red ghost story
WARNING! This is the worst poem I've ever written. (I never ever ever exagerrate, EVER.) It's almost as bad as "The Isle of Innisfree" by Yeats. Or was it "The Lake of Innisfree?" It doesn't matter, because the point is, Yeats suck, and he would be proud if he had written this poem and therefore I am ashamed. But I'm posting it anyway!)
red ghost story
oh the grandeur!
welcome to red velvet manor
where the hallways are long and the ghosts are fake
its the setting of
a gimmicky horror movie, a cheesey romance, the most unrealistic erotica you've ever seen, or a choose your own adventure book
red velvet curtains, carpets, walls
interuppted by heavy wooden panels
the chandeliers rattle in the dim light
dark oil painting claim to be painful memories and must be covered up
oooh, spooky, oooh, hold me.
the entire mansion is part of an intricate board game
bigger than mouse trap, smaller than jumanji, but more like monopoly
four of us play next to a fire
three women, one men
although we're acting like children now
he and I are losing, struggling to stay in the game
now he's out, and I know I'm next
he's kicked out of the room until the next game
left in the next room by himself
we watch him through the dark glass in the door
he examines the room calmly like he's in a museum
we find the switches that control the haunted house
we dim the lights in his waiting room, making him nervous
we play with the buttons that make sound
I find the switch that controls the paintings
push it up a bit, the wood panels in front of the painting move down a bit
or are the paintings moving up?
I push the switch up fast, all the way
reveal yourselves, paintings!
memories! fake ghosts! as the organ strikes a note
I hear his familiar voice say, "Aaaaaaaaaah!"
my own laughter wakes me up
I'm still in the haunted house
I am the queen of red velvet manor
how disappointing
I want to leave but the hallways are long and forever turning into each other
I lounge on my four poster bed and rot surrounded by red velvet curtains
I stifle myself with red velvet sheets
my bedside table holds pastries and sweets
the decaying sugary smell nauseates me.
I wait for him, the one in my dream.
I know he won't come.
I try not to scorn my fake ghosts.
red ghost story
oh the grandeur!
welcome to red velvet manor
where the hallways are long and the ghosts are fake
its the setting of
a gimmicky horror movie, a cheesey romance, the most unrealistic erotica you've ever seen, or a choose your own adventure book
red velvet curtains, carpets, walls
interuppted by heavy wooden panels
the chandeliers rattle in the dim light
dark oil painting claim to be painful memories and must be covered up
oooh, spooky, oooh, hold me.
the entire mansion is part of an intricate board game
bigger than mouse trap, smaller than jumanji, but more like monopoly
four of us play next to a fire
three women, one men
although we're acting like children now
he and I are losing, struggling to stay in the game
now he's out, and I know I'm next
he's kicked out of the room until the next game
left in the next room by himself
we watch him through the dark glass in the door
he examines the room calmly like he's in a museum
we find the switches that control the haunted house
we dim the lights in his waiting room, making him nervous
we play with the buttons that make sound
I find the switch that controls the paintings
push it up a bit, the wood panels in front of the painting move down a bit
or are the paintings moving up?
I push the switch up fast, all the way
reveal yourselves, paintings!
memories! fake ghosts! as the organ strikes a note
I hear his familiar voice say, "Aaaaaaaaaah!"
my own laughter wakes me up
I'm still in the haunted house
I am the queen of red velvet manor
how disappointing
I want to leave but the hallways are long and forever turning into each other
I lounge on my four poster bed and rot surrounded by red velvet curtains
I stifle myself with red velvet sheets
my bedside table holds pastries and sweets
the decaying sugary smell nauseates me.
I wait for him, the one in my dream.
I know he won't come.
I try not to scorn my fake ghosts.