Coven

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


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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Sacrosanct

There was someone else in the photograph
I opened my eyes and mind to the Devil
Yesterday was two days ago
Now I wither in glorious solitude
Waiting for a fitful tomorrow

Books and knives
I cut the inscription from the binding
Tore at the mouth that breathed without bleeding
And set fire to the nightstand

Demonic possession
Is a national pastime
Like baseball, like wrist-cutting 
Celluloid front window mannequins
Dance to next year’s songs
And melt into perfect puddles

An esoteric drunk
An exorcist out of work
What will spill forth from this stained palette?
This planchette will spell it all it out
Eventually


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Death Omens

The rats are my only friends
In this low, low place
We watch as the carrion birds
caw and swoop outside the cell window
Debating whether the cadavers have it worse

A deep crimson
Rattled out of the faucet yesterday
I splashed some on this pallid
countenance
Before the copper tang
hit my cracked tongue

Names and dates
Scratched into the stone of the wall
Most are unrecognized by my slitted eye
Though, still there are a few
One in particular
Scrawled with a fevered hand
And written backwards
Trailing off into damp nothing

Sometimes, I still hear his cries

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Hollow

Brought back from the dead
In a wooded clearing
At witches’ midnight
Supine amongst the dirt and leaves
Sparse saplings forming a denser circle
Heads bowed
Voices in unison
The men begin to chant

Stripped bare the branches
Witness the exhumed
Not hours after the burial
Carried to this secluded, sacred place
Slung over the shoulder
Of the one like a bear
And laid down like
The wedding night that never came
The chanting grows louder
Her lips once again do quiver

These are men
Not of science
Men of a coarser cloth
Clergymen in a choir
Of a tongue forged in hell-fire
A knowing side-smile
A secret handshake
A candle lit
And then snuffed out
In the window of a second-story drawing room
These men
They are all around us
And we are none the wiser



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Ambulance Bay

Armed with a camera and a flashlight
We climbed the concrete steps
To the old hospital grounds
With breath held tight in two pairs of lungs
We swept the incandescent beam across the gravel lot
And dirty window panes

Detritus scattered & nooks piled high with dead leaves
Didn’t quite deter us
Though the scuffling of a harried hedgehog
Caught us well off-guard
And speaking of such
They didn’t seem to be making their rounds
Years before, a former inmate
Had damn near maimed us both
Though, we weren’t acquainted then
And wouldn’t be for another several seasons

The camera flash illuminates like manmade lightening
The historic buildings and unkept shrubbery
Accompanied by the implicit feeling of being watched
It’s not until arriving home
When your wife is inspecting the subsequent shots
That the discovery is made
Of a gnarled visage
Peering from a window of the nurses’ quarters
Could this be the fabled Lady in Grey?
A late suicide, once found hanging from the shower rod
Or something older
And much more dark?




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Exoskeleton

The room fills with bugs
As I struggle to write by lamplight 
Summer’s heat can drive one to kill 
Or at least mortally wound 
I think it’s time that I keep to myself
For an indefinite period of time 
I’ll hold my aging breath
Until the oak leaves start to turn
And the autumnal rain 
Comes down in slicing sheets
By then, these hell-sent insects 
Will have died a thousand deaths 
While I’ll in in the midst of preparation 
For the forthcoming resurrection 

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Standing on the Threshold of Madness

These rivers run with blood
To create in all its resplendent glory
Is to destruct utterly
The complete chaos of this dissolute mind
Is all that I have grown to know
Day in/Day out
I wither and thrive
Sharpen the blade on grinded teeth
And focus these blurry eyes
My poor body has had quite enough
And it anticipates the faint shuddering sigh
Of its parting spirit

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House of Cats

Behind a tall brick wall
Overgrown with Virginia creeper
Sits a dilapidated house
Its tree-filled yard is not surprisingly overgrown
And if your happen to stop and peer
Through the ever-rusting wrought-iron front gate
Your inquisitive eyes will fall upon a score or more cats
Preening, stalking, playing, sleeping – they will pay you no mind
They will be perched atop the weathered porch railing
Or curled in the morning sun
Upon the moss-dotted stone of the walk
Or padding along with the signature languor of their species
Winged creatures beware!
Even mockingbirds don’t dare brave these grounds
It is well-known local lore
That once an old spinster lived here
But she died
And was eaten by her cats

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