“Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.”
—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen
The thing about bunkers and hunkering down Is they’re not supposed to be a permanent solution You can store up food and weapons, safely underground But what if it’s many thousands of years of toxic pollution?
If nothing is left to come back to, if you can never go outside If the world is never livable again, somewhere down the line A few years in, most folks will start committing suicide Rather than live in a subterranean box, after society’s decline
In a total climate collapse, everything would come undone It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop, in a single place on the map The whole of Earth, uninhabitable, you’d never again see the sun Any psychologist will agree, without sunlight, people snap
A few years after a nuke, the radiation may die down and then People might come back up top, from the way-down-there That’s if there’s any kind of habitat for plants, critters and men But what if it’s still too hot and you still can’t breathe the air?
There are snazzy bomb shelters, well-thought-out, for sure Decades worth of water, food, meds and every type of supply And lots of entertainment to help you psychologically endure But ultimately, you face the hard question; you need a reason why
If there’s never a return to safety, an opportunity to re-emerge Then, no matter how well you think you’re equipped If nothing grows up top, if heat and humidity constantly surge The very best bunker in the world is just an expensive crypt
From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink, Out On The Killing Floor
WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
It’s almost Halloween, kids. So, gather around, for a little story. It’s about some of the strange things that go on, out in the deepest parts of the woods, where people rarely go.
But there are always those who think it will be nice to have a cozy, little cabin, way down in the valley, where no one ever goes. Sometimes, something bad happens to those people. But what exactly, it was that happened… well, no one knows.
Enjoy the story, kids. And sleep well, tonight… especially those of you who live way out in the woods.
They was so much blood On them walls, the carpets, even the ceilin’ Hardly anythang in the room That t’weren’t coated with gore
What sorta person… what sorta creature… Could do such a thing? Whatever t’was, it looks as if it come Up from out that thar hole, in the floor
I reckon it coulda been human But I doubt that’s the case ‘Cause there ain’t no bodies… Just them awful, red stains
Sick fellers, they’ll sometimes kidnap folks And some of ‘em’ll kill you In either case, they leave somethin’ Some type a clues or remains
But there ain’t no footprints, nowhare And they’d have to be some In all of this blood, if anyone Was ta walk out that door
But they ain’t nothin’ Just them nasty trails of slime An some type of excrement I ain’t never seent before
Whatever it t’was, It was slow but fearful strong Theys signs a strugglin’ Pert much everwhare
It weren’t quick… poor bastards died slow Y’all see where they tried fer the doors, Tried climbin’ out the winders But couldn’t get there
Y’all see, right here and over yonder How they was grabbin’ fer weapons Whatever was close, them scissors That pistol and that there knife
The poor souls all this blood belonged to, Looks as though they fought hard To defend themselves but it t’weren’t Enough to save their life
Them locks was all still bolted There ain’t no evidence of nuthin’ Comin’ into the house From anywhare, outside
And from the looks of that hole, Whatever t’was, it ain’t here, no more T’was somethin’ godawful big Too damn big to just up and hide
Whatever left them bite marks In the top a that bedpost, T’was something mighty huge Somethin’ with a heap a sharp teeth
It looks as if this feller was… eaten Right here on the bed frame Theys half a man’s shirt And an eyeball, underneath
Y’all ‘member them strange stories Them that great-granddaddy use’ta tell? Them whoppers, we all reckoned Weren’t nuthin’ but senile dementia
We just assumed they was just Tall tales to get us to behave They said that once, ever hundert years, “Them critters… they’ll come to getcha”
They said that’s why no one ought never To live here, in this here valley “Don’t build there.” they’d say, Soundin’ all mysterious
‘Course we all reckoned it was nothin’ Just hallucinations they’d had On account a when they was younguns That flu had all them folks so sick and delirious
I ‘member this feller tellin’ great-grandaddy, Some twenty years back, how he was fixin’ ta Build hisself a house here, wanted to know If they was any money he could borry
I ‘member the look on great-granddaddy’s face When he tolt ‘im “No, I shan’t do it.” But what was truly strange was How he said “You’ll be sorry.”
It seem’t sensible to dismiss all them tales As a bunch a dammed nonsense Just a heap a stories, to get the younguns To mind and act right
But ‘member how, a few generations back, A handful of our kinfolk lived in this valley They went missin’ without no explanation That were a hundert years ago, as of last night
Now, I ain’t never been known To be a superstitious man Y’all know I ain’t a scare’t a no man And I’ll fight a feller at the drop of a hat
I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge, never to return And I strongly suggest y’all do the same Ain’t never seent such a mess as this And that’s all I reckon I got to say about that
“Even In The Littlest Things”, from my book Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity
With Samhain/Halloween/All Hallow’s Eve and Day of the Dead fast approaching, I’m doing readings from my book of horror poetry, called Dark Matter. Most of them will have some type of music and/or sound effects that accompany them, to lend to the experience.
However, for most of these, I won’t be doing anything fancy with the visual aspects. There will be some that have interesting video or photos to look at but this will be more of an auditory experience than a visual one.
This particular piece is different from most of the book, as it’s not really horror. I included it because it’s quite dark, indeed. I wrote it because it was a personal demon that I had to exorcise, get the poison out of my system. I personally find myself both fascinated and revolted by this poem, even though I’m the one who penned it.
This is because it deals with a heavy, human problem… that of deception and who can we trust? We’ve all found out the hard way that someone we cared deeply for was deceiving us about something. If that person meant enough to you, then you most likely considered it not just inconvenient or frustrating but literally horrible.
Lies can be even more efficient weapons than guns or knives, given the right circumstances and for this reason, Even In The Littlest Things rightfully earns its place in the book and into this series of recordings.
Even In The Littlest Things
Even in the littlest things, you lie Promises of civil courtesies so small, To fulfill them, one barely need try Even in the littlest things, you lie
So many pieces to your hate Some are hidden, some stand tall None create joy, only weight So many pieces to your hate
Your darkness is beyond blinding Wondering if there’s any light at all Mislabeling what I was finding Your darkness is beyond blinding
A forgery, nearly perfect, passing Mask chipped, the disguise did fall Recidivist, apology count surpassing A forgery, nearly perfect, passing
But hey, at least you got to try it Labeled thing, you renamed it all No one ever insisted you buy it But hey, at least you got to try it
And now, we all feel less than good Endless, useless, talking, small Nothing gained, nothing goes as it should, And now, we all feel less than good
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Special thanks to the following people for contributing video for this project: