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Mask Halloween, freaky, fractured pumpkin shell painted on her fair face. Grease paint fantasy a gruesome graft, ghastly guise. ~~Judi Van Gorder Seox

A poem for Halloween and written in response to a challenge at another Forum to write a poem including the words ghost - witch - pumpkin - apple - zombie - Elvis. A little wacky but fun. Beyond London 1888 The ghosts of butchered, witchy ladies moan the night the pumpkin moon ascends the throne. Communal cries of banshees drift in apple orchard, near. A frightening scream reveals a feral fear of zombie eyes. His name unknown, Elvis, Tom or Jack, the Ripper stalks again so watch your back. He seeks new prey. He's left the dim gas lights of London town and roams the country side, both up and down, by night and day. You'll never ever know from where he came, to him you are a pawn in a gruesome game. Don't be adorned, a meek reluctant guest in his brutal quest to cut a throat or two or more, at best. Now you've been warned! ~~Judi Van Gorder A Bridges

Third Dimension (a Quaterion) Forgotten in a tight airless attic, a thing that was to prove problematic, a Halloween reflective diorama in reenactment of a psychodrama. The shoebox, webbed and painted black, a tiny coffin's cedar lid drawn back, inside a body stiff in death, an axe imbedded in the head, a final tax. A challenge to create this poematic with ghoulish display in frightful panorama. The sounds with screeching tone, elegiac and words don't always tell the lonely facts. ~~ Judi Van Gorder

seeing as Halloween's week away, figured I'd put up a rare lyrical expression I did for fun on zombies... Running, solicitations of nothing chest inflamed as the inflection's spreading; glossolalia moans croons of the confluxes interjecting. Flesh is a Thing for the singe upon man. 1,200 meters per second, the .22's fissure penetrates the brain stem; 1,200 meters per second, the .22's fissure penetrates the brain stem -- what's left? Another cleansed abstract, fish for the three heads. moon on the horizon, this daily event an opening to obsidian. The city has fallen, it's feathered arc a blank palette; knashing and undertowing my arms and legs, first at my ankle, then at my thigh. 240 meters per second, the hollow tip fissure folds; 240 meters per second, the hollow tip fissure folds. Flesh is but a trap for the conjugal horde. I have little left, but to lie here on this road my diaphragm has been purged, little use for a bullet my flesh has become ragged, soul a charred pyroclast. by Jeremy Swyck (12/14/10)