A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes

(Listen to this poem being narrated by it's author, Marc Evan Aupiais:)


A ghoul seeks my December, subtly, secretly, seethes,
It wants my soul and my very anguished end, charcoal flames in an otherworld,
By my grave, it breathes in deep, my death scent, it awaits, it adores the thought,
Of the inevitable easy decay... of my ways, it so very delightedly brays,
- to waste and edible death paste, it whispers away.
It is already a creature of death's final say.

And in the passageway, to my chamber's bed,
Awaits a foul ghost, a phantom spirit,
A soul split in many tortured horrible death tarred ways,
Angered by my stay, and by my living breath.
Glacial presence, haunts the summer haze,

And upon the clouds, heaven is amiss,
Dragons fight in the darkening white shades,
Their breath's discharge, smoke, like clouds of snow and rain,
And a Fomorian beast, meets the Celtic Gods with ease,
As Ra and Oden come out to seek.

Shades trace the way to Hades,
As the devil's widely grinning creatures grin, with glee, bray, moan, precipitate.
And demonically, in the darkest fathom of the gloaming,
Sometimes my mind does striate, upon the darkness, a pattern of unfaith,
As diabolic wraiths do fly, sour and ply the inevitable fate.

But logic divides dreams, and imagination it does mitigate,
And for the most part, the preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
Are but a wisp, hidden in lurid night terrors, of humanity's intermittent sleep.

And I awake, to praise the bright African sun,
Awaiting a life, surely of love, affection, to be won,
And after death, a heaven perhaps,
But preternatural fears of primeval man exert latent, unspoken stress,
And many inhabitants of this earth, blame and wildly gesticulate,
Whatever it is, we are powerless, it certainly awaits.
And one day, we will know,
Or we will merely lie dead and emptily decay.

Softly flap the winged clawed digits...

(Listen to this poem, 'Softly flap the winged clawed digits...' being performed in spoken word poetry narration by its author, Marc Evan Aupiais)


Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
It swoops above, and had dived upon the head.
It speaks, and squeaks, and listens intently,
As its night eyes, and mouth combine in perceptive proprioception.

The clouds are white, as the gloaming begins to reap the sky,
Softly speaks the squeak of the uncannily canny, unsettling bat,
As it circles, with bacteria infested wingtips,
And fangs from which maroon berries or blood drips,
And disease, an aura, surrounding it,
As it follows the moonlit aisles of night sights.

And in the distance, something preternatural speaks,
A voice or was it the rustling of leafless trees, squeaky clean,
The whisper in the worrisome willows,
An instinct speaks,
It says I lack some secret knowing,

Softly flap the winged clawed digits,
Of the darkly silent smidge of a death bearing, life searing bat.
And I ignore the otherly instinct,
And head into even stranger things.