Posted in Misc, Poetry


Mama says not to go near the mansion down the road,
the big, white one,
and especially not to go near
the girls that come out of it.
The boys watch them as we sit on the fence,
with hungry eyes, wide eyes,
but you never stare back if they look at you, no.
They are something from the next world,
black pencil skirts and crisp white shirts and straight black ties –
too straight to be true –
and plain black hats for their
pretty little heads.
Not that they are pretty,
they are devilishly beautiful.
They are the sort that hold hands
and speak to spirits at night,
the sort who see blood and dreams in mirrors,
outlandish, as if from a distant haunting,
hellcats from fire and brimstone.