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  • Writer's pictureLuke Ramer

Guest Poet - John Grey

Dark Fiction Factory welcomes back guest poet, John Grey. Enjoy his following poems...


With night fallen, the trail I walk

draws dangerously close to the cliff.

Down below, I can see waves crash onto rocks,

split like foaming watery skulls.

In the distance, an unmanned lighthouse

scans the eerie, dark sea

as if searching for floating bodies.

But I am as safe, as carefree, as any man

who's long since taken that deadly plunge.

And certainly not fearful.

No, I leave that to the ones

who cannot sleep because they've seen me.


On a bitter cold spring night,

a dead boy rises from his grave,

hauls his rotting body up the pathway

to the door of his date,

dressed in a tattered prom date tuxedo

and pants torn at the knee,

a dead rose dropping from a frayed lapel,

not here to terrify

but rectify that night a year before

when, in a hurry not to be late,

the combination of slick rainy streets

and the shoddy brakes in his old man's car

plus a corner taken at too great a speed

resulted in a collision with a light pole,

a deadly one-vehicle crash.

That night Yvette waited

long into the evening

for the boy to show.

She cursed his name

collapsed on the bed,

face down,

soaked the sheets in sobs.

And then when she heard the dreadful news,

her weeping was constrained somewhat

by the thought that

at least she wasn't stood up.

And here he is, ringing the bell

with a finger that's all bone

while, inside the house,

Yvette anxiously awaits

her first time out on the town

with a new guy, Chet.

"I'll get it!" she yells

as she descends the stairs,

two at a time.


Instant awareness.

I'm patched together body parts.

My legs don’t match.

My mouth is stitched together

like a scarecrow’s.

And look at my stomach.

It’s a tattooed gallery.

And my head is a glob of confusion

fed by a stranger’s blood.

But then a shiver in my hand

claws at my throat.

It takes all my master’s strength

to prevent me choking myself.

I look at him through

a glint of glass,

an eye unwilling to be twenty-twenty.

My nerves whisper to my heartbeat...

this is God.

I let out a vibrating howl of pain.

He rams a needle into my upper arm.

I suddenly feel like I’m dying.

My whole life flashes before me.

Then another whole life.

Then another.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Open Ceilings.

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