Gothic Poetry Quotes

If on thoughts of death we are fed, Thus, a coffin, became my bed.

Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it. We've always had an aesthetic intention and a long-range plan. That's what enabled western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a Renaissance piazza. The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It's unintentional. It arose independent of human designt, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with with a sudden wondrous poetry...Sabina was very much attracted by the alien quality of New York's beauty. Fran found it intriguing but frightening; it made him feel homesick for Europe.

Must beauty blossom, rooted in decay, And night devour its flaming hues alway?

It is a happiness to wonder;—it is a happiness to dream

It had been June, the bright hot summer of 1937, and with the curtains thrown back the bedroom had been full of sunlight, sunlight and her and Will's children, their grandchildren, their nieces and nephews- Cecy's blue eyed boys, tall and handsome, and Gideon and Sophie's two girls- and those who were as close as family: Charlotte, white- haired and upright, and the Fairchild sons and daughters with their curling red hair like Henry's had once been. The children had spoken fondly of the way he had always loved their mother, fiercely and devotedly, the way he had never had eyes for anyone else, and how their parents had set the model for the sort of love they hoped to find in their own lives. They spoke of his regard for books, and how he had taught them all to love them too, to respect the printed page and cherish the stories that those pages held. They spoke of the way he still cursed in Welsh when he dropped something, though he rarely used the language otherwise, and of the fact that though his prose was excellent- he had written several histories of the Shadowhunters when he's retired that had been very well respected- his poetry had always been awful, though that never stopped him from reciting it. Their oldest child, James, had spoken laughingly about Will's unrelenting fear of ducks and his continual battle to keep them out of the pond at the family home in Yorkshire. Their grandchildren had reminded him of the song about demon pox he had taught them- when they were much too young, Tessa had always thought- and that they had all memorized. They sang it all together and out of tune, scandalizing Sophie. With tears running down her face, Cecily had reminded him of the moment at her wedding to Gabriel when he had delivered a beautiful speech praising the groom, at the end of which he had announced, "Dear God, I thought she was marrying Gideon. I take it all back," thus vexing not only Cecily and Gabriel but Sophie as well- and Will, though too tired to laugh, had smiled at his sister and squeezed her hand. They had all laughed about his habit of taking Tessa on romantic "holidays" to places from Gothic novels, including the hideous moor where someone had died, a drafty castle with a ghost in it, and of course the square in Paris in which he had decided Sydney Carton had been guillotined, where Will had horrified passerby by shouting "I can see the blood on the cobblestones!" in French.

Yet from thy lethal lips and thine alone, Love would I drink, as dew from poison-bloom.

Poetry and visions, springing as they do from an ever-present sense of mortality, might easily appear morbid to the sturdy common sense of a burgher-class in the making.

Crouching in position posing in perfect posture On the rooftop of a gothic cathedral sits a monster

Silver bullets and a stake in the heart But the cross still awakens my heart I'm the freak of nature that's all Darling it's not the way that you are

Death is on a scar filled with shadows and temptations.

Oh, Perseus—your glory shall wither and fall, In the shadow of serpents, you’ll hear my call. Your victory is hollow, your name is a lie— For I am the storm, and I shall never die.

Back to the dark, my cursed throne, I bear her forth, I stand alone. Her breath is shallow, soft and dim, Her pulse a song—a fleeting hymn.

I am the first Lost boy. And I learned a long time ago: If you wear wonder like a weapon, the world won't notice when it wounds.

Would You Notice Me" is a beautifully intense read. The imagery is engaging....”the Merlot waterfall” and “confetti’d parts” lines for instance, and the the voice of the poem as a whole.

Modern science has killed the Fantastic, and with the Fantastic, Poetry—which is also Fantasy. The last Fairy is well and truly buried—or dried, like a rare flower, between two pages of Monsieur Balzac.

She took a step, then another, "What do I do now?" He raised his hand gentle. "Don't make my grave inside your chest. Don't stitch me there with your grief. If you hold too tight we'll both stay prisoners.

There is also a waka poem Akio penned for me: Now I understand It is all so clear to me August wind, rain, sleet I stopped believing in love Until I saw the leaves fall Poetry is kind of our thing. Originally, we were mortal enemies. Akio drove me nuts with his schedules, his overall gothic-novel vibe, and his eight inches of height over me. But now, our couple dynamic is fun-loving princess and gruff former bodyguard turned promising pilot who only shows his soft side to those closest to him. It really works for me.

Clocks ticking, wasted time, reminded [Poe] The coffin waits and pages lie half done In desolation. Anonymity’s Curse frightens writers more than Roderick Encountering his sister’s open crypt. - - from my poem "Poe and His Women" - -

Her breath, a perfume laced with midnight’s bloom, Her skin, a canvas brushed with lunar gloom. She lies, a mountain range of flesh and might, And I, a pilgrim, kneel to kiss her light. Her neck, a column where the ancients wrote, I trace with tongue, each vein, each whispered note.

Can you look at this brilliant wound?

Dead tree branches rattled, the cold wind seethed, it prattled of abominations about to unfold. A lone wolf howled, the full moon it prowled, ready for evils untold.

One day, you will feel what it means to miss someone so hard you unravel. To feel them in places that never felt haunted before. I hope it haunts you the way it haunts me.

I don't remember falling— just the hush before it. Like a breath I meant to keep but let go by accident. Like closing my eyes mid-sentence and forgetting the word for stay.

You think your rage matters? That grief makes you dangerous? Darling, I was made from grief— I just never learned to weep.

They call it rage—but it's just grief with barnacles on its back.

Rain turned to ice, and lightning splintered, it spliced the black sky, it seeped a bright white. All animals they fled, from the sky as it bled, pale death that fell veiling the night.

He left us— like broken toys with sharp edges and no purpose. Now we stitch sails from the skin of forgotten boys. We sharpen our grief on coral reefs and spit prayers into bottles no one will open.

You took the part of him that still believed in something more than pain— and dressed it up in pixie dust so you could pretend you gave him peace. You don't get to twist that into legend. You don't get to wrap your hunger in fairy dust and dusk and call it rescue.

Lollipops and raindrops Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies Rolling surf and raging sea Sailing ships and submarines Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty” Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances Set free my mind to wander… Imagine the ant’s marching journeys. Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings. Roam the distant depths of space. Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean. Pictures made just to enthrall Creating images from my truth Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness… Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics… Ride the edge of my seat with the hero… Weep with the heroine’s desperation. Yet… more than all these things… Give me words spun out masterfully… Terms set out in meter and rhyme… Phrases bent to rattle the soul… Prose that always miraculously inspires me! The trill runs up my spine, as I recall… A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss… Ebony eyes embracing my soul… Two souls united in beat of hearts. A butterfly flutter in my womb My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling The testament of our love given life Newly laid in my lover’s arms Luminous, sweet ebony eyes Just so much like his father’s A gaze of wonder and contentment From my babe at mother’s breast Words of the Divine set down for me Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation “My Shepherd will supply my need” These are the things that inspire me.

I felt her. Before the wind shifted. Before the stars blinked. Before the Island hummed, its gold-threaded scream. I felt her like a splinter under the nail. I tasted her shadow— sawdust, regret, and something that should have stayed dead. Like a memory I'd buried deep— and pissed on for good measure.

In a solemn tone, like a priest chanting a mass, beating time in the air with a stiff finger, Slote quoted: " 'The German Revolution will not prove any milder or gentler because it was preceded by the Critique of Kant, by the Transcendental Idealism of Fichte.  These doctrines served to develop revolutionary forces  that only await their time to break forth.  Christianity subdued the brutal warrior passion of the Germans, but it could not quench it. When the Cross, that restraining talisman, falls to pieces, then  will break forth again the frantic Berserker rage.  The old stone gods will then arise from the forgotten ruins and wipe from their eyes the dust of centuries.  Thor with his giant hammer will arise again, and he will shatter the Gothic cathedrals.' " Slote made an awkward, weak gesture with a fist to represent a hammerblow, and went on: " 'Smile not at the dreamer who warns you against Kantians, Fichteans, and the other philosophers.  Smile not at the fantasy of one who foresees in the region of reality the same outburst of revolution that has taken place in the region of intellect.  The thought precedes the deed as the lightning the thunder.  German thunder is of true German character.  It is not very nimble but rumbles along somewhat slowly.  But come it will. And when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then know that at last the German thunderbolt has fallen.' "Heine - the Jew who composed the greatest German poetry, and who fell in love with German philosophy - Heine wrote that," Slote said in a quieter tone. "He wrote that a hundred and six years ago.

All of us believe you belong here,” I’d said to the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson girls as they sat, many of them looking a little awestruck, in the Gothic old-world dining hall at Oxford, surrounded by university professors and students who’d come out for the day to mentor them. I said something similar anytime we had kids visit the White House—teens we invited from the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation; children from local schools who showed up to work in the garden; high schoolers who came for our career days and workshops in fashion, music, and poetry; even kids I only got to give a quick but emphatic hug to in a rope line. The message was always the same. You belong. You matter. I think highly of you. An economist from a British university would later put out a study that looked at the test performances of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson students, finding that their overall scores jumped significantly after I’d started connecting with them—the equivalent of moving from a C average to an A. Any credit for improvement really belonged to the girls, their teachers, and the daily work they did together, but it also affirmed the idea that kids will invest more when they feel they’re being invested in. I understood that there was power in showing children my regard.

Owl Hollow Road by Stewart Stafford On a bracing night walk, On leafy Owl Hollow Road, A raspy voice whispered to me, Like a deep-croaking old toad. I moved rapidly on my path, And then heard phantom feet, Looked around, empty space, Only silence replaced the beat. At my most pressing pace now, A shadow pointed past my shoulder, An SUV slammed into my side, And I broke my back on a boulder. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved

The Release In those last moments before the platter of salt and dirt lay on his stomach, wax-light had waved across a mute heart, his son waited by the bed. Raised to believe the soul left the body with its last breath, he listened for death's rattle, then pressed his lips like a kiss to his father's lips, and took into his mouth the breath that had given him breath, a life distilled to one stir of air soft as moth wings against palms, held a moment, then let go.

I. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. II. Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago); THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER14 And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. III. Wanderers in that happy valley Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically To a lute’s well-tunèd law; Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. IV. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. V. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed EDGAR ALLAN POE 15 Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. VI. And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more.

The Blood Supper by Stewart Stafford Nightcrawler leaves their dirt bed, Seeking an essential blood supper, Cloaked in regal Stygian armour, Bar one chink in the left chest area. All the experience of centuries used, Lives lived long before their victims, Stalking stacked in a predator's favour, Shock overwhelms when blindsided. The infected victim then becomes one, With their undead attacker, connected, Sharing their contagion and obsessions, In a parasitic void betwixt life and death. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Painful memories, they can mend, love’s powerful, but it can rend, through the treacherous act of jealousy. A passion that seeks to destroy, the soul when it deploys, the vicious sin that is envy. Take heed my friends, when contemplating the end of an imagined rival for the heart’s true amour. Acts of envy bode not well, for they cast an evil spell, and in the end you’ll suffer forevermore. For jealously can blight, the harmonious light of all the love you’d hoped to see, because envy has power, and can inhumanly devour, everything you wanted from love, for thee.

Ouija Board Web by Stewart Stafford Someone's been in my room, Helped themselves to my beer. Bottled my portal to escape, And left behind a sober fear. I guess I'll climb the silence, To the mirror, if I'm still here, Tap out a drowning rhythm, To send an S.O.S. so clear. A phantom knocking from within, Coins rub my spirit board away, Voices say breathe out and in, Darkest night blurs into day. Moth to the flame in a spider web, Mummified to twist in the draught, Here comes the eight-eyed sentinel, To finish its ice-cold Arachnid craft. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Posed In Vein by Stewart Stafford O Stephanie! In your cruciform puppetry, Bloody veins stretched out wiry To relive in a bondage diary. Subject mapped as inked skin she wears, Decorating, desecrating olden snares. Each needle kiss, a line defined, A pinprick story rushes her mind. By candlelight, in her coven deep, Secrets webbed flies must keep, Spelled out straight in her hexing book, Consort Lenore gives a cryptic look. They tug the strings, the marionette, Caught in her captor's welcome net. In artificial light, a social moth's mien, A wrought, posed, fetishistic scene. The knots are tight, the ropes defined; Bodily and in private mind. This mutual art, a supplicant's plea, Cut into her Kinbaku diary. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Revenant by Stewart Stafford The golden ball in the sky adopts an adios hue, And kisses the world a fond adieu, The predators that thrive in its absence appear, Their shadows and eyeshine our darkest fears. The Revenant stirs from subterranean limbo, With bloodied fangs and glowing eyes akimbo, To survive and stagger the bloodlust way, Until fasting begins at break of day. Hear the tap at your window, The solitary song, Embrace the contagion, No matter how wrong. Feel the frigid skin, The piercing bite, And live in their troth, At one with night. Then recline in their grave, In eternal embrace, And rise at sundown, A gothic Queen of Disgrace. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Time and space being relative, One can always burn the former To travel through the latter. Fire up the plasma drive, Pack your environment suit, Tune in an ambient wave, And go for a galactic joy ride!

Drink deeply, my hapless mortal, Of our heady, corrupting brew. Feast upon fine foods and sweet treats That turn to mere dust in your mouth And mark you as ours forever. Feel life’s warmth leave your soulless shell Once that racing heart beats its last. Lose the grace of mortality; Become trapped for eternity.

Decades of debauchery Erode both body and soul ‘Til mortal becomes mere shade Devoid of substance and light. The living are like strangers As the dead draw all too near.

Spring-Heeled Jack Is In The Lane by Stewart Stafford Go indoors, children, before dark falls, A fiend comes hideous and inhumane, Tell your mother not to answer the door, For Spring-Heeled Jack is in the lane. Is it spectre, beast or demon? A trick of light to fool the brain? Blue flames spew from hellish maw, Spring-Heeled Jack growls in the lane. No one can unsee its monstrous face, Nor its claws of steel that bloodstain, Its haunting cackle freezes victims, Spring-Heeled Jack leaps from the lane. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

The Forbidden Place by Stewart Stafford Bypass the chateau on the hill, For, as dusk falls, horrors creep, Griffins and gargoyles fly and flay, And grotesque statues come alive. Badinage becomes shrieks and roars, Shrill warnings for the straying and foolish, Cats as big as panthers stalk and slay, As their homicidal master flogs their fur. Wandering werewolves fetch human bones, A savage rampage beneath a Hunter's Moon, As the dawn routine reasserts its dominance, Denizens of night bathe in darkness's arms. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

There are people who will tell you that the building's neo-Gothic trash, Victorian and fake, a front pretending it's much grander than it is.

Lorel once told me that fate is a poet, organizing beauty out of chaos. I believed that for a long time—that life happens to a person, buoying them along on its tide whichever way it pleases, instead of bending and shaping itself around my will. And even now I’m not sure that I can entirely discard the idea, because God knows my life has spiraled into gothic prose, and even in the depths of my insanity I could not have thought up the repeating rhythms of horrible motif. Blood as oil, oil as sacred chrism, the suffocating paradox of its sacred and sensual nature, and can oil really run in a person’s blood? Because when I think of one, I think of the other—they are inseparable in my mind. When I think of the times I dipped my fingers in green-gold oil, memory calls forth the image of blood on a warehouse floor, and blood mixed with oil in the creases of my hands.

In Moonlight Fear by Stewart Stafford Inexorable as a vampire's invite, The glowing pendulum swung, Crawled towards midnight's toll, My witching hour fever dream. Sleepwalking in sweaty silence, Protection fled to soullessness, No sanctuary in chanted words, Awakening warning on the floor. Spider's web tightrope to a sound, Path blocked by an unseen form, Driven out in the Lord's name, Receding growls echoed isolation. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Words can be like gems or sticks. A coalition of words can become a diamond necklace or a broken picket fence, whichever way one wishes to use them, and as such, I use them for my works of fiction and poetry. Dark fantasy can be alluring but dark reality is sometimes unavoidable and can cascade one's imagination deep into the hollowed skulls that litter the subsoil beneath our feet, to be returned once again to the world in the voice of a poet.

A Mind's Minotaur - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford In a labyrinth’s mental corridors, prisoner of consciousness, Fleeing a Minotaur I fear is me. Achilles' heel, masked by strength hath shown, An arrow cometh from Time's swift flight, For those with bountiful time enow, Find themselves slain in a heroic light. When thou dost gaze upon the world below, And scorn its depths, thou canst not comprehend The truths that pool o'er its shadow, glow. No tears stain that meadow of solace, A phantom limb, tickling in memory's store, Galley slaves in hurricane's heart so lashed. Transient madness and renown, conjoin on pomp’s bridge, Champions of the joust wave paramour's kerchief, Revered statues limp from a pedestal's ridge. The signs of pride and brittle ardour, The hubristic bite of isolation's cur. The death warrant quill must ne'er be stilled, For authority doth stifle beauty's song, Staged chaos through the written word is willed. Phantasy's balm to verity's scourging, A cleansing soak of battle-scarred minds, And in the dark, imagination reigns. He who hath fear of the dark hath vision keen, Whilst those who see but naught are dull and plain. Thus, let us not be swayed by others' lore, But splay in error, heal to prosper once more. Idolatrous moth to lechery's candlelight, In lover's tongues, passion's seared delight. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Physician's Pageant by Stewart Stafford Can aught endure the masquerade Of this world's blindfolded night? Melancholy's strike doth calm the raving, As babes roused from stillbirth in fledgling light. We know that the womb doth wander, Around the body, causing ills without care, A pessary's charm doth anchor it in place again, As bait doth lure the quarry to the snare. Burn sulfur, rosemary, lavender and juniper, Or foul dung smoke to cleanse tainted rural air. Light aromatic torches in the playhouse and market, Let vile odours and miasmas in these spaces beware. Though ragged contagion and death still doth assail, God willing, some blessed souls still shalt prevail. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved. 

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapped in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost—were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry. Her

Cultures are organisms," Spengler explains, "and world-history is their collective biography." Like any other vital organism, then, each culture goes through the stages of youth, maturity, and decline. "Culture is the prime phenomenon of all past and future world-history." "Every Culture has its own Civilization...The Civilization is the inevitable destiny of the Culture....Civilizations are the most external and artificial states of which a species of developed humanity is capable. They are a conclusion, the thing-become succeeding the thing-becoming, death following life, rigidity following expansion, intellectual age and the stone-built, petrifying world-city following mother-earth and the spiritual childhood of Doric and Gothic. They are an end, irrevocable, yet by inward necessity reached again and again." Thus, while the culture is a period of ebullient creativity, the civilization that inevitably follows is a period of reflection, organization, and search for material comfort and convenience. For example, classical Greece was the culture; imperial Rome the civilization. From the beauties of Greek poetry to the imperialism of Roman law, we now live in the civilization of Western ("Faustian") culture and cannot avoid the consequences. Among these Spengler foresaw the "megalopolis," the city of faceless masses, the omnipotence of money, and a new Caesarism.

Envy said, “Girl, I remember well, ye, who I flung from Hell, and not a day has passed, I haven’t missed the loss of your soul that I mourned, I’ve been bereft and forlorn, for the sweet taste of your flesh I’ve yet to kiss. But no worries—bygones, that’s the past—long gone, I don’t hold a grudge, no, in no way. And though your family they did swindle my joy of flaying ye on a spindle, I begrudge ye not a little, so let’s play. So, merely toss your token in my well, and all your dreams I will unveil, for ye alone, them I’ll grant. Come closer, little Penny, your hands I know are not empty, ye have something I dreadfully want.

THE ACCIDENT   maybe you read it in the paper i was so young just a child i did something stupid   nightstand by the bed found it in the drawer that was so often locked but not this time   sunlight through curtains high noon reflected on polished steel heavy in my hand   pretending to be a cop like my father but more like dirty harry like i saw on tv   my little brother burst into the room four years old just four years old without thinking i aimed   killer instinct squeeze tug bang   slow motion exploding blood not a sound from him as if what happened was completely natural   i replay it again and again efficient little hum that burning memory   pulled the trigger and watched him fold like a house of cards and the questions hammer through my brain and i ask you again   "how much more do i have to pay before becoming whole again?

She who is in slow motion, Is glowing red with blood Which is mine.

In hundreds of years of wish fulfillment, never once to the demon’s bereavement, had a wish gone unable to be yielded. It was love this day, which defeated the curse, and there in Hell there was little worse, than the dark forces of evil gone unwielded.

Wrath crawled out from the well, on direction from Hell, to get back what it once lost. With vengeance in mind, it set out to find, a specified soul to accost. When the Hell-well beckoned, Mother’s will now reckoned, her dead soul now wholly enslaved. Embodied in a rotting husk, the corpse reeked of putrid musk, her being wholly depraved.

Poe’s literary importance is so vast that it’s hard to believe that he accomplished so much in such an abbreviated lifetime. With “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” he invented detective fiction and became master of the form. He remains the undisputed king of gothic horror. His poetry appealed to the masses and critics alike. His own criticism, while often stinging, peeled back the veneer on the old boy’s club that was American letters.

Beside the Duke’s bed was a little print in a gold frame whose Gothic characters caught my eye. Caramba! I thought, it must be the Albas’ family tree. I was wrong. It was Rudyard Kipling’s “If—,” that uninspired, sanctimonious poetry, precursor of the Reader’s Digest, whose intellectual level, in my opinion, was no higher than that of the Duke of Alba’s shoes. May the British Empire forgive me!

Unholy by Stewart Stafford Horrors walk from out a dream, Apparitions dare reality’s seam, Gnarly fingers excavate blame, Sanity stolen in a hellish flame. No way to think or even breathe, Or kind worldly goods bequeath, For Time’s skeletal fingers snap, Catching souls in a fiendish trap. Visions boxed, then assail again, A phantom grin is no one’s friend, Gasp out awakening perspiration, Sun falls in creeping desperation. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

The work of Apple Pie Ultra 8 is what I call a Cleopatra. It is a mixture of genre. There is the pulp crime fiction, science-fiction fantasy, religious doctrine, confessional fiction, Western Gothic fiction, autobiographical elements, dark comedy, surrealism, stream of consciousness dream poetry, romantic poetry, culinary fiction. It’s what I would express in a word Cleopatra.

Dying Hours by Stewart Stafford All debts were settled on Christmas Eve, Fail to do so, and there’d be no reprieve, In the dying flame of a guttering candle, Monies got paid, and cash got handled. When the last customer left to journey home, Quinn, the shop owner, found himself alone, He stared at pooling shadows, no one there, Told himself to hurry, be with those who care. As he closed up, something screamed out, A figure from out of the dark began to shout, A man with no eyes begged alms for the dead, Or any old soup with a thick slice of bread. Quinn said he was a business, not a charity, The man’s eyes opened with some clarity, “Very well,” the man said, “Nothing’s free,” “I’ll drag your soul to Hell, come with me!” © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

The hour's bell tolls like the weight of snow, burying the world of sight. Eternal time that passes, forsaking heart's song.

Beneath the pallid gaze of waning skies, I stood, a shadow where the darkness lies,

The Dead of Winter by Stewart Stafford In truth, winter is the dead's season, Their graveyard chill touches Earth, The skeleton moon's danse macabre, As the darkened Sun heralds rebirth. Wild hunters of Christmas Eve skies, Mighty Odin or Arthur leading all, Hellhounds, fiery steeds, chase, To feast in a Valhalla or Camelot hall. Assemble at the hearth, my kindred, Share unnerving tales of gothic fright, Raised pulses as spectral guests join us, Frayed nerves spiked on this haunted night. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Devil's Chapel by Stewart Stafford Spires writhing in audacity's sky, Laced masonry's Faustian high, The Devil's Chapel invites by lie, Embalmed, a cracked stone altar dry. The golden Madonna rises above all, Lucifer's War, in stained glass, tall, In horned shadow, the angelic fall, Dark kingdom formed of a lightning ball. Bartholomew flayed by sadistic chagrin, Bones laid bare, devotion anchored within, Skin in the game took centuries to win, Gargoyles leer in the paying tourist din. Behind the veil of confession wood, The all-seeing eye drips with blood, Trickster's snare in nightmare's flood, A gift shop trades where sacrifice stood. Pungent echoes in incense crawl, Catacombs beckon entombed gall, To witness ornate veneration's pall, Silent to a martyr's last breath call. Croziers rest in chilled silver's display, As pink-veined marble taints today. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

A Ravaging Sentinel's Vow by Stewart Stafford State your love for me now — Agreed, a cracked heart pledge, Defying your many flaws, martyring me to betrayal's dredge. At your darkest dawn — My fealty oath holds true, when every back is turned, a redeeming ravager’s purview. A sentinel’s dust trail climbs high, hooves thunder; the sundial stops, A vow declared, enemies routed, disaster reined on teetering clifftops. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

You are already the kind of beautiful that doesn’t beg to be seen.

Snowbound Condemnation by Stewart Stafford My vigil for a shabby scarecrow, Cruciform in a snowdrift field, Its saviour-suited arms clawing At corvids, frozen heels to Heaven. Its mouth a wailing O-shape, Lamenting deafened ears of corn, Resuscitation for a fool's errand, In a hysterical chorus of biting gales. Haunting a sycamore tree, complicit, I witnessed desolation's spectacle, Half-expecting a condemned miracle, This pilgrim genuflected into green slush. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Franz said, “Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it. We’ve always had an aesthetic intention and a long-range plan. That’s what enabled Western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a Renaissance piazza. The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It’s unintentional. It arose independent of human design, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry.” Sabina said, “Unintentional beauty. Yes. Another way of putting it might be ‘beauty by mistake.’ Before beauty disappears entirely from the earth, it will go on existing for a while by mistake. ‘Beauty by mistake’—the final phase in the history of beauty.

Nothing Man by Stewart Stafford I return to plague night's wanderers, Dark hours and thoughts personified, Driven by this scorching crusade, Agitation flooding my skewed brain. Many have tried to kill me and failed, They think material weapons can work, I am immaterial and absorb punishment; An elemental fire they cannot extinguish. No targets are off limits to me, I fear, Aye, I am an equal opportunities predator, Praying for my victims as I prey upon them, Then am I consumed, at one with darkness. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Basement Morgue by Stewart Stafford A reluctant errand to a basement morgue, No mortal knew what things lurked there, The elevator shuddered to a halt, opening, To a scattered boneyard of patient beds. Totem tchotchkes of a broken system, Dead corridors stretched left and right, A charged cold-sweat silence hung, As a flaccid desk stethoscope rattled. Buried my nose in my clipboard; Had to find their machine - now! A gurney wheeled itself past me, Disappearing into an anteroom. A hanging skeleton lunged at me— Spindly fingers choked me into blackness. Rousing to bright lights, blinding me; Icy steel drawers swallowed my screams. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

From The Handkerchief of Love “Sometimes the smallest thing—a tear-stained cloth, a promise broken—can hold more pain than a thousand funerals.

The Haunting of Palatka A ghostly anthology rooted in local lore and Southern mystique. Spirits wander the streets, bridges, and parks of Palatka, whispering stories of love, revenge, and eternal unrest.

On Darkest Paths by Stewart Stafford Temporal loop on a ravenous street, A vampire denied a ticking heartbeat, Restless spirit of night's prettified edge, Bound acolyte of the infinite pledge. Human life, another planet’s memory, This skittish flock, a prized delicacy, Blood frenzy mingles with death's choir, A living essence merged with undead fire. No loving touch nor warmth of light, I must stay numb, shun my plight, Solitary, not lonely; sated yet lost. A fickle captive in my permafrost. I spurn self-pity’s indulgent call, My wastrel's drudge to primal thrall. A millstone for necks of mortal strays Perishing slowly in diminished ways. An inversion of creation, a deviant lie, A predator's bloodlust can never comply, Rogue feeders, unbound by pack affliction. Until driven away or freed of addiction. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Christmas Crasher or Merry Crisis & Happy New Fear (The Yule-Get-Yours Scapegoat) A Poem by Stewart Stafford A malevolent sprite in our living room, A mouldy Púca in the Christmas tree, Bauble-gleam eyes in festive branches, A sulphur stink while we watch TV. Swallowing a window candle flame; A fire-eater’s trick to no applause, Season’s sweets wolfed down— Even wrappers, devoured without pause. A fridge raid’s boozy-woozy walk, A true eggnog nuisance — every inch, Crash — a muffled, 'Timber! God rest ya!' So loud, we thought it was The Grinch! My parents demanded it come out: "A wrecked tree and hangover’s enough!" It pleaded against eviction in the cold, Squatter’s rights for lack of sterner stuff! Seated at the Xmas dinner table, Tossing scraps to our strange ‘pet’ below, Foghorn burp aria, a puked tinsel encore, Pine-needle toothpick snores in fake snow. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Night When Fear Strays by Stewart Stafford Each Hallowtide, all monstrous shapes do quail, No balm for wounded wretches feeling frail, Spectators as charlatan mortals filch frights, Appropriated skins on haunted nights. With bonfire’s glow ablaze in dauntless eyes, Children’s fun quelled by strangest sighs, A hulking shape, once fierce, wails tainted, Its fearful gaze in phantom mists attainted. Small, tender hands caressed its sodden fur, A trembling growl betrayed its lonesome blur, “Peace, gentle shade, what sorrow stirs unfed?” “November’s dawn shall call me home,” it said. Their kindly-shared oat cakes eased its pangs, A webbed claw from veiled night to munching fangs, It feasted with a hunger born of striven years alone, Stroked the child’s cheek for the kindness shown. When parents called, it whispered, soft and torn, “At midnight’s knell, this thicket heralds morn— Go, kindred babes, I’ll linger in this glade. Each Halloween, I’ll mourn my fear remade.” © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Sensitive Scarred by Stewart Stafford Bizarre monolith world, We waylaid pilgrims tread In a whirligig of fair and ill Serrated lots for drawing. Consider those without armour, Senses wounded beyond measure, With struggles incomprehensible, The burdened head asphyxiates. Devoid of several layers of skin, Internal organs lacerated—daily, A ribcage so spinelessly cracked, Clarity's chains relentlessly taut. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Silken Trap by Stewart Stafford Beware chimera beauty's charm! Faux-demure, eyes downcast. A raging rutting season over her; Spideress-gossamer entrapped. She casts bait with arid hooks, Covertly spinning sentient silk, Soon swept up/wed/heirs sired— Promulgating the snare's traffic. A flash fire of rival suitors ignites, Fans herself to mask her smirk, The webbed game her hand to play— Vault’s hasp clicks shut on her pulse. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Cyclops Hill by Stewart Stafford To the cock-fights, O’er the briny pit, Grimy coin, grubby fist, Lip service i’ foaming fit. Fish or fowl, bestir them on, I’ll ne’er stop mine’s feat, An oracle for all-comers, Frolicsome backing i’ th’ heat. Odds be the usurer’s friend, Victor and vanquished spent, Trudge away in silent mourn, To kindly pay the tavern’s rent. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Ebb and Flow by Stewart Stafford Happiness, briefest harbour in a squall; Tempests funnel us to splintered docks, High-seas missions to a last port of call, Fading feast taste of a haven of stasis. Weather springs with raging misprision, All things far beyond fingertip calculation, If we go off course with Fool's Gold vision, The reefs of avarice shall starkly claim us. We set sail or are torn from fragile sanctuary, All these stays, noted in the strangers' ledger, The Fate Morgana's captain - marine actuary, Virtual kin crew with fish and fowl companions. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Ashen Royale by Stewart Stafford Petulant son ascends the throne, Defender of blood, land and faith, Feel the asphyxiant king create The airless tomb of a protectorate. The skeletal crown’s death rattle, Alchemy’s past base metal sceptre, A spectral play looping memory, What once was, cast to ashes. The ruler, a merest seat warmer, Widower's river to consolation sea, Altar bread blackens gritted teeth, Homeless winds siege futility's roof. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Antiseptic Awakening by Stewart Stafford See the rainbow spattered With dark blood moon juice. This creeping haemorrhage, A lacerated spectrum merged. Bruised trickles not halting, Violations in crimson stealth. Impotent, alleged lifeforms, Ashen foot-dragging below. Casually surrendered hues, The arterial strain's zenith. No colour in cheek nor sky, Bleached by antiseptic snow. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Scavenger's Ledger by Stewart Stafford The scratch of a nib on paper Tells me I am alive, I think. At this Heaven/Hell midpoint— A torn throat for a poison drink. The horizon lit up again tonight, Rebels fight for futile freedom, Happiness, a cold, distant stranger, No gifted transfusion to bleed him. Willingly failing the audition of life, Food appears to have lost all taste, A numb tongue or cheap ingredients, I cannot let one crumb go to waste. They’ve finally cured me of love, Stripped every vestige of me away, Carrying my grave upon my back, Their snail slithers from day to day. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Knowhere by Stewart Stafford Poleaxed by vampiric tapping— rattling timeline of a loop lapping— Hypochondriac paranoid toothache, tasting everything I see and break. Showed my tongue to an undertaker; licked his face — proved I’m no faker. A measured, grim diagnosis followed, matter from a cardiac pump hollowed. Draped loosely in a tea towel shroud, resurrected—naked, loud, and proud— Rocket to the pub for a post-wake baptism, a ploughman’s lunch with relish schism. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Karmic Heimlich Manoeuvre by Stewart Stafford A gargoyle’s face of stone, Grimacing back at me, Each wrinkle a flagellant scar, From a Caesarean decree. Denial’s chant, the siren’s call, Jockeying to ride meeker backs, Perpetrators and their victims, Fallen bodies upon the tracks. Deep slash from a traitor’s blade, Gatecrasher from a coroner skit, Staggering down the Via Dolorosa, Guiltiest choking on a peach pit. Then karma’s trapdoor gives, The past never a partner barred, Hubris’s caw now a trembling chick, Wet noose in the hangman’s yard. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.