Italian Masters of HorrorMore Like This
Italian Masters of Horror
Zombie by liliesformary
Giallo is Italian for yellow… and Horror
In the wake of the real life horrors meted out on Italians during World War II, brutalized by Mussolini and then by Nazi occupation and then having their country used as one great battleground chessboard between Nazis and the invading U.S. and Allied forces, there was for a long time little appetite for horror in movies. It wasn’t until 1956 that the first genuine horror film (a vampire story) was produced and released. It bombed, soundly rejected by the public. The film would be of little note
Clive Barker: Return of The Dark MasterMore Like This
His Books of Blood in the 1980s established him as a premier master of the horror narrative, on an equal level or even surpassing Stephen King, who said of him;
I have seen the future of horror, his name is Clive Barker.
Like King, Barker’s works of horror have been adopted and adapted for movies, his stories becoming the basis for the Hellraiser and Candyman series and many more. Beyond his stories being used as source material, Barker has worked as screenwriter, producer, actor and director in the film world.
As with Stephen King, many of
Origami heartTo compensateMore Like This
the simplicity of my words,
I write letters
on complex paper
and fold them
in little shapes
of things inanimate,
delude myself a meaning.
Today a boat,
because I want to travel
the stream of your consciousness
where the waters of your feelings
Deep down I know
these thoughts are rapids
too urgently scribbled,
down I know
they will fill my lungs
but I want to drown
in my glass of illusions
one last time
before I sign my name
on the side of this paper craft
and let the currents
take my origami heart
I hope one day
It will find you,
some other time
some other place.
standing beneath a tough cloud of duststanding beneath a tough cloud of dustMore Like This
swimming around my particles
creating poems of intimate forgery
wandering around, comes him with wings
coloured with rust, though fully functional
merging into the background, chirping away
tremors overwhelm the showcase,
the multitude of life that it displays,
the subsequent indigo flares that flash throughout the sky...
everything is clean-cut, washed away
like a secret paradise within my soul
everything flourishes: everything grand and visible
but they haven't left yet; they haven't faded
they, who spoil all the blossom in my eyes
they, whose purpose I can't seem to find
slowly... my breath fades away
the vividness turns monochrome
the chirping, no longer heard
he comes back, but without wings
wounded from peaceful aggression,
mindless and naïve indulgence
he wraps himself around my neck
like all of their strings were
and i levitate...
i'm lifted in the air,
Writer's Block.The words don’t come easilyMore Like This
I wish they would.
The flow in life
ain’t quite right.
Dis-joints the perspective –
The High hell out
of my poetry.
they call it.
Ode to Devon DelightsNow listen 'ere me lurversMore Like This
tis zummit ye should know
if yur lurking fur zum fun
ye aint got far to go.
Cos 'ere in zunny Deb'n,
the pixies come and play
when yur drinkin' Scrumpy Zider
and rolling in the 'aay!
It may be surfers paradise
to those within the know,
is zummer's best
a festival to sow..
Seeds of grokel friendship of course,
Anyhow, as I be saying
that there them
are the greenest ye will find
and the countryzide,
it be 'Dev-ine'.
I can 'arrtily recommend
our delicious cream teas
tho' nothing beats
with clotted cream,
and a 99!
The deb'n maids
are the prettiest
in all the land
and the beys,
they aint all bad!
On a good day that is..
So me dears
put Deb'n on yur map!
we've made the best muzicians
Need I zay more?!...
Zee ye all zoon then.
Copyright - AMY whimsicalworks (Please respect)
LessonsIn forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notionMore Like This
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and its forty-four minutes until I turn twenty-one when I realize the relentlessness of this;
how I will age away from him and I am disgusted with myself, with his ashes on the bookshelf,
with this world that keeps making mistakes that can't be fixed.
Twenty one years old and I am a semi-colon, a shuddering pause on the floor,
remembering the time I broke
Last Nights RunThere’s money in a stackMore Like This
and a pistol on the floor.
A tattooed hand
dangling just above.
Whiskey bottles scattered
from last night’s run;
a dance with the devil
in the main event.
The ashtrays full
of cigarette butts.
Smoke still lingers
in the air.
The light bulb flickers
to its last breath.
with impending dread.
The dis-hearted sleep
while sirens wail,
up the street
and across the hill.
A crash through the door
and that’s the end.
It’s hard being poor
in Houston, Texas.