Outward ink

Where do you go, when the anger shows?
The pulsing in the veins.
Threatening to tear the skin.
I close my eyes. I need such protection.
My blood is as thick as oil, and my heart as black.
Why do the things you say splinter me?
Rising my inner mercury.
My hands vibrate to sonic sound.
Angels crying, and a war in heaven.
The fury felt through a thousand decades.
Torn from the very books that celebrate such divinity.
These thoughts and callous kisses close in.
Peeling back my lips to bare these well-worn teeth.
The bones break and shift.
Ascending my temples as you try to look away.
But look deep within this life.
Into these blackening pools of my eyes.
Do any of us win?
Struck skin and nitroglycerin on the tongue.
Blossoming florets of purple that do not smell sweet.
They only anaesthetise me in an opium blur.
Sending my skull into the floor.

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Circles in the oil

The dark sky sways, undulating in that oily void.
Threatening storms, and to swallow me.
We move in motion, dancing across the dangerous divide.
Hoping not to fall. Hoping instead to fly.
Yet the golden dreams crumble to ash, and the sulphur seeps into our bones.
Laid waste across the terrain like cooling magma.
Did you prick your finger upon the wonderment?
Did you breathe in a new world design?
The lungs now get heavy with the tar of life.
Weighing down your soul until you shake into nothingness.
Black. All turns black as the sky shifts and salutes a new day of redundantment.
Our bones turn to chalk, and we write are names on the tombstones of tomorrow.
Erase. Re-write. Turn back the time to let in the light.
We all want our lonely little world.
To swim away from the one that’s drowning.
Let the pin prick breach and gape.
On a raft of a thousand reasons.
Allow the blood to cover a new imagination.
And suck the seed of dreams, to save yourself.

Chasing shadows

And they came in the night.
Dripping off of nightmares and fears carved in rock.
Slithered out from under my tongue.
They cracked your vertebrae and dusted our world with the pieces.
Those shadows of things.
Unspoken ideas that click and tumble around your skull.
The world unhooked the latch, and blocked out the stars.
Heaved into a silent supernova which bubbled in my soul.
Flick the charcoal from your fingertips.
Smear my brain with the sooty powder of the shadow you inhaled.
The yokey adjuster that they installed in our eyelids.
Click and turn like a wheel of bones.
Yet they drape our world in festive garbs of black.
Cutting velvet cakes in half, filled with dark oily dirt.
Escaping the shadows, cupping them like butterflies in your hand.
You may feel safe, but it doesn’t make it so. The shadows know.
They feed off us, the plentiful.
Like wedding guests at a buffet.
Greedily feeding and flashing false smiles.
Letting the wolves in the backdoor.
Staining shadows.
Stealing honey from the moon.

Spasm

What murmur stutters into existence?
Fast and slow.
Checking out of morality and shaking into something else.
Blur the lines of acceptance.
As we slither into another skin.
And cry within.
Apologise with deep sensation.
Called everything but what you are.
At first it really hurt, but now we joke about it.
Diminished as the light turns low.
Knee jerk into a falling, a sweeping weeping that leaves you empty.
You gave your best today, but you stumble.
Stutter and spasm into another day, another time.
A romantic funeral for the martyr of destiny.
That role no-one chose.
A goodbye for the already forgotten.

Little Black Horn

 

Little black horn, weathered and worn; wondering about what to do.
He split the world and climbed inside, and out of hell he peaked on through.  

Little Black Horn: A Collection of Short Horror Stories:-

‘A woman struggles to hide the truth from a creature she believes to be her lover; a man journeys to Southern Italy in search of a witch; a child makes a pact with a voice he hears at the bottom of his garden.

From adult fairy-tales to suburban horror; dark intentions seep through this collection of tales from the imagination of Harley Holland.’

Buy the work in paperback or on kindle here: Little Black Horn

Check out Harley Holland also

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In September the Devil comes Dancing

Collaborations with Nara15blog

Crinkled veins that litter the ground.
My smile carved like a pumpkin crescent.
Circling the moon.
Laying down for September’s kiss.
A spiced potion that thickens my eager Heart, bone felt and embraced.

Store bought and rhinestoned.
A mask for a hideaway.
A little glint under the eyes to shimmer.
In the cooling sun’s blaze.

Turning on a dime in a year’s sigh.
Tiptoeing back in time.
Last year, to rival such memories.
365. What a year to be alive!

Smelling the dying throes of summer.
As the trees feign death,
In the rustic cinnamon crunch.
Planting poison ivy to creep through my vines.

In a day’s ramble bramble.
Tomorrow, today. Witch way? This way.
On the broom off to do mischief.
Open the door for October’s devils.
Felling my rooted heart, awash with treacle.
Filling my soul with black stars.
These tar-like sediments like shock treats to my mind.
To make me dance manic eyed.

Howling at the orange fire moon,
Silver bulleted like a ghost through gloom.
In ebony tricks.
In a bubbly brew fix.
Rotting my teeth from the roots.

Golden gravity’s pull

My blood made of neon and speckled in gold.
Caught you looking.
Peeking inside my soul.
Come lick the satin from my windowpane.
Come be the reason i’m born again.
Reach inside, run your knuckles up my spine.
Your fingers around my heart.
Tonguing tried history.
Tasting dinosaur blood and DNA.
See me blaze, and watch my rise.
Thread you fingers through the string and come away with me.
Star coated kites in the black velvet sky.