Return to the grave

Dance with me, my love
Upon this grave we’ve dug together
Deep within the heart of midnight
Among the ghouls, ghosts, and gloom

We’ll share a twirl and a spin
Caught up in a cobwebbed lace of spider-silk down
With the sound of harpsichord and howling wind
A music of passion for our tomb

Above the ground, on the outside in
Lovers of the dark fantastic will twirl and spit
On graves freshly dug and souls put to new rest
Aloud they live, to die too soon

Give unto me, your threads of desire
While life succumbs to death and hope grows cold
I’ll ravish your remains and suckle your meat
And retreat back inside your womb

Take me, dearest death
Underneath your blanket of sorrow
So that I may live again with my darling first love
To wrap my bones around her morbid corpse
A posthumous blossom to bloom

~ Jack Wallen

© Copyright 2012 Jack Wallen. All Rights Reserved.

Unrelenting Desires

To lie awake among the foul stench of his putrid liquid offerings leaves me but half the creature I may have been before his hand touched upon mine. In my own hazed world, I see only through the blood he has spread upon me, marking me as his own – this beast that will not be tamed, this beast that does not rest; this beast that shall never release me from my eternal damnation of bondage.  He has taken what he will and that much more; caring nothing of the husk he leaves behind until the next moment in which he wishes to taste his satisfaction. His fangs, they tear at me; his claws, they rend me from creamy flesh to a shuddering mass of broken bone and torn exposed sinew.  How, you may wonder, does a creature like me, one so full of grace and charm find herself ensnared in the wolfs clutch? He asked of me and I gave… now I shall forever give under his watchful gaze as my body, the body granted that of a goddess, heals time and again only to serve as a meal for his rabid snout and its unrelenting desires.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

© Copyright 2012 Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.

You have found us


Sit before the Tale Weaver.

You are now in the presence of the Damned. Within these pages, an eclectic gathering of dark writers and poets. Each a distinct voice. Each a bent mind. Each a tortured soul. Here, the fabric of reality twirls round our malevolent fingers. Here, light comes to die.

Our world is beautifully charred compared to your own. Beneath your polish lies our rust. Beneath your glory exists our taint.

We hide not behind masks. We cringe not from the raw. The Damned speak truths you dare not utter. The Damned expose all you shamefully hide.

Indulge upon our sanguine prose. Bloat with our anguished muse. Exalt in our blatant gluttony. You deserve it all. For the Damned are merely reflections of yourself, and portraits do not lie.

No longer are these your safe surroundings.  Eternally damned you shall now be.

Until we choose to summon you again…be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Deep… Dark… Seething…

I sit here awash in a seething rage that has my hands shaking and my mind honed to a razor sharp edge – an edge I would most joyously implement in the destruction of the seat of this anger.  Seething is an emotion so primal that it leaves me frothing with the brutal urge to end something – something that does not deserve to be.  I exist; this world exists; this world feeds my existence in equal measure to that in which I feed it.  I wish to extinguish from my world that which pollutes it.

Darkness is something I am no stranger to; my meandering path has lead me in this direction many times before, yet I have chosen the dim shadows over the darker abyss as I believe myself to be a creature worthy of the lifeline that pulls me back from this dismal pit of consumption.  Oh, but to allow myself to be fully submerged in the smothering inky damnation is to be free of my self constraint; to allow the dark to have me gives my soul the chance to sing its song of destruction so alluring that even I beg to succumb to it.  It is my Succubus; it is my sacred muse; it is my damning salvation; and it is saved for the worthy.  I have found a worthy receptacle, and into it I shall pour my darkness with the glee of the insanity that grips me and rips the vital air I breathe from my shrunken, shriveled lungs – lungs that have filled with the fluid of my disdain; corrupting all that flows from them; this disdain darkening my mind, my heart and my soul…

So deep is this angst of revulsion and shame that I find myself soaring on the wings of darkness; plunging into it’s depths; gliding to it’s apex; and begging those opposing currents to tear me asunder and allow for my full transformation in it’s most hidden recesses.

Darkness, take me deeper into you, allow me to feel you vibrate in every cell of my no-longer worthy yet satiated self.  Give me the freedom to soak in the deepest crevasses of a blackened soul.  I shall breath you, as a gentle deer breaths the air around it; I shall lavish in you, as an Emperor’s  concubine is lavished in the finest silk sheets before being torn to pieces by the beast that owns her; I shall live off your vital fluid as a scorpion lives off the poison it delivers with it’s sting; I shall cherish you, hold you to my bosom and profess my undying devotion to your malevolent enthrall.  I shall, if only for this briefest of moments, live you as my own existence – the destroyer of my world; the all encompassing bringer of corruption that feeds my every desire; the baron of my essence – for now you own me Darkness; you own a prize beyond compare, one that will only be yours in the deepest, darkest, seething rage of anger and brutality.

I submit to you while allowing you to enfold me in your soothing, gentle wings; your embrace so deliciously sweet, your  stroke so tender and gentle, that I cannot help but melt backward into the darkness that has been unleashed within me… Deeper I go, darker I become, a seething mass of incorporeal sensuality poised in longing for your suckling kiss to drain me… I give myself to you for the taking… though I believe you may have already taken me.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

© Copyright 2012 Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.

Nights Shroud

So far away though I hear your call for me,
your pain and sadness pulling me.
We lay down and together breathe us in.
When I close my eyes I see what you see.
Your heartbeat resting against my lips.
I feel you,
your hot tear falling into my palm.
My tongue uttering your pleas,
the darkness tugging.
You’re there in the shadows behind nights shroud lonely and cold.
My reflection in your eyes.
Lying there shaking,
your hand reaching for me.
I can hear you though you don’t make a sound.
My lips uttering your words,
only my name.
Pain consuming you holding you down.

~ The Blackheart Poetess

© Copyright 2012 April Denton. All Rights Reserved.

The Vampire I See


Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Heed me now.  ‘Tis not a chronicle I do recount, nor a fable spun beyond your wildest imagination.  Aye, I impart onto you a warning, and if wise, measure my every word you will.  Beware the beast that drinks not of blood but feasts upon the essence of your very being.

‘Tis the psychic vampire I speak.

Once entry is gained into your mind, there is no stopping these fiends.  For that is where they dwell…and breed.  Spawning their miasmal infection deep, deep into the root of your brain.  Imbedded, only the hourglass marks the moment your soul succumbs to their detestable will.

Scoff you do?  Hold your tongue, lest I cast you from this blog and into the feculent depths from which these creatures emanate.  More powerful than their undead brethren, they stride unhindered beneath sun and moon.  Obscurity they prefer; yet unabashed they roam.  Aberrations of ourselves, yet so closely tethered by common threads.  You know who they are, yet their guise renders them unknown.

You fidget within your chair.  Look not queerly upon me then, for the chill snaking along your spine betrays you.  It is them.  Even now, they reach with inconspicuous, needy fingers.  Groping for you.  How the virulent taunt.

Appetites unsatiated, they hunger your vibrance.  Listen now and understand their ploy…they wish you not dead, but rather live not alive.

Do you not recognize the abhorrent ghouls now?  Then introduce you I shall to these miscreations!  Look and forever shall you know – friends and family and strangers their masquerade!  And the cruelest of truths have I saved for last.  There.  There.  Your eyes do not deceive you.  My mirror doth not lie.   Aye, the most wicked of abominations stares you back.

The torturer within.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.


Steady hand.  Fluid wrist.

He commences, conducting an orchestra of pain across flesh.  Razor twinkles.  Nary a wince.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse.  Repeat.

Torrid water singes skin.  Crimson rivulets streak throat.  Razor kisses flesh again; long unhurried strokes abuse corporeal canvas.  Pauses.  Countenance he measures within warped polished metal anchored into wall.  Glimpses little.  Save distorted haze of ruined reflection.  He smiles.


 Slash Slash Slash

 Rinse.  Repeat.

Water murky within stainless steel sink.  Chunky with gore.  He has no business dipping fingers into scorching bath.  No business doing anything at all.  Beyond unforgiving bars of his cell swells heinous cacophony.  Thunder low and throaty upon hollows of the valley.  But this is not thunder.  This is anguish.  This is hopelessness.  So delectable.

This is hell.

Swirls razor into steaming mess.  Watches idly frothy, bloody rings cling to sides.  Ruined tissue.  Barely audible, a squeak from behind.  “Are you afraid?” he deadpans.  Interest seized by serumy whirlpool churning within sink’s bowel.

Scampering.  Feet seeking purchase.  Harried breaths.

“You shouldn’t be afraid.”  Razor to flesh.  Skin yields in neat flaps.  Fine meat under honed slicing blade.  “Not yet, anyway.  Didn’t I tell you this would happen?  I did tell you, didn’t I?”

Outside the bars, wails.  Chaos.  Lunacy.  Choked voices plead mercy.  Invoke God.

 “Yes, I’m pretty sure I told you.”  Air trembles.  Ripples with disorder.  Sniffs air, he does.  As canine, no.  No.  Inhales as predator.  Bite of sulfur.  Copper.  Sickly sweet in throat.  Delicious these nuances of suffering.  “Yes, thinking about it now, I’m absolutely positive that I told you.”

Pops from beyond.  Another, deafening, just down the hall.  Again, a whimper from behind.  “It’s rare when one holds steadfast about something.  Very rare.  Take personal belief, for example.”  Razor to jaw.  So steady, hand.  So fluid, wrist.

 Plop.  Plop.  Plop.  Chunks plummet to sink.

 Slash Slash Slash

 “I believed this day would come for a long, long time.  I’d have bet my life on it.”  Long strokes.  Graceful.  Measured mutilation.  Rinse goes the razor.  Plunk goes the flesh.  “No, no.  I stand corrected.  Can I do that?  Can I correct something already said?  Why, I suppose so, if I’m the one doing the saying.  So no, I would not have bet my life on it.  But I would have bet my soul.”  Chuckles.  “Can I share something with you?  You won’t judge me, will you?”

Gunshots once more.  Outside bars.  Just down the hall.  From here.  From there.  From here and there.  Each extracts a strangled sob.  Behind him.  Closer to the floor.  “I don’t like to be judged.  Really, who does?  Did you enjoy it when you were?  In the literal sense of the word, you were judged.  You received, what, nine years?  Already had a few strikes against you, a few prior convictions.  What did you expect?  I’ll tell you what you expected—you expected not to be judged.  Your life was hard.  No proper upbringing.  You expected them to understand.  You expected someone to give a damn.  But instead, you were damned.”

Outside bars, screams for a child.  A boy.  His name rips from father’s mouth.  Wishes to hear it, perhaps, before he dies.

“Yes, I’ve been judged as well.  A long, long time ago.”  Blade to forehead, above brow.  Steady hand.  Fluid wrist.  Left to right.  Left to right.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse.  Repeat.

Splashes scalding water into eyes.  Rinses free the gore.

“I didn’t like being judged then.  All because I simply saw things…differently.  All because I held firm, positive in my sentiment.”  Teeth clinch.  Snare vicious drawl.  “Judge not lest ye be judged.”

Outside bars, prayer in wild howls.  Fades.  Cloth tears.  Rending fills the void.  Then an awful sound.  Pigs to trough.  Jackal to meat.  Wet.  Slobbery.

“So, yes, I did tell you this day would come.  Yes.  I’m positive now.”  Din deafens.  Maelstrom of degeneration.  Yet one voice heard above all.  “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, by the way.  Enjoyed your company these past few years.  You’ve been a good egg.”

Body slams into bars.  Mangled.  Glistening.  Chewed.

He stares into distorted mirror.  Hand hovers inches from face.  An artist, he applies the finishing touches.  Long, fluid strokes.  Graceful, sweeping curves.  Not much longer.  Not much longer at all.

 “Listen, you’ve got nothing to worry from me.  Not a thing.  I will not hurt you.  It’s those animals.  Out there.”  Jerks head in direction of bars.  Ploop ploop ploop the crimson splatters shoulder.  Prison garment soaks.  “Those things, they’re you.  What you see is only yourself.  So look, this will go in one of two ways.  Release your inner self, become them and serve.  Or simply become part of them.  I’ll give you a minute to decide.”

 Putrid decay seeps into cowering shadows.  Madness reverberates against walls.  Tang of suffering clots the air.

“Time is up.  Sorry, but I haven’t all day.  Places to go, people to see.  Lots planned.  Bet no one thought the end would ever start here.  I mean, it is a penitentiary, after all.  The monsters are supposed to be on the inside.  But not anymore.”

Razor drops into sink.  “I blame all this on your judge.  He thought he had all the answers.  Problem was that he never asked the questions.  Now it’s too late for that.”

He pirouettes. “He tried to make you into his image.  Aren’t you tired of wearing his mask?  I certainly am.”

And last of face oozes down chest.

“So what’s it going to be, hmm?  A brand new world awaits.”

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2011 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Who are they…and what do they want?


1: to condemn to a punishment or fate;
especially : to condemn to hell
2a : to condemn vigorously and often irascibly for some real or
fancied fault or defect
<damned the storm for their delay>
b: to condemn as a failure by public criticism
3: to bring ruin on
4: to swear at : curse—often used to express annoyance, disgust, or surprise
<damn him, he should have been careful>
<I’ll be damned>
5: a group of writers sworn to their sufferings
…they are coming…

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.