's 2014 Horror Write-off:


Submitted by Milos Blagojevic

How the unfolding doubt turned to ashes    
mind overthrown like when writer crashes
the last typewriter on the left run down
near the road near the stray chimney town

Mind the arrangement of the letter nooks
if reading can but mean opening the books
without a glimpse of hidden gliding shame
in dust and ashes settled maddening to blame

What the shadows mean by stealing away bricks
inside the houses bleak chimneys clocking ticks
in circles around the beds swung like letter teeth
sewing up the pillows gliding down beneath

Did you read the forgetful phrases question marks
sharpening out on each comma and dot around arcs
visions from the night hell in worldly chime
does not bring all candles down in sickly rhyme

They descend they dance away the pillow fight
soot on the stairs sending down to flight
the feed which slipping running turn away
not to heed anyhow the gentle bloody sway

It is fear of void of unknowing still too rare
like stories of old chimneys black with no glare
forbidden letters made us soft wanting for a guide
in this hollow harrowing of their violet stride

Hide away the suburbs and tread over fences
open doors to dreams and plead that their lances
poke no more at bare feet of the sewn shut morn
reminiscent of flowers paper tattered and torn

Down in the brass casket the rattle chimney drinks
if seen only glimpse the monstrous rain on brinks
of reason will reside with clock-tick precision set
a heartbeat away should be easy enough to get

These eyes closed on their sooted grin and sharp
may end the letters and long lines with a mark
of un-world of inverted town on every written lip
finishing the lively unuttered tip-toed tip

Muteness remain in the rooms downstairs white
fires without chimneys refuse to put a fight
so the timber in the crackling mouldy den do sigh
across the floor the last track of it was nigh

Cold and flames protrude the writer's dots in vain
pretending to be the same as it ever was the sane
wanderer from past is knocking at the roof's end
only to see the pointy shadow tooth and a blend

Similar to bricks the pointy scallions lie
upon a shore of bed and sheets and a lullaby
on the horizon of looming overshadowed illness
doth be protruding your unfinished stillness

They do guard the houses the curtains do weep
sleepless never in the fire or the snow they sleep
but the grateful children underneath the pillows
paying homage to the sooted weeping willows

Turn away your pointy end of pencils down
not to call them not to loose the book and gown
at the last dream that is held too dear
to finish with a shadow a dot and a smear