Stevie King Ukrainian Potpourri

Stevie King Ukrainian Potpourri

Putin has screwed the pooch, says Stephen King.
Jerk failed to realize that Hero Joe
Would make him pay the price for everything.
Hey, Stevie’s confident – and he should know.
Although this isn’t quite his horror show,
He understands the genre thoroughly:
He understands how things are bound to go
With incarnations of monstrosity.
Biden is sure to force Count Vlad to flee
As once Count Dracula fled London Town—
Or else, like Ben Mears, Biden’s sure to be
Pounding a stake through Moscow’s macho clown.
Before that happens, though – let this be said!—
Joe’s brain must first be summoned from the dead.

–Tom Riley

Revival?

Revival?

It ended in a séance, more or less.
Ah, what a disappointment, Mr. King!
I thought your minister was saying yes
To something more expansive. Would he bring
Back to the light the whole vast gathering
Of woe-begotten, lost humanity?
Would he pry out Death’s Donne-discarded sting
And set the dead, though long-forgotten, free?
Such an apocalypse I hoped to see—
And what a horror, sir, it would have seemed!
Instead we got a little colloquy
Describing some lame afterlife you’d dreamed.
It was a weary joke – none wearier.
Stick to your gifts. You ain’t no Lovecraft, sir.

–Tom Riley

Change Horror Forever

Change Horror Forever

“I’ll change horror forever!” he said.
His original books I have read—
And I guess they’re okay.
But I do need to say
That we still dread the night – and the dead.

–Tom Riley

On the Limitations of Argument

On the Limitations of Argument

He argued with the vampire lord
But lacked a stake to make his point.
He didn’t even have a sword!
He argued with the vampire lord.
By rhetoric, some beasts are bored.
“No space for speeches in this joint!”
He argued with the vampire lord—
But lacked a stake to make his point.

–Tom Riley

Conflagration

Conflagration

 

At the conclusion of a book by King,
There’s frequently a raging conflagration.
“Fire purifies.” That’s Ben Mears’ observation.
He’ll get those fucking vampires scurrying!
As bats, perhaps, some targets will take wing,
Though where they’ll fly requires much calculation.
Many will burn in place: no complication.
Oh, what triumphant joy the dawn may bring!
I and my neighbors now are at the end
Of such a book. But no triumphant cry
Is rising from our throats. We must contend
With unforgiving aftermaths — or try.
Deep in resentful regions we descend.
Somebody should have let the vampires lie.

 

—Tom Riley

Violin Practice

Violin Practice

 

Erich Zann, your wild music ain’t bad.
I can tolerate you, loony lad—
Though you put me in touch
With Yog-Sothoth and such.
But that neighbor kid’s stuff drives me mad!

 

—Tom Riley

 

(Note: In Lovecraft’s original story — one of his personal favorites — Zann’s instrument is not a violin. I bow here to popular misconception and ease of allusion. Also, in the original story, the mysterious dark reality behind Zann’s mad music is not clearly any being from the Cthulhu mythos. I represent this dark reality as Yog-Sothoth because he is the Lovecraftian Papa Legba, the Opener of the Way. TR.)

Victor Victus

Victor Victus

 

“I’m assembled from various parts
In accordance with Victor’s dark arts.
As both beggar and chooser,
Victor ends up a loser.
I have wisdom, though he may have smarts.”

 

—Tom Riley

Fiend

The Fiend

 

They say that I was pieces sewn together.
They haven’t read the story carefully.
Victor did not concoct a patchwork me
Then cross his arms and wait for stormy weather.

Folks: I was eight feet tall! What cemetery
Would yield a seamstress pieces of that size?
Of Hollywood’s absurd, simplistic lies,
Let the discerning intellect be wary!

The process was supremely complicated.
The secret was a snake that ate its tail.
The product was a soul foredoomed to wail.
The victory of lightning was ill-fated.

The purpose was as cloudy as the means.
Aspiring deities require their fiends.

 

—Tom Riley

Abandoned House

The Abandoned House

 

The house was geometrically bizarre.
He snuck in anyhow — to prove how bold
He was. “My eyes see straight. My blood is cold.
My memory’s a file and not a scar!”
And, in that twisted place, did he get far!
On alternate directions he was sold.
He needed no familiar hand to hold.
He didn’t even need a guiding star.
“I’m A-okay,” he said. He wasn’t sick.
“I’m wide awake,” he said. He hadn’t dreamed.
Proud in those tunnels, nature’s heretic,
He boasted that he loved the way things seemed.
The tunnel opened up. Tock-tick. Tock-tick.
This was his own damn bedroom! And he screamed.

 

—Tom Riley

Ligotti Effect

The Ligotti Effect

 

When Ligotti comes out of left field,
All the old rules are promptly repealed.
The ground, once so complete,
Disappears at your feet.
Primal horror at last is the yield.

 

—Tom Riley