Horror Matinee

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

(Helgi Halldorsson)

Renfield: Whither Dracula? Where indeed!? Where are the Z-grade starlets you need To scream and scream again And bleed? Those clods in boots to stake their claim Twixt starlets’ Legs And in your heart? Where thou art? Helsing: A mirror on the table, a picture window. Sunlight streams…A golden cross and a vicar’s dreams. A holy chant. The vestibule. You withstand all but ridicule. You belong to a crueler age When gothic treats crowded the stage And children fretted in the dark Vampyre: And welcomed terrors light rendered stark. The moon, for example, is a perfect shape. Why does it…

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No There There

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

Ascent of the Blessed by Hieronymus Bosch

Rabbits would explode as we paused to reload, Blown to the winds their marrow-bone jelly, Now I’m sitting on my own somewhere Admiring the stained glass windows. Sick light, in single shafts On cold concrete floors. My eyes bled as I turned my head And dreamed of a time When the wind is a raw, guttural laugh And slaloms through the streets like a press-gang. Bouquets mean nothing to the man Who was clinically dead for five minutes – He said to his friends when they asked How it felt, that the next one to ask, well, he’d show them……

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Would You Like a Lift?

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

It’s dark, cold, and good folk are in bed Dreaming of what the blue noise said, maybe about them, Such old and shrunken people, smiles at the ready, Toothless and with balding hearts On which of course you dote – Let them be, I’ll take you to the pictures, Just get my coat. Wait, something is missing, a lacuna in the room, See the mirrors on the ceiling reflect a face of doom, Excuse me, are you sleeping, let me wrap you up… These old shrunken people, no teeth, When proposed to or accepted, relief! Coffee and cigarettes lay waiting…

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She’s a Blue Rose

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

(photo by noumenon)

She ignored the blow upon the door, Resisted the telephone’s siren call, In dead of night she’d run and hide And never guess what awaited her. She waxed, she waned, she symbolized For a moment, everything, And in the next irrelevant second She swears she saw a meaning. What one remembers of these things, The singing, I suppose. She has heard nothing to perturb her, No cloud or shape forms in the sky beyond; No gestures, murmurs, hisses of complaint Disturb the frothy songs of which she’s fond, The angels grew a lawn over all The world, to break our…

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The Boys in Brazil

April 26, 2015 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | PETER'S WRITING, Poetry |

[At the anti-celestial Palm Court Café, São Paulo] Bromide: Welcome to Concepcion! Whoever you may be, Surrender any weapons, set where we can see, In classical tradition we will not ask you your name Until you have sat down and eaten, nor from whence you came. Hush. From the city of dreams with its one-man-armies, Coloring by numbers a land of glass and bone, Only fire cleanses for the rain does not wash Away those who abet these activities; not yet. For those men with a brain to wash, With announcements to make and facts to ignore Force be the…

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