H. P. Lovecraft

H. P. Lovecraft is a master of both purple prose & terrifying visions. I remember reading him in my late teens & being drawn in totally to the out-of-kilter world he created (or was he merely describing an alternate reality that wasn’t fiction at all?) On my Kindle I now have his complete fiction: short stories, novels & even some poetry.

He took me to a disturbed Maine seaside long before Stephen King moved in 🙂 I was impressed by his writing style, though now I find it a bit florid, and was even more impressed by his decision to dispense with the happy ending. There is no escape from the tentacles in his Cthulhu Mythos.

His invented language, strange rituals & decaying churches enthralled me. One of my favourite short stories has the escapee struggle from captivity to find themselves in front of a mirror & being terrified by the monstrous creature they see. My other favourite is the room with weird angled corners that drives people mad. The Dunwich Horror is perfection (& the movie isn’t too bad either).

Re-reading many of these stories as an adult, on my Kindle, I am both transported & a little bored. How many decaying churches, or deep underground caverns full of malignant artifacts do I need to read about anyway. He has spawned an industry, though, of novels, short stories that are still being written to explore & expand his worlds. 

I was inspired by his use of language, his story telling and the ability to create & sustain a complex & compelling mythos so rich that some believe it is not fiction. I approach my Village Stories with some of this in mind – though I didn’t go for supernaturally scary but for a more emotionally culturally-scary mood.

Delete Delete Delete

I went for a walk

took my camera

to see the world as an observer

not a passer-by

I took shots of

stray shoes stray cats

a frozen smile

dirty gutters budding trees

windows that needed washing

people that needed washing

teens smoking

locked doors

cars too close to the curb

a small dribble of blood

bicycles that rotted all winter

posters pasted on closed shop windows

spray tags on mail boxes

an empty threat

cut flowers at a corner store

empty park benches

the distance between the aches

clumps of soggy newspaper

the mouth of a cave

hands holding empty air

three cellphones

a dog killing a rat

a birthday cake

a broken object that beeped faintly

green teeth

a missed opportunity

a wrong turn

a gathering of indifferent hoodies

an orange chain link fence

the last of the great ones

discarded bloody bandages

a farewell to arms

a Tim’s cup trapped in subway escalator

a dead fly in a camera shop window

a reason to go on

undergarments in a storm drain

an absent ache

dead batteries


November 15: Hot Damn! It’s a Queer Slam – 8p.m. – Buddies In Bad Time Theatre, Toronto

every Tuesday

October 5/6/7 – Gratitude Round-Up


October scary poetry every Wednesday & Thursday

June  – Capturing Fire 2019 – Washington D.C.  capfireslam.org 

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2018’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

Like my pictures? I post lots on Tumblr



Unpacking the Past

A few months ago I began ‘unpacking’ poetry & short fiction I wrote way back at the end of the 90’s thru to 2002. Much of it was locked away in apple works files that were no longer directly accessible, or rather ‘compatible,’ with the latest version of Pages. Odd that Mac would make even their own old formats unreadable by the newest. So I have to open them with with simple text then cut & paste into pages.

brain01 reading left eye right eye dexterity

I even have archives that go back further in the form of typed pages of poetry, a couple of novels too – out away then because my ‘mentors’ felt the gay content wasn’t suitable for any market place. I may input that stuff to so I have it all accessible to me.

brain02 patched in and wired up

So some of the poetry & short fiction I have been posting this year has come from the past, not the deep past, but the sort of recent past. Some of it has gotten much better response that I expected too, some where if fact a bit surprised to be told how old it was. Not that I was a bad writer then but I’m a better writer now. I try to keep edits to minimum but even the piece from 1978 I resurrected for my chapbook got a bit of freshening up.

brain03 I escape the suckers of the Cthulhu

When I’ve read of writers losing whole years of unpublished works lost somehow: Millay has to reconstruct from memory at leas two unpublished finished manuscripts & notes lost to a fire; Hemingway’s wife lost a suitcase of his manuscripts – which he was too busy to reconstruct. My archives are slowly being saved in the clouds – safe as long as we have electricity, right?


April 21, Monday – featuring – Lizzie Violet’s Poetry Open Mic at The Amsterdam Bicycle Club – 7:30 – doors and open mic sign up, 8:00 – start – 54 The Esplanade, Toronto https://www.facebook.com/events/1379693865637955/

amflyerjpg copy

April 27, Sunday – attending – Julie Czerndea Workshop http://chiseries.ticketleap.com/chiseriesworkshop-julie-czerneda/

June 6-8 – attending – Bloody Words


June 23-27 – attending – Manuscript to Book – Loyalist Summer Arts – Belleville, Ont https://www.facebook.com/events/589522924455695/

room comfy Loyalist residence

August 28-31 – attending – FanExpo Canada http://www.fanexpocanada.com

samples Restless

the beach

the sand

the late evening breeze

brought the first hint of night

the stiff bendable scruff grass danced

families packed   cars drove off

tires softly grind new sand

with each turn of the wheel

the waves continued

never impeded by the frolic

heedless of the left behind

the tattered towel

twig trapped since last fall

cellophane wrapper scraps rattled in the grass

the echo of last footsteps

the still steady kiss of water across the sand

smooths away those last footsteps

washes away echoes of

laughing crying restless children

children who wanted to be home

watching the beach on TV

not here poking at dry boring sand

with a dumb ass shovel

filling a dumb ass pail

dumping it on the food

on dad’s book   on mom’s suntan lotion

the water rolls in and out wets their dumb feet

wrinkles their dumb asses

the seaweed kelp floats just beneath the surface

kept them from swimming out to the horizon

kept the children at bay

kept their dumb asses from

feeling the freeze of the sea

the still depth

where all hovered in a continuous motion

the floating barrier that kept all safe

floated a bit closer to the empty shore

nudged up onto the sand

to enjoy the spell binding moon light

to enjoy the echo of those footsteps

took a moment to get away from its usual distance

that tiring distance

where it was held in abeyance

by its own restless roil

the under flow of currents

relaxed as the sea swelled

as the kelp darted on sand a moment

as the sea once again pulled it back to safety

to float to mingle

the slow clouds over head cover the moon

a deeper dark settled on the dark of the sea

a few star reflections

danced bravely around the kelp

a dog ran along the damp sand

a master


whistling down the wind

swimdive into it