly head,
He traced the tire-marks in the dust
Across the man who’d broken trust.
No sermon soothed, no wine consoled,
The haunting fed on growing cold;
Each bottle drained became a bell
That tolled the priest’s descent to hell.

The townsfolk watched him come undone,
A shadow shrinking from the sun,
His hair gone white, his hands unclean,
His eyes fixed on what none had seen.
The vestry walls began to split,
As if the boy still ran through it,
Laughing not with childhood glee
But with a graveyard’s certainty.

At last the priest could bear no more
The knocking at his chamber door,
The rustle of a small boy’s tread
Around the vows he’d left for dead.
One dawn they found the chapel bare,
The collar folded on a chair;
No hymn remained, no saving breath—
Just echo pacing after death.

And some nights, when the road is still,
You’ll hear the tires upon the hill,
A child’s quick steps, a cleric’s plea,
Entwined in parish memory.

02/01/2026

With Geniusworks – I'm on a streak! I've been a top fan for 3 months in a row. 🎉

02/01/2026

With Christina Faye – I'm on a streak! I've been a top fan for 4 months in a row. 🎉

01/03/2026

TITLE-The House with No Mouths:

The rooms still remember.
They whisper. Low like a child's cough
caught under the floorboards.

She scrubs the kitchen tile
in the same circle each morning,
not for cleanliness,
but because the blood won’t unlearn its shape.

She says her name aloud
to prove she still owns it.
No one replies.
That is the first cruelty.

The second is the daughter’s eyes—
open in every mirror.
Tiny hands pressed flat
against every pane of glass.

At dinner, she sets four places.
Then forgets which one is hers.
Then forgets they are gone.

The husband comes at night—
smelling of burnt wood and teeth.
He doesn’t touch her.
He watches. That is worse.

She tells herself:
*They were loud, they were heavy,
they made nests in my chest.*
But the knife kept going
long after they stopped breathing.

There was a time
she said grace before meals.
Now she says it
to empty beds and locked closets.
She sings lullabies to the oven.

Outside, the world continues.
Windows light up,
children skip rope.
They do not know
her attic is a trapdoor of voices.

The dog won’t enter.
The birds avoid the roof.
Milk spoils before sunrise.

She boards the doors.
Paints the walls with lye.
Still, her son drips footprints
down the hallway—
mud from a grave
that never learned silence.

Her mind peels.
One thought, then another—
like wallpaper unfastening from plaster.

She forgets how her name sounds
when she says it.
The house remembers for her.

The house sings her name
with her daughter’s tongue.
The house laughs like her husband
before he knew the knife’s warmth.

She rocks in the nursery,
though no crib remains.

At last, she tells them:
"I didn’t mean forever."
They answer:
"We are forever."

And so they stay,
filling the walls with breath.
She tries to scream—
but the house has no mouths.

Only hers,
wide open,
devouring her from within.

01/03/2026

TITLE-Late Shift:

The shift began with a bottle
tucked beneath the dash,
patrol car idling like a beast
with bad dreams.

He sipped. Just to steady the hands,
he told himself—
uniform crisp, badge polished,
breath sour behind the wheel.
The streetlights blurred
as the Crown Vic hummed
through the sleeping borough.

She stepped off the curb
where the pavement thinned—
just a flicker of shape,
coat flaring in headlights.
A warning? A wave?
He’d never know.

The car struck like instinct.
One scream—his or hers—
sliced through the night
then vanished.

Silence reassembled the world.
She lay twisted beside the tire,
coat caught on the bumper,
no radio call made.
No backup.
Just a steady drip of gin
on his tongue as he stared.

She had no ID.
Only a broken phone,
a paperback, a gum wrapper
with lipstick kisses.
He moved her to the ditch
like storing guilt in a locked drawer.
Cleaned the grille with his sleeve.
Wrote in the logbook: **Routine patrol.**
Time: **02:38.**

He still wears the badge.
Still drives the same cruiser.
But she followed him in,
riding silent in the backseat.

It began with whispers
over the radio static:
“Unit twelve, do you see her?”
A girl in a coat by the roadside,
every night,
same place.

Then the dash cam
filmed fog handprints
on the inside glass.
The breath-misted mirror
that spelled out **I REMEMBER.**

She walks his hallways now.
Upsets picture frames.
Lets the tap run.
She hums through the dispatch speaker
at 3:06 a.m.—
always the same tune,
a lullaby, or maybe
a dirge.

He drank to forget.
Now drinks to numb.
But the bottle rolls away,
always ends up
under the brake pedal.

He asked the chaplain once,
"Can ghosts arrest you?"

The chaplain blinked,
and said nothing.

And still—on the late shift,
his sirens echo down
the wrong streets.
And in the rearview,
her eyes.

Waiting.
Not blinking.
Not gone.

12/29/2025

Title:The Harebone Moon

The moon is a skull tonight no face, just bone,
Two ears like twisted roots
Rising from a grave of stars.
It watches with socket-eyes, hollow as hunger,
And breathes frost across the field
Where the tombstones kneel like teeth.

There is no sound but the cracking
Of tree bones, whispering, dry with rot.
They point like accusing fingers
Toward the archway
Woven of thorn, crow-feather,
And something blacker than black.

Down the path, they stand
Tall, wrapped, bound in shrouds of silence,
Each face a mask of rabbit bone,
Ears stiff with centuries.
No fur remains.
No hop, no thump,
Only stillness
And the stench of ritual.

They do not blink. They do not breathe.
Their teeth are tight with prophecy.

The sky burns with a dead blue.
It is not day, it is not night
It is the hour of Between,
Where even Time forgets its name.

And she walks toward them
The figure in the cloak,
Wearing her own skull like a crown.
Not rabbit, not woman
A priestess of void,
Her hands trailing smoke.

The earth splits gently
Where she passes.
A tremor of forgotten prayers.
The ghosts of children
Dance behind her like shadows
Unpeeling from frostbitten walls.

You want to run.
Your knees betray you.
Even your breath betrays you.
You were never meant to be here,
But the moon opened its jaw,
And you came.

She reaches the circle.
The harebone things lean in.
They listen.
She speaks no word,
But the air bends, cracks, sighs

Your name
Floats up from the soil.
Written in worms.
Etched on a coffin-latch.
The skulls turn.
They see you now.

Your name belongs to them.
You do, too.

So hush
Let the hare-moon drink your voice.
Let the earth remember your weight.
Let bone wear your shape awhile.

It’s your turn to wear the ears.
Your turn
To wait.

12/29/2025

TITLE-Ink of the Unseen:

She draws the house with shaking hand,
each shingle etched in silent dread
the gables moan, the shutters stand
like lids on eyes of something dead.
A flick of ink, the chimney smokes
the world she builds begins to twitch.
She hears a breath behind the strokes,
a whisper through the paper’s glitch.

The walls are wrong. They curve too tight.
The windows blink. The doorbell screams.
Each line she writes lets in the night,
each page becomes a trap for dreams.
Behind her looms a shadowed face
no father’s warmth, no mother’s grace
but teeth like shards of splintered fate,
and eyes that burn the paper’s gate.

It watches her with predator calm,
its claws the echoes of her pen.
The room is cold, the ink is balm,
but only when she writes again.
The creature waits for her to stop.
Its hunger claws the thinning air.
Each word delays the final drop,
each letter buys her one more prayer.

The house she draws is not her own.
She’s never been. She doesn’t dare.
But still, she scribes each brittle stone,
as if she lived and died in there.
A child with ink-stained fingertips,
a beast with breath like winter tombs,
a tale unfolding through her lips
as death itself begins to loom.

You see the child, her hollow stare,
the monster crouched behind her soul.
You feel the weight that hangs like air,
the black that leaks from every hole.
For what she writes becomes the truth,
and what she dreams will soon arise
beware the house, the ink, the youth
beware the things that wear your eyes.

Poetic Horror

02/25/2026

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02/25/2026

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12/29/2025

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