I Fell in Love with the Bride of Frankenstein – a poem for Halloween

I fell in love with the Bride of Frankenstein
I don’t know whose heart she has, but I’d give her mine.
I think we’re made for each other it must be said.
Even though I’m alive and she’s fictional and dead.

When that lightning strike bought her to life,
I was well pissed that the monster wanted her for his wife.
“The monster need a mate,” it growled, things were looking grim.
Luckily unlike me he’s an ugly bugger, so she jilted him.

She gives me funny feelings all over, right down to my socks.
Even though her hair looks like a badger that’s had an electric shock.
I love all her stolen parts, from her eyes to her mammary glands,
I long to hold her but worry she’ll come apart in my hands.

But sadly my bride’s deceased, so I must try to be brave,
And swear not to write bad poetry while I cry at her grave.
Instead above her remains each night I plan to fly a kite,
Hoping beyond hope that once again lightning will strike.


Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details

Do Not Disturb

Cantankerous mouldy old bones
Mournfully moan and giggle and groan.
As they reach for the light so slow
Thrusting up through dirt and stone.

These bones were disturbed tonight,
From their rest wraiths take flight.
Spectral figures on headstones alight,
Their twisted forms a nightmare sight.

You didn’t mean to disturb their rest,
Or tread unknowingly in their ghoulish nest.
But these spirits now are vexed
Pursuing you with hellish zest.

You blindly try to start to run,
Praying and screaming for the sun.
But knowing it will never come,
And that your time on earth is done.

Cantankerous mouldy old bones
Return to their dark earthen home.
There to feast under the stones,
You should have left them well alone.

The Beast from the Black Country


There’s a dreary mist on the canal,
As the moon shines brightly down.
On shopping trollies and ducks,
Drifting silently all around.

Then suddenly without warning,
A scaly head comes up for air.
The Beast from the Black Country,
Is leaving its watery lair.

The creature’s nose twitches,
On the breeze a scent it’s catching.
The monster knows its prey is near,
It can smell pork scratchings.

The Beast creeps down the road,
Its webbed feet silent on the street.
It claws scratch at the pub window,
As in for scratchings it tries to reach.

You’ll never notice when you drink a beer,
That outside the beast is lurking.
Then when you pop out for a cigarette,
It gobbles down your scratchings.

So when you return to your table
The arguments will begin.
You shout “who ate all my scratchings?”
As outside the creature grins.

Stuffed the Beast retreats,
Sinking back into the canal.
No clue left to its presence,
Except a fried pork smell.

So if you see the Black Country Beast,
Feed it scratchings or crisps but.
You would be very, very unwise,
If you let it nibble your nuts.

I am


I am the faint sound you hear on the breeze
I am the creek of your door at night
I am the one tapping on your window
I am the hand that turns out your light.

I am the chill on the back of your neck
I am the sigh only you can hear.
I am the silence on the end of the phone
I am the thing you should fear.

I am the grip you feel on your throat
I am the noise that makes your heart race.
I am the static on your TV screen
I am the unseen touch on your face.

I am the one that will end your days
I am the one that on your bones will chew
I am the one that will snuff out your life
I am the one coming for you


Halloween Poetry Blues


They said my Halloween poem needs to be deep,
They said it also should be dark.
But how can I embrace this poetic style,
How can I produce a poem so bleak and stark?

I had an idea, so I went into the garden,
Then found myself my spade.
If I wanted to become deep and dark,
Then a hole needed to be made.

Then once dug I began,
Into the deep dark hole I leapt.
To hopefully compose,
A deep dark poem I expect.

All I found in the hole was dirt,
Mind you it was certainly deep and dark.
I passed the time by teasing a mole,
Then I annoyed a worm for a lark.

But despite being brave and bold,
I was no closer to poetry.
All I was getting was cold,
Plus soggy jeans up to my knees.

So I decided right there and then,
That today deep dark poetry wasn’t for me.
So I went back to bed,
But I didn’t fill in the hole you see.

I thought if I ever need inspiration,
Then back in the hole I’ll go.
To hopefully write a Halloween poem,
If I do you’ll be the first to know.

Catch me doing my Halloween poetry at Waterstones in Birmingham this Friday and Southcart Books on Saturday. I promise I’ve come out of the hole with lots of new scary poems and some old favourites.

The Cautionary Tale of Little Ben


Little Ben should have paid more attention,
When he was alone in detention.
Then he would never have been laid low,
From behind by a deadly ladle blow.

You see because of savage cuts to funds,
His canteen had nothing to serve but crumbs.
So if the meals were going to continue,
Little Ben had to go on to the menu.

So Ben became sausages and pies,
Milkshakes were flavoured with his eyes.
Cuts of him in pickle were preserved,
While his kneecaps with custard were served.

His tongue was very neatly removed,
Then used to garnish a tasty stew.
His kidneys became taramasalata,
While his toes were turned into chipolatas.

His feet were deep-fried in his socks,
Then his buttocks made into divine chops.
His calves were basted in organic cider,
While his fingernails became appetizers.

So don’t be like little Ben, pay attention,
If you’re left alone in detention.
Then quickly home you can run,
Perhaps to become a vegetarian?



Jessica’s Doll

I’m pleased to announce that I have written a poem which will appear in the soon to be released horror film “Jessica’s Doll” by Walsall film director Andy Simon.

Jessicas Doll Movie Poster

Here’s the film’s chilling plot taken from its Facebook page.

Jessica’s Doll is about a young Girl called Jessica, an orphan and homeless girl who’s only friend is her Doll (Also named Jessica)

Lost and homeless, walking the streets, she comes across her childhood home, and takes shelter inside from a thunderstorm.

She heads to the Cellar and discovers a chest and hides inside away from the storm. The lid closes, the lock clicks, and there she is trapped.

She has one last wish before all the air is used up, before she dies. She wishes she could become a doll like her own…

Here’s the poem which I composed for the start of the movie taken from the introduction Andy had written for the film and turned by him into the excellent picture below. Click to enlarge.

In the film itself the poem is read by Andy’s talented daughter Anya, who also composed the movie’s soundtrack as well.

poem revised final

You can find more about this exciting film on the soon to be launched website here

Or get the latest news via the film’s Facebook page here.

Or follow the film on Twitter here.

I’d just like to take this chance to say massive thanks to Andy for letting me work with him and I hope the film does well – I’ve seen a clip there’s no doubt in my mind that it will.

Serial Killer I Love You

killer knife

When we first met I thought you were weird,
But it turned out it seemed I had nothing to fear.
Because even though you’re a serial killer I found out
That of your love for me you said I should never doubt.
And now as I look back on our years together,
I should never have worried that our love wouldn’t last forever.
At first I found your life odd and I had to remember,
That I shouldn’t interrupt you while you dismember.
And I shouldn’t worry that you still have your mom’s clothes,
Or that upstairs her body is starting to decompose.
I learnt to ignore murder reports on the radio,
And not to question what you buried under the patio.
But I still get anxious when you go out to paint the town red,
And I worry for you as I lie awake with your mom in bed.
Wishing that you and your axe were here beside me,
But knowing how important it is that you finish your killing spree.
However I do have doubts that your love for me has passed,
When I discovered you’d dug a large hole in the vegetable patch.
And I wish I hadn’t bought you that saw for your birthday,
As you look at me funnily when you sharpen it every day.
We can’t part now I get on with your mom so well,
I’ve even managed to get used to her smell.
You know that I’m not someone of who you can casually dispose,
As who will wash the blood off the patio with the hose?
Who will everyday your knives and hammers oil?
Who will lie for you when the police call?
Our vows said clearly till death do us part,
So I hope you can find it in your heart.
To forget any thoughts of murdering me,
I mean who will grill your victims for your tea?
But you smile at me and it melts my doubts,
And I feel I’ve got nothing to worry about.
You say that hole in the vegetable patch
Is just for a bothersome badger you need to catch.
And as the sky begins to darken,
You take me out to show me this into the garden.
And as you walk behind me carrying your spade,
I wonder why I was ever afraid.



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I’m your Unbalanced Valentine

Somewhere along the way my Valentine’s Day poem got a little dark.

bloody rose

I’m your unbalanced Valentine
My fist clenched around your rose.
Ignoring the pain of the thorns
While my hand slowly turns red.

I’m your unbalanced Valentine
Who’d love to have a drink with you.
But alcohol interferes with my meds
And clouds my mind with dark thoughts.

I’m your unbalanced Valentine
Who loves to post you romantic gifts.
Now I’ve learnt your home address
When I was stalking you last week.

I’m your unbalanced Valentine
Who loves you so much.
That I’d do anything for you
Like break my restraining order.

I’m your unbalanced Valentine
Unable to rest day or night.
Until we are at last together

Like the poem ? Why not buy my book, just click here.

It’s great to share and if you have enjoyed this poem why not share it with your fellow poets or friends. I don’t mind in fact I encourage sharing on Facebook, Twittter or where ever you fancy – just use the buttons below – all I ask is you please credit this site when you do so. Thank you.

Happy Halloween

A scaryish poem to celebrate Halloween from the Skaggy archive.

Don’t Pick on me just because I’m Dead

You might call me a zombie or label me one of the living dead,
But in this P.C. day and age I would prefer to be called instead.
Something like terminally disadvantaged or living but impaired,
It would be nice if you could do this, to show me that you care!
So as I stagger towards you with my arms outstretched,
Please don’t try to shoot me, in fact it would be better yet.
If you put away your gun and we’ll have a word or two,
I have so much to tell you from my undead point of view!
I can speak properly you know I just like to grunt and groan,
And I can resist the urge to rip the flesh from your bones
So why don’t we have a chat about something that‘s fun?
How about my embarrassment of being an undead person?
My shameful story begins before I was a zombie you know
Way before the cruel hand of fate dealt me this nasty blow.
When I was alive I used to go to bars and argue with my mates,
That there was no hell or heaven with its pearly gates.
Once your dead you stay that way, I was sure that was the truth,
But now after dying I have found that I am unliving proof
Of the opposite of my argument I thought true I’d claimed.
So I hope I don’t see my old friends, I might just die of shame
However as if that wasn’t bad enough (as if things could get worse
Than stumbling around a victim of this terrible undead curse.
Is that people now call me a flesh-eating barbarian
How I wish I could tell them that I used to be a vegetarian!