Portrait of a Poet
S. L. Robinson
Dark Dreamer

Hollow laughter, stifled screams
punctuate dark, cryptic dreams.
Acrid haze stings nose and eyes,
effectively blurs my sight,
though the visions here devise
to be seen through gloom of night.

Night after night, shadows press
to suffocate and caress;
cool touches threaten to stir
emotions best not explored.
My resistance is no cure,
wishes to wake are ignored.

Ignored, too, my cries and pleas,
as they morph to vortices,
swirling in a turbulent
tempest to place me in throe,
guts, blood, muscles sucked out, leaves
my skin deflated, hollow.

S.L. Robinson's work has appeared in many horror and pagan 'zines, such as DREAMS OF DECADENCE, HAUNTS, SHADOW FEAST, ALTERED PERCEPTIONS, GODDESS OF THE BAY, 69 FLAVORS OF PARANOIA, OPEN WAYS, LUNA SOL and, of course, BLOOD MOON. She is a member of Horror Writers Association and Garden State Horror Writers and lives in the NorthWest with her husband and two wolf hybrids.

Troubled Sleep

Escape from
troubled sleep,
though freedom from fear
is not achieved.

Bedclothes on the floor,
still the sweat-soaked
blanket of darkness
can't be kicked off.

Staring at the ceiling
only invites the shapes
hiding in the corners
to advance.

Squeeze shut your eyes
and try to drift,
escape to
troubled sleep.

Widow's Nadir

His fervent eyes met mine
just above the topmost lily
on my husband's casket.

The unexpected twist
and flight of my stomach sent grave
warnings to my brain cells.

He continued to stare;
I chanced several glances his way
until he knew he'd won.

I could not pretend to
misunderstand when his fingers
signified ten plus two.

Thus, we met at midnight;
my body still draped in mourning,
his too, but not for long.

We fornicated on
the worm-rich soil of my husband's
freshly dug, unmourned grave.

Bent on Blood

Previously published in Altered Perceptions, 1999

I wake from the drowning dream,
gasping for air, head bobbing between
visions and the mundane world,
drunk with too much sleep
like a lazy good-for-nothing;
some would say that's what I am.

I fancy the bloody dream ocean
still coats my skin, drips from fingertips,
cleaves my ragged clothing
to my cold, shaking form.
I thought only junkies got the shakes;
some would say that's what I am.

I prefer to drink the life, but I
wait in line with all the others,
those that dream and wake as I do,
when I acquire cash for a transfusion.
They're all mainliners;
some would say that's what I am.

I hope to steal a set of sharp canines,
the ones they call "Vampire Fangs,"
so I can collect my own, fresh blood,
free from anticoagulant,
as a true, immortal vampire;
some would say that's what I am.

Eternal Lovers

Previously published in Dreams of Decadence, 1998

Ashen draperies shield
against the foe.
Slumbering, enveloped
in blackest of satins;
perceived safety
until darkness reigns.

As the sky swallows
it's hot evening meal,
fine skin anticipates
a lover's tender touch,
soft neck kisses,
searing, lovely pain.

He rises to the
call of his beloved,
seducing, weakening
his frail steadfast resolve.
Dissolving to
mist, he travels forth.
Window silhouette,
she prepares, tingling,
for his undead embrace,
losing raw innocence
to the promise
of eternity.

Bracing winds escort
a lone swirl of fog
toward passion's promise.
Seeping through the keyhole,
he surrounds her
in a soft caress.

Eager hands delight
in his solid form,
hardening to her touch.
Her own fevered body
melts in response
to intense desire.

Life exchanged for love
as one consumes the
other in a nightlong
feast of sensual greed
until they are
eternal lovers.

Understudy

Previously published in Dreams of Decadence, 1998

Red wine
fills the void
as best it can.
Graveyard dirt
flakes from
patent leather shoes.
Black crepe and lace
drape my body
and my mood.
Sunshine is something
I hear of
on late-night news.
A pathetic mortal vampire
since you revoked
your invitation.