110. Halloweens got soul. Part 3. (31/10/2015).

Ok I know, it’s November, Halloween was two days ago and I should have posted this then. But it’s only just become safe to come out from hiding behind the sofa. It is the concluding part to the two pieces posted on Saturday so dodgy memory or terrible timing (that sounds quite apt, must remember that for next year) here it is. Apologies for the shoddy calendar work, hopefully it’s still entertaining.

110. Halloweens got soul. Part 3. (31/10/2015).


From the ballroom with its guests among the cobwebs,

And faded painted memories of landscapes,

Boris and his crypt kickers bounced there,

Sending music on the gossamer downstairs,

Sound-tracking preparations to showdown,

As Freddy with purpose went about now,

Tired of being stalked and stabbed with eyeballs,

He just wanted to be quiet that was all, but the noise was back.


Frank would watch Drac’s back with his usual keen eye,

But the one not so keen was to blame,

For to plan for night time even in his own crypt,

Drac’ should’ve sought one with a second good eye,

And with two ears, perhaps, that faced the same way,

Stoic Frank stood, enshadowed, heart aflame,

A model of attention, senses alert fore and aft,

This sentinel none alive would ever pass,


The scars to the front of Franks neck

Were their usually unusual self,

Healed and sealed, left to right, bolt to bolt,

While at the back a trickle streamed,

Cut with craft enough to flow not spurt,

The red ran all the way down from hot to cold,

As flesh that had once lived and died did so twice,

And alliances were about to go from bad to worse,


A mist announced the coming of the dread Count,

Whose gaseous coalescence was somewhat brief,

He stood in front of Frank to survey and approve,

As notes that danced down the stairs, hung upon fetid air,

The hand at Frank’s side moved silent smooth,

A presence, briefly undetected, put pointed teeth on edge,

With a solvent scent that spoke of wood glued to steel,

Then a gloved hand, quicker than a Count could tally, pounced.


© Jim Laing 2015.





But now it couldn’t be avoided,

That he had to confront the two he feared most,


Freddy could always get the point,

Especially when there was someone,

Who wanted him on the end of it,

But when some “one” became not just two,

But the two who put him on edge,






About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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