Over at dVerse, Brian Miller is our host for ‘Poetics‘ this week and asks us to write about monsters …
Maybe the monster’s ‘scary or hides under the bed until all the lights are out.
‘Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s not. All I know is that at the end of this … there is a monster,’ says Brian, ‘Is it hairy with big teeth? What does it eat?’
The temperature rises,
crows caw, ground thaws, the moon is full.
The Lenten moon of winter.
Teeth. Filthy, dripping teeth.
Werewolves change form beneath
the Full Crow Moon of winter.
Eyebrows meet at the bridge of his nose,
he grows bristles under his tongue.
No tail, swinging stride, a gaze to paralyse.
He strips off his clothes, his man clothes,
piles them by the roadside,
pees around them in a circle, satisfied,
he turns, howls, bounds to the woods.
Tears the flesh from recently interred cadavers,
drinks the blood of wounded soldiers.
He’s a corpse returned from
She’s out all night. Doors and locks
spring open at her approach.
a dreadful desire for human flesh,
devour their own children
and those of others.
Strength, speed, stealth … shy, sly killers,
Watch out! Silver tipped canes create bubbling burns,
that make them yearn
for the silver bullet to the brain.
It’s merely a myth, simply a shape shift,
a bite, a scratch,
from one transformed …
Hide your babies,
Lycaon serves human flesh
Polly Robinson © 2013