Category Archives: Scary

The Late Night Visit

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If I find a gap in one of my poetry notebooks that is too small for one of my usual pieces, I like to write a haiku or limerick to fill the space. This is one of those filler poems.

A few weeks ago, I was woken at 01:30 by a loud knocking. This knocking went on for some time and seemed to be coming from my front door! I brushed it off as a lost drunkard but, the next night at 01:30 the knocking was back again, louder and more frantic than before. I thought I might be having a recurring dream, but my housemate heard it too! I have no idea who was knocking or why.

The Late Night Visit

Knocking on the door
What time is it? 01:30
I’m ready to die


Do I have time to update my status to something witty before I am killed?


How Are You Not A Sea Monster?

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It’s Valentine’s day! Different people have different thoughts and feelings about today. Personally, I tend not to pay it any attention at all as it’s all a bit nauseating, but I’m posting this poem as a small nod to the day’s significance.

I was reading The Call Of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft and I couldn’t help but think that it would be horrible to have to spend time with a sea monster (especially one that is actually an ancient, evil, and angry god) and that the highest compliment you could pay someone is that they are completely unlike a sea monster!

How Are You Not A Sea Monster?

How are you not a sea monster?
Let me count the ways
You don’t have slimy tentacles
Just small, warm hands to raise

You don’t have eyes like frying pans
No, yours are deep and blue
You don’t scare sailors half to death
It’s nice to be with you

You don’t protect a dark abyss
You’re generous and sweet
You don’t have pincers, claws, or hooves
Just lovely, little feet

You don’t speak in strange languages
I love to hear your voice
I wouldn’t nuke your resting place
Were I given the choice


The lesser known (and lesser feared) sink monster


Chocolate Sprouts

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One of the most exciting parts of Christmas Eve is hanging up the stockings! While it’s impossible to predict exactly what Father Christmas will place in them, there are certain things that appear each and every year.

One of these things, in my house at least, is a bag of chocolate sprouts. Yes, chocolate sprouts. Like chocolate coins, but sprouts. It’s not complicated.

In Chocolate Sprouts, the two breeds of sprouts (brussels and chocolate) are engaged in a violent war.

Chocolate Sprouts

Chocolate sprouts are breaking free
Sneering as they look at me
Chocolate sprouts are breaking loose
Oh, what carnage they produce

Chocolate sprouts are breaking in
See the Brussels siege begin
Chocolate sprouts are breaking through
Howling as they come for you

Chocolate sprouts are breaking up
Lighting candles as they sup
Chocolate sprouts are breaking out
Snorting as they charge about

Chocolate sprouts are breaking off
Civil War! The Brussels scoff
Chocolate sprouts are breaking down
Melting into pools of brown


The Brussels Sprouts Boil With Anger

Invisible Touch

Invisible Touch

Phil Collins recently announced the exciting news that he is coming out of retirement! He’s promising a new album and even a tour! Needless to say, I was overwhelmed by this news, so I thought it was time to post another poem from the Phil Collins Saga. You can find some others under the ‘Longer Projects’ category. An assassin has been hired by the forces of light who have been forced to resort to cruel methods to end Collins’ reign of terror. However it may seem, this poem is not the end of the story.

Invisible Touch

His feet were silent
Light as air
The river running dark and brown
He crept along
The narrow bank
His task; to take Phil Collins down

So many ways
To do the deed
Shoot, smother, poison, stab, or drown
He slipped into
An alleyway
At dusk to take Phil Collins down

His blue robe trailing
Whispers soft
This figure haunts the old Swiss town
Two velvet gloves
Upon the hands
He’ll use to take Phil Collins down

The house now breached
Phil Collins found
Resplendent in his dressing gown
A shadow looming
Rush of air
He’s here to take Phil Collins down

The job done swiftly
Scarce a scream
The blue assassin stops to frown
For life’s one purpose
All his days
Had been to take Phil Collins down

But now returning
Bringing death
His handiwork of some renown
With vigour now
A righteous goal
His task; take Eric Clapton down

He suspects nothing

He suspects nothing

The Queen of Putrefaction

The Queen of Putrefaction

This poem has a very melodramatic title but I think it’s appropriate because people have very melodramatic reactions to it’s subject. I’m not the biggest fan of spiders ever but I do think they’re actually pretty cool creatures. My favourite spider fact is that spiders don’t use muscles to move their legs. They have hydraulic legs! They move by moving fluid in and out of each leg in turn. How crazy is that? Pretty crazy. Of all the creepy crawly beasts that linger where death and decay are found, spiders are probably the best.

The Queen of Putrefaction

Below the tattered curtain lies a body on it’s back
Light glistens in the compound eyes that watched the world turn black
A single, shining silk thread ties it’s legs up from a height
Like many other wayward flies, it didn’t last the night

For in the dark a demon sits, it’s waiting in the gloom
Without a sound each eyeball flits and turns around the room
It moves in sudden violent fits, to chase, to hunt, to kill
It never fails, it never quits, the beast will have it’s fill

It’s legs move by hydraulic action, scuttling at speed
It rules the Lords of Putrefaction, lingers where they feed
Climbing with it’s unholy traction, webs mark where it’s been
Nothing is safe that draws attention from the eight eyed Queen

This particular Queen has unfortunately set up shop in my throne room

This particular Queen has unfortunately set up shop in my throne room

Lake Bled

Lake Bled

Following on in September’s sonnet series, we now come to the Petrarchan sonnet which is quite different from the two previous sonnets I have posted. Whilst it is still written in iambic pentameter, the structure has changed. Rather than three quatrains and a couplet, we have one octave (eight line verse) and a sestet (six line verse). The rhyming structure for the octave is usually a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a. Typically, the sestet follows either c-d-e-c-d-e or c-d-c-d-c-d. For this poem, I have chosen the former.

I have something of a phobia when it comes to swimming. Being in water is distinctly uncomfortable and upsetting for me and I find deep water utterly terrifying and disturbing. I can trace this phobia back to a particular day in the year of 2012. I was travelling around Europe with some friends and we stopped in Slovenia near a stunning lake named Lake Bled. It really was one of the most beautiful places we had ever seen so we went for a swim.

A few metres out, the bed of the lake suddenly plummeted to a great depth. I found myself almost paralysed with fear then, without knowing what happened in between, I was crawling up the bank breathless and shaking. That afternoon, I stupidly agreed to go swimming again and had another panic attack when a very large fish brushed passed my legs. Later, back in my room, I had a vivid flashback and fell over. How dramatic! These experiences have been condensed for the sake of concision (severely lacking in this introduction) in this sonnet.

Lake Bled

We swaggered through the bright Slovenian heat
Some days into our European break
From Castle Hostel, out towards the lake
The water gently lapping at our feet
Lured into depths by cunning and deceit
And glancing down, a terrible mistake
A giant fish, more than my mind could take
It pushed my legs then vanished into peat

Still screaming as I staggered up the bank
And trembling for hours after that
Not caring that my friends thought me insane
I pondered just how deep I nearly sank
Collapsed into a heap and, laying flat
I swore that I would never swim again

Terrifyingly beautiful

Terrifyingly beautiful

Bring Me Phil Collins

Bring Me Phil Collins

‘Bring Me Phil Collins’ began life as a silly stand alone poem about nothing in particular. However, it is the seed from which the idea for the Phil Collins Saga grew. I explained it briefly in the introduction for another poem from the cycle that I posted here. ‘Bring Me Phil Collins’ is the introduction to the cycle of poems in which Death calls for Phil Collins to be brought to him.

Bring Me Phil Collins

Bring me Phil Collins he cried
Place him at my feet
With saucy tales his talent is belied
This is a man I would meet

Yes, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Throw him to the ground
Forgotten now by popular tide
When once he was renowned

So, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Bear him to my throne
Too long has my patience been tried
Too long have I sat here alone

Now, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Stand him in the court
For this is the place he’ll forever reside
As a bean of burden ought

It's no good trying to hide Phil. Everyone can see you.

It’s no good trying to hide, Phil. Everyone can see you.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud


I’ve always found great enjoyment in films that take the disaster movie idea and turn it into a ludicrous joke. Films like Megashark vs Giant Octopus, Sharknado, and 2012 are hilarious. I wanted to pay tribute to this very special type of film. My idea rapidly became the concept for an epic poem which I am currently working on. This is a story about the Avalarch; Part Avalanche, part Larch. It grows in secrecy in the heart of London, then breaks free to wreak havoc. Eventually, it is defeated but, like all good ridiculous disaster stories, it is soon back to face other monstrous beings.

This post contains part 1 of Avalarch. In this part of the epic poem, we watch strange and mysterious events unfold that lead to the creation of the greatest threat to London since the great fire.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud

London doesn’t sleep, not quite
The light from every amber lamp
Reflects in fragments from the streets
That sheets of city rain made damp

The moon, half-hid by ashen clouds
Enshrouds the night in mystery
Illuminating hill and pit
A citadel of history

The Thames drifts by with murky grace
It’s face is grey with dirt and dark
A twisted trolley on the bank
Once thankless mule turned steel toothed shark

The ripples on the surface speak
Of bleak disturbances below
The wreckage of the city’s past
Lies fast beneath the undertow

The gentle trickle of the waves
That gravely stroke the crumbling wall
Heard only by the man in black
With sack and shovel as his haul

A crawl across the river muck
Legs stuck and sinking into mire
His hands and face with mud are packed
Though cracked, still like a mask entire

His body weary, aged, grey
A stray dog snuffles at his feet
It paws his leg, it starts to cry
Then finally accepts defeat

He drags himself up ladder rungs
And tongues of rust push through his hands
To taste his blood and slow his climb
From slime and mud and sucking sands

The top achieved, he stops to wheeze
His knees are trembling from the strain
Falls to the ground, his face is red
Then steadily he stands again

His eyes don’t speak so much as shout
A bout of coughing racks his chest
His job long done, he staggers home
To roam no more, at last to rest

A flutter from the traitor’s gate
A stately raven takes to flight
He rides the air with humble skill
A silhouette against the night

Big Ben chimes thrice his sonorous tone
A drone that gently shakes the sky
The bird drops to a window sill
And still the river slithers by

Swollen from the copious rain
It stains the bank with water lines
And laps the footprints in the clay
Erasing these, and other signs

A streak of bright fluorescent green
Here seen just momentarily
A tub of radioactive swill
Is spilling in the estuary

Through eddies, currents, ebb and flow
It slowly dissipates to spread
Some rises to the surface scum
And some sinks to the river bed

It seeps into the ground at last
Drawn past the banks and under soil
Into a garden, trickles through
The beauty bought by gardener’s toil

Exotic flowers, though lately bloomed
Consumed by filth, they wilt and die
But in the garden corner stand
The grand and glorious larches high

The trees succumb to waste and rot
But not the tallest, firm and wide
The dangerous drops through roots drawn in
Begin to change it from inside

This sole survivor drinking deep
While others die putrescently
For hours and days and months and years
It rears on up incessantly

And in due course, the others gone
Drawn on by time’s eternal march
It longs to rise from out the earth
The birth place of the Avalarch

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man's and yet as mortal as his own

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man’s and yet as mortal as his own



IKEA is like the Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory of furniture. Endless hours of my childhood, and those of thousands of others, were spent trying out chairs, beds, bean bags, and all manner of exciting things! And to top it all off, awesome meatballs in the restaurant at the end! Woohoo! However, all good children knew that to stray from the path set out by the arrows was to court danger. This is the tale of somebody who does not heed the wisdom of the IKEA arrows.


I wandered through IKEA
With the bravest of all men
But he disobeyed the arrows
And was never seen again

Lamp a.k.a Frukenshnattlegotrobolotok

Lamp a.k.a Frukenshnattlegotrobolotok

New Malaise

New Malaise

This poem is about the obesity epidemic ravaging the western world.

New Malaise

In every city, every town
The sickness spreads like mayonnaise
A straining wheeze, a sweaty gown
The first hints of a new malaise

Then, melting in the Summer heat
The bulbous bodies take short strolls
On what were once their legs and feet
But now resemble sausage rolls

They will have food, they will eat yours
A shopping centre, food court spied
They shatter the revolving doors
And feed on everything inside

Every night the army march
For daylight brings on belly sweats
Sequestered in a golden arch
They ooze over the parapets

Their numbers grow with  volunteers
They use no force, there is no need
They simply grind you down for years
Then fill your trough with swill to feed

So don’t accept the gifts they give
Get off your bum, get out of bed
Or else you’ll have to waddle with
The legions of the walking fed

If all else fails, lob a granny smith

If all else fails, lob a granny smith