Summer 2015 Poem and
Prose-Poem Sets by Alexis Child, Featured
© 2014 (1, 2), 2015
(the rest) Alexis Child (all rites reserved until the
worms crawl in...)
Since you said
“Get a tougher
I no longer feel
These skin clothes
From head to toe
Lady’s flesh suit
Fits snug as a glove
I beat my flesh drum
Howling in the
We lay entwined
Your voice trapped
Where you can’t tear
Holding your tongue
There are “thinks”
You cannot say
Diary of Death
In dimly lit
A devil in disguise
by shadow creeps
One fearful night
Surrounded by the
Under the full
moon’s frosty glow
His brutal blood
butchered like swine
Not just any old
East End crime
One more lady of the
London is gripped
with frenzied fear
Not to blame are the
No murder weapons
A butcher from
Forever justice is
In White Chapel's
heart of infamy
A diary of death
The Art of Losing
*Dedicated to Carl
McCoy of The Fields of the Nephilim*
A vulturous dead
Weeps for what’s
The riddled corpse
at the gate’s
Given up in the
space to cross
A morgue between two
Saint of impossible
Why is there
Let this death be
*Dedicated to Joan
of Arc—Those who quit the body
most violently are the most pure.*
Desires of contorted
Seeds of ignorance
Desire of innocents’
Forges a mist of
Wood to ash, flesh
Witch hunters’ black
The devil’s own
Alexis Child’s Prose
Poem Set for Summer 2015
Eyes of Asmodeus
foretells dread; children taught to sin,
quiet as shadows,
without thought for their own
skeletal angels in an unborn
universe until the
speed is such, their wounds, when
at peace, fly into
themselves, opening pages of their
death, long before
its time. In hatred of itself, the
history of bones and
blood rises up from its depths,
in the heart before
birth, a secret death in these wounds.
Who can accuse those
sustained by dark breath?
We cannot help those
who were born to perish.
What happens to them
is found in all cold places
on earth, even
lonely cemeteries. Constructed from
raw petals, burnt
and scarred, their ugliness stirs the
fire. By the light
of a true hunger, that's not been
found, the genesis
of evil owns one completely,
for the cadaver
of a future life is driven onto spikes.
leave behind all they want you to
your feet to go on, breaking
worlds in others’
heads, where existence is elsewhere.
Notions of evil bury
us deep in views of clouds the same as you.
A hot rain of
futility weeps for a week rehearsing the scarlet
wound. No one sees
the fury marring flesh. I am lit from within,
burning vapour. I beat my head distractedly
consolation. None prop us up in the furnace
of hell’s fairytale.
The empire reaches black and repeats, warm as
finds us grey as grief, stubbornly stealing rapture.
inverts in my absence, wearing out the cold moon’s
like tired eyes in the dark. Opposing madness
with sanity, armies
stand resolute. Mysterious accomplices
the siege; there is no coming to terms with Malice.
The white lips of
stress stretch taut over skin, stirring pools of
drowned nerves, cool
as grudges under the sea we long to leave.
A dreaming skull’s
cage opens and closes—hello/goodbye—yearning
to dismember the
past. The whispering clock will not abandon
this world beyond
ours, the afterlife of a heart of black leaves
where we voyage now.
The future chimes mechanic wishes left
unspoken, fluent on
the wind. I am terrified by this unlit place, yet
to conjuring moods of irrevocable fate and dread
in bearing witness
to the workings of human folly.
The naked girl in
the mirror escapes the tarnished crucifix where
Bodies of saints serve only one master. These
candles of Canaan are accursed
slaves, suckling whores of their god
of graves who feasts
on strange delights. Madonna nails the exiles’
bleeding feet lost for all eternity. We are wronged
by an ancient curse,
proud and victorious, dissecting bodies
and breaking bones
whose dull relics are the ghosts of us rattling on
the tongue. I
breathe warrior songs in guilty joy, pursued by any
wounded and timid
wings thirsty for my undoing. I promise to
forget the devil’s
word we heard. This could be fatal: unequal
the decades it takes to feed each maniac. A
gullible head feeds
them honey, yet they are too hungry for
animosity. Their angry clambering has murdered my
and freed them.
The end of
everything startles me still, facing dark doorways of
Love’s gestures. The
pale victim’s eye, empty of all thought,
unravels your image.
You shrink small enough to make me forget
us, unholy Terror. Can you do without me?
I could vanish in a
day, my grieving gown of loneliness and sorrow
become a yearning
for extinction. I am what is lacking in me,
sucking a vulnerable
wound between crippled teeth. How long
will this heart wear
shadows so sorely confounded by love?
God knows the origin
of the unknown land where we’ll meet.
We depart to walk in
wilderness, another way than death,
never taking a
tedious risk, to lose what we shall not find,
by secrets we share and the end that betrays us here.
The Bleeding Medusa
On a mighty
wind, in rides the Cavalry of Hell, raining angry
fallen dreams to come. Placing faith in
the cracked mirror
behind a dying time, a cruel world daggered
lingers long after the last wounds.
Carving your rage
with the slap of words, and knife dislocating
limbs, blood flows, transforming non-reality with
decisions. The hungry man born with a silver spoon
in his mouth claims
the most important thing is his only sin.
In blind innocence,
seeing that which never was, a place where
devils dwell, a
dead world welcomes a dark giant’s horrifying
into this blighted age. At the start of the fight, that
Dark Mephisto’s lips
curve into a hard line.
Chill and venom and slithers drown men with holy dread
of the odious
cave of snakes, of cold hard dead decomposition,
to shadow our former strength, the mystery of the Zen hex
death-wielding birds above our heads.
laughter, Apollo leaves, replaced by the cold sweat
of something new and
dangerous: the daunting cold of the
The bipolar brinksmanship of cold war's battle
threatens at least conflict, if not total annihilation—
not the first of his
kind to dazzle with such a grand performance.
The Gorgon Medusa is
rendered inert by violent men, life-giving powers
broken and enslaved,
mastered by the male order. Athena,
with twisted faith
and hope in hand, watches meteors the entire night:
once honoured forces
halted to conform to a linear perspective.
the frightening sound of distant boars, words that do not
belong. Metis keeps
vigilant watch until we return home
moonlit trails to another love song.
The last angry man
on earth falls and is whisked away by the
Gorgon sisters. We
hear him screaming as he drops, declines.
Weeping at the
fountain, The Mistress of the Beasts pens
the bitter letter of
love, mercy, and hope broken, rehashing
heartache in the
agonized sermons of a defeated land.
Black heart nights
resigned to human frailties wear the veil;
The hidden face, the
mask of Hecate. Where to bury the dead and how?
Erect a stone
pillar to honour lovers, that a sense of pity brought on
by brutality and
contamination of faith may rust the warriors’ armour.
scars trap souls in the dangerous throes of damnation.
sanctified mouth is the spear of truth and justice.
If the righteous do
not prevail, who gets what is deserved?
The war chariot is
drawn by ravenous lions as imagined foes are
with vengeance, as a way to deflect the
wounding spear and
save oneself from Solis’ eventual demise.
lifts night’s veil, casting mortal illusions into the underworld.
Mephisto breaks the
seal, staying in detention, imprisoned by
seeds of corruption
ineffective against a Dark Faust. That which
was revealed no
longer remains a mystery: Medusa, beheaded for
is a putrefying corpse-victim of the crescent sword,
head gifted to
Gorgon. Fear not, the gods will help Perseus find his way.
sickness sees no picture that is human, never
letting go until the
serpent monster slips off the edge of a mythical
caravan into a
territory of death and life, the visible and invisible,
horror and beauty,
hovering between being and not, a tense pairing.
In the evolution of
life and this destruction, all that was shall never be.
Gaze upon my fiery
vitality in the mirror with your shield.
forces in reflection. Cast your Furies on the
silhouette of a
final conquest. Not even Perseus in his cold steel
tomb can vanquish
with his intellect the heart that turns to stone:
the greatest fear
and attraction this powerful gaze has ever known.
judgment, a golden-bladed giant is born from my
from my deadly mouth, a skull. Serpentine wisdom
whispers in my ear,
created in earth on the winged militant steed
of Zeus. Fear me,
The Female Mysteries, The Lady of the Beast, who
bleeds without wound
or pain to end evil so that life may rise again.
The Punishing Ground
There is a little
funeral in the shades of my hands.
I am blinded by the
lives of the dead,
yet you say nothing
of this black-spiked
madness, shaking me
goodbye, no longer
calling my name. I
breathe in invisibles,
until I see nobody in my
house. The death
weapon smells fear in me
could excise; but, I live within boxes
I can’t escape even
in sleep; I am a sacrificial seed
about to break forth
into reverence in the quiet.
Sweet Devil, there
are no windows to see.
Tongue of Hell, you
know what lies are for.
Snuffed Candle, you
wound me as the world
hurts God. The raw
skull grieves it cannot be
holy, chilled to
death with frozen faith before
the angry dawn. I
unwind all the clocks of
annihilate the spider queen,
and watch as
you disappear with devilish ease.
I break the image of
you under my feet
appear: bats’ wings inscribed
hieroglyphics, exiled to an evil end.
I am afraid of your
tentacles, bad luck, and gypsy blood.
I know what I must
do, a Herculean task, and hack
with the sword to
kill you. One head lopped off,
two grow in its
place; death only strengthens
your resolve. Banish
the hydra-headed bitch!
Relapsing, I am
cracking, bloodied by the vicious axes who
own me. Place the
mad monster’s neck beneath a guillotine;
the final head must
drop; its fierce emotion moves me not.
Hack the Hydra, master
vampire and slayer, whose old
bones bury you in an
unexpected grave. In the reeking soil
he’ll die beneath a
rock, memories heavy as the stone.
Now frozen and
faint, my face is my own, pierced by knives.
On a cold day that
carries its dead, this mouth is trapped in a
cage of frantic
butterflies, all wants and desires freed. Asking
nothing of life,
anaesthetized, the still place is the black hearse
of Lethe. Buddha
smiles at a dead bell, God’s swastika has gone dull,
and, of greater
concern, a barbed-wire band burns my hand.
A whiff of fear: Is
it over, have we come this far? Breathless
paralyzed by the screech of departure echoing
end. I cannot walk too petrified to pick off the
worms, or let pills
kill the long hiss of pain. Writhing and grateful,
but too dull to
think, the aborted heads end by one death, guiltless,
in my little fist,
wordless and forgetful; shrunken voices,
on no one’s side,
darkness has no mind, embalmed in a photo, eyeing
my scars. I keep
watch over this vile creature whose shameful
smile terror and
disgust has stigmatized.
Our featured poetess, Alexis Child, who hails
from Toronto, Canada, sees horror in its purest form as a calculated
crime both against the aspirations of the soul and affections of the heart. She
has worked at a Call Crisis Centre befriending demons of the mind that roam
freely amongst her writings and lived with a Calico-cat child sleuthing all
that went bump in the night (and is haunted by the memory of her cat). She is
once again signed to Nostilevo Records in the near future. Her goth
rock band, Ceremony 7, will be reissued on this record label in the
Fall. Her fiction has been featured in Screams of Terror,
SinisterCity, SpecFicWorld.com, The House of Pain, The Official
Fields of the Nephilim Site, and U.K.’s Dark of Night
Magazine. Her poetry has been featured in numerous online and
print publications, including Aphelion, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Death
Head Grin, Estronomicon eZine, Midnight Lullabies Anthology,
Sein und Werden, The Horror Zine and elsewhere. Her
first collection of poetry, “Devil
in the Clock,”
will be released in print by Witchfinder
Press. Visit http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild/