Unspeakable Horror

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    Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet

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« Looking Ahead... | Main | Book Review: Triptych of Terror: Three Chilling Tales by the Masters of Gay Horror »

48 Candles

November 22nd. Jamie Lee Curtis turns 48 today. It’s a day of celebration marking the arrival of this glorious actress, author, and activist. There’s not too much more that I could say about my adoration for Curtis (at least without inspiring homicidal thoughts in our readers), so this week, in honor of her birthday, I’m doing something I never do – writing a poem. Now don’t ask me for the format or explain its iambic pentameter ~ quite frankly I wouldn’t have the foggiest clue. Think of this more as rambling free association. For I’m a horror writer and not a poet; I leave the serious art of poetry in the far more capable hands of our resident poet, Chad. So it’s ok if you want to laugh and guffaw…ok if you want to roll your eyes and moan; I have broad shoulders and won’t be offended. In recognition and honor of the muse of my youth and maturity, a poetic homage to her contributions to my queer horror world:

The Horrors of J

Piano tinkles signal autumn bloodshed as
jagged grins of butchered jack-o-lanterns JLCPeace.jpg
scream in the bloody night of Samhain.

 

Tendrils of creeping mist wrap
vengeance upon leprosy of the heart
as clippers slice through murky depths.

 

Scarlet sprinkles the celluloid images
of prom kings and queens and severed heads
roll down the catwalk of adolescent shame.

 

Winter snow soaked with crimson
like garish cherry snow cones when
trains bullet along revenge-tinged tracks.

 

Sun drenched highways scorch as
Dingos dodge murderous games on macadam jamie2.gif
black and tarry with the stench of death.

 

The returning moon of All Hallows Eve
surgically slices through Hippocratic oaths
and pastel scrubs run red with sisterhood.

 

Undying evil thrives in pagan pop culture
revisiting the graves of carved out souls
twenty score seasons after the carnage of Samhain.

 

Volts of electronic plasma bring
slaughter to the denizens of salvage
mechanical incarnations of high-wattage death.

 

A penultimate bow as harvest moons burn bright
orange in the glow of circles come full
falling…falling…falling into final escape.

 

Happy Birthday, Jamie Lee!

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