Drained of corporeal life
Swamp lights dancing a slow dirge
I bleed out in the mire

Ascending, I make new vows
Time is now broken
Pliable to this fevered will
They will burn like November

No need for the rib spreader
A meteor-shower arrival
Will end in cataclysmic departure

Amid the flames and bone fragments
I will forever be the filament in this eternal beacon
Guiding the forcefully departed
To the crooked gates of Hell

First appeared in The Indiana Horror Review 2016.
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Chicago Typewriter

The snow is coming down fierce
As I weave through the midnight streets
Hands glued to the wheel, knuckles white
She's waiting at the docks
But the clock is counting down

Shoulder open the car door
Engine still running
The soles of my shoes slapping an echo
Out across the frosted ground
There's something crumpled up ahead
I fight harder against the savage wind
Slicing in from the lake

She lies in a pool of blood
Already starting to freeze over
Snowflakes landing on her pale cheek
Settling in her lashes
Mouth slightly open
And no life left in those azure eyes
There were more bullet holes
Than I could count
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A flame is extinguished
In the still of night
Another is ignited
And with it comes clandestine sentences
Spoken in a foreign tongue

This cloaked closed circle
Watches with wary eyes from afar
Spells of protection
Incantations only uttered
Behind doors always closed

A bat is caught mid-flight
And kissed upon the mouth
Before being released
Into a blood red sky

Already they know this unhallowed name
Head bowed, I stand before the unseen jury
I offer up this woodcut flesh
For the final daughter
To sink claws and teeth into

And devour at her will 
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The Devil's Children


Harry Edwards and Adam Jones are childhood friends. Two weird kids whose friendship blossomed over their love of horror movies, small town exploration, and things that go bump in the night. The pair spent countless hours searching the area’s woodlands and abandoned buildings, in what appeared to be an imaginary game of ‘demon hunting’.
Now in their mid-20’s, both men have long moved away from their small New English hometown. After a letter and a drunken late-night phone call, they decide to head back to the old town to play video games, explore their childhood haunts, and drink copious amounts of beer.
When arriving in their hometown, they find reports of strange and inexplicable happenings. Folks seeing dead folks, a wayward historian sealing off newly discovered tunnels, the sightings of wild animals that don’t seem to be able to be killed.
Soon, the men find themselves drawn back into the darkness that inhabited their childhood, a mystery that seems to have origins with the inception of the town itself, and with the disappearance of Harry’s teenage girlfriend thirteen years before. They also discover that the idiosyncratic games that they played as children, really weren’t games at all, and that the ties they share with the old town run deeper than just coming of age and geography.
On Halloween night, they set out to put an end to the dark forces that pull at their bones like unrelenting children, and to uncover the unspeakable secrets of Wycombe, Massachusetts.

Watch the trailer here...
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Throwing axes cut the evening air
As storm clouds roll in overhead
Wipe the blood from chapped lips
And take solace in
The sound of breaking bones

The rain now falls
On these mounds of blackened flesh
Bodies stretched for miles
That shall never see a proper tomb
And died for an unseen king

I cut the heart out from the chest
And consumed it where I knelt
The crows were already on wing
Keen beaks sharpened on graveyard stone

Thunder tears asunder
The vault of the heavens
Over this unholy mass
These killing fields
That I call home

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