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
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
A Letter to the Girl who Hates her BodyA letter to the girl who hates her body.More Like This
A letter to that girl
Who scrolls through tumblr.
Admiring all of those models.
With thigh gaps that look cute with skirts.
And a waist that you can barely see.
A letter to the girl
Who looks at models,
For their curves.
The way their hips go outwards
And their size D cup breasts.
Please don't look in the mirror,
And hate the girl you see.
That girl is you
And she should be loved unconditionally.
Because you deserve love.
And how much love is not determined on your waist size,
Whether you're chubby or skinny
You're still so very pretty.
You're so perfect.
So for every time you look in that mirror.
And tell yourself you aren't worth it.
That you're arms are too big,
Your hips aren't big enough.
I am a woman.
I am strong.
I have a body like a castle.
A kingdom made just for me.
And I will not destroy that castle,
By trying to starve myself.
By taking brick by brick and dismantling it
Dear Homophobic ParentsDear homophobic parents,More Like This
How the fuck do you think it makes me feel
When you walk out of the room crying
Because you can’t stand the thought of something I can’t control.
I’ll tell you that it makes my insides burn.
The living room feels like a closet.
Suffocating, and yet I can breathe fine.
I am choking on the air,
Polluted by your homophobic slurs.
Making uneducated guesses about things you know nothing about.
Someone ought to teach you to look shit up
Before you go about, shouting your false claims to the world.
My very existence is an error.
Some messed up chemical defect that went wrong,
I don’t belong
I am the Titanic,
To you I am supposed to be perfect
I am supposed to be straight, and happy, and fine.
But I am so very far from fine,
When my lungs are filling up with water,
Your words are an ice berg,
And I am sinking fast.
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.
We Dont Die YoungTurn the lights down low. Let me leave this place from the comfort of my own bed at seventy, quick. Sometimes I actually think I’ll be around to see the world die. That would be my luck, as it was my grandmother’s. The quality of life fades, but the heart and mind remain strong. I don’t wish to die, I just want to leave the station before the suffering begins, but we don’t die young.More Like This
My blood line speaks for itself. The latest to prove that fact is my father, a hard noised, whiskey drinking wild man. He rode his Heritage to the end of life and back again. Now, his roar has become a groan, but he’s still kicking near eighty. Most his friends are gone now, but their memory still lingers and he has his family.
If this doesn’t sound so bad, that’s because it isn’t, at least not yet. When your existence becomes agony and pain from bones that don’t work, lungs that struggle to breathe, or bowels that won’t move I’d rather take