Under the Carnivore Moon’s light
my tentacles develop, I morph orbular:
Werefish with mulish teeth, tufts of eyelashes for fur.
I’m the dumbest idiot on Creature Street.
All the mutants splash my cesspit
with ectoplasm, say I’m non-phantasmagoric.
I’d kill everyone in heaven just to make you lonely.
I’m not touching you – I’m not touching you – stop hitting yourself –
stop hitting you I’m not disemboweling you – stop vivisecting yourself –
I’d torch the whole world if I knew you’d choke last.
Jeepers creepers, no sensation outside terror!
Delight not in my thousand mile eyes
nor cold flask of sunshine I tongue.
This Feels Like Dying Inside. I Feel Like Doing Deicide.
Hello little wet specimen;
you cling like saliva
to absentia,
pharaoh dug up to summon a scarab—
wandering eye implanted
in the mouth of the messiah:
I see you dream of shade for flora.
I turn on the fire. I want you even warmer.
I would bleed myself like a leech and sink the whole ship in a whirlpool of reddening saltwater.
I bleed a leech and a whirl of red
myself a leech the whole ship saltwater.
- About the Author
- All Posts by This Author
From rural Michigan, Nicholas Alti is a bartender in Atlanta who holds an MFA from The University of Alabama. He is interested in horror, arcana, silliness, and surrealism. His poetry is in The Horror Zine, BlazeVOX, Poet Lore, Red Ogre Review, and elsewhere. Find all his published work at 3bluntzatonce.com.
- About the Author
- All Posts by This Author
From rural Michigan, Nicholas Alti is a bartender in Atlanta who holds an MFA from The University of Alabama. He is interested in horror, arcana, silliness, and surrealism. His poetry is in The Horror Zine, BlazeVOX, Poet Lore, Red Ogre Review, and elsewhere. Find all his published work at 3bluntzatonce.com.