I heard crunching and cackles;
“that corpse you planted last year,
has it begun to sprout?”
Of course not, silly ghoul;
only The Sick Rose sprouts.
Corpses always rise at night—
ravenous for mirth.
The mush behind your eyes
should satiate their first night out.
Note: only a friend, who truly understands my weird, will know to lift my spirits with a toothy pack of grinning Terrors. Thank you, my dear Jonquil; you rocketh very mucho! ♥
Of course… I, too, know how to make my own spirits giggle. So I summoned some creepy yum from Eliot’s “Unreal City” and a pinch of eeriness from “The Sick Rose” by Blake.
for Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads (A little Weird with Mama Zen),
Poets United’s An Evening Out
and Incipient Wings’ Haunted Humpday
Terror, by Aaron Alexovich