NUMBER 1073

by John Grey

The house is old and infected

with churlish darkness,

the eyes of the grave,

the dusty smell of malevolence.

In even the emptiest of rooms,

a presence pricks the skin like needles.

And, when it’s gray and damp outside,

old despair seeps tears from every ceiling.

So many have dwelt within these walls,

the cruel, the evil, the unrepentant,

a diabolical den of debauched lives

without the prospect of heaven.

Even sleep is morbid restlessness,

a wearying collision of dream and haunting.

The moans from within, without,

keep all four posters of the bed awake.

VANTAGE POINT

by John Grey

In a narrow side street,

down below my second-floor apartment,

the routes by which

the bogeymen, demons,

grotesqueries and monstrosities

enter the inner city,

come together

in a tight space,

of muted light,

and no other foot traffic.

Tonight,

I expect, once more,

to take up my window vantage point,

watch, in both fascination and terror,

as they resume old feuds,

attack each other violently,

ripping and gouging,

biting and slashing,

in one great battle-fest

of torn skin, fur chunks,

flying eyeballs

and cannons of blood.

But, this night,

their usual growls

are merely murmurs.

Their lashing out

is no more than shoulder taps.

And those grim faces,

normally so intent

on menacing each other,

look upward.

One long scaly finger

emerges from the cloak

of some grizzle-faced ghoul.

It points directly at me.