�������� tag #ghoulfrost There is a river. It's beginning to rain, little one.

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  • ghoulfrost 13w

    Twenty or twenty-first, one finds himself confused
    As the days & thoughts run like horses loose
    Which is your birthdate, I wonder
    And think to myself that it seems my mind has made a blunder,
    So if indeed I'm late to the party, I humbly submit that I'm one to be aloof
    And aye, here be my widow's mite but you are allowed to punish me if you choose.
    The Father above has always had the right eye for beauty;
    Take for instance, his creation of jolly good you.
    Eyes of Bambi and a laugh to wake the forest,
    A voice to turn heads and quite a loving big heart too.
    Your head may be full of worries but never hesitant to have a proper laugh.
    On thy head is the kingdom, a Queen true, with caring hands to serve.
    Now eighteen you've turned,
    And like always, we pray you have fun.
    It's been an honour to know and acquaint my ol' self with you, Miss, and so I hope it will remain.
    A happy birthday to you, Miss Aurelia Orefi Abel
    From a grim & grouchy ghoul

  • ghoulfrost 26w

    The sky darkens.
    Lines of green the colour of red
    Run the path of nothing dead.
    The air is pissed white with
    The groans of lions' limbs.
    Glistening irises march to the tune
    Of that which smoulders.
    There are no strangers to this smoggy city.

    Lilies of the field clothed
    Birds of the air He feeds.
    An inch not added
    It be the kingdom ye the lost must seek

    Slipping the castle becomes the bishop
    Gallantry murders thy troops

    Heavy lies the lids that keep
    Sudden is the zephyr, the current change
    Alight, embers freeze
    It was inevitable--the rain descends.

  • ghoulfrost 44w

    It's a new day, yes it is.
    My opinions should rather remain on the shelves
    Than be left to the misapprehending ears/
    Not as some abecedarium, but much like forgotten lore within forbidden scripture.
    It seems, at the turn of each hour, the battle simmers down only to rage further across all of the frontier;
    All is seldom as it looks on the battlefront.
    A word from confusion from perplexing origins/ to be misconstrued by both talker and listener as advice then/
    Now an avenue to see red, licensing the blacking of blues instead.
    He scrambles, she totters, they shuffle/
    Right after/
    I stutter, it stumbles, all flutters/
    It must be one chaotic scene, this maddening preamble/
    Like some complicated butterfly dance taught by the dimming light of a candle.

    The experiments suffer my mind's in shambles.

    My thoughts belong in jars
    Jars, I tell you, like the ones used to keep the organs of every cadaver I've ever dissected.
    They belong there, just to be stared at/
    To be looked upon in awe, to be studied by the inquisitive and mapped out by the deranged
    Rather than to be shared with you who'd claim not to judge/
    And then gaze upon it with blatant revulsion/
    as you assume it to be some disport/
    and dare to feign amusement.

    I am farctate of ennui/Jaded appetites to accompany an abysmal belly.

    My words and my voice must seldom be heard/
    Hauntingly abstruse, they are of one long dead/
    Evidence of a decurous drone filled with concupiscence/ the synth switches to leave thy nether regions alight
    Having what was once bread, harder than lead/
    It was and is and mayhaps be always a fillip,
    A schlong of Brobdingnagian proportions to serve as my third leg/
    The dream of the crimson slag and fantasy of an edacious ecdysiast/the nightmare of any genteel hegumene, the terror of the toothsome xanthippe
    Perhaps only the truly effete would dare to engage in effleurage of a being so minatory
    In its tumescent state.
    A wonder if its ejectamenta be feckless/
    To adorn thy visage in a manner befitting a minimalist quean.

    If you believe such things, there’s a beast does the bidding of a monster.

    My actions are unfortunately the property of the watching plebeians/
    Seemingly & desultorily nebulous in the eyes of the plain minded/
    The definitive bête noire of the benighted/
    Rather than the object of fascination/
    The desiredatum of the anxious and obsessive/
    Brethren with no consuetude/I seem unwilling to descant in the demotic
    As my lack of empathy condemns me to pretense/watch me confabulate with men I do not trust.

    It's just another day.
    Oh well.
    An old night gone to bloody hell.


  • ghoulfrost 57w

    What a strange man, locked in calculations of profits earned from the bull market whilst he shortsells on the bear market.
    Cold-blooded are the methods as the rest of the world grinds to a "broker than average" halt,
    I remain engulfed in numbers & percentages, losses and dividends, varying margins of earnings.
    Slumber's for the commoner and the corpulent;
    Being neither, I'm two hundred short of being seen as Kingpin.
    The city reels like a bad plot of a noir movie, the system is a grimy scene.
    Conversations with no one other than fellow brokers,
    All the money keeps coming but have I felt broker?
    The leisure is dedicated to the console to console me.
    That's over so back to the graphical illustrations of a bidding war, it's a ruthless ocean.
    The water is supposedly chilly but that's perfectly fine:
    They're swimming with an orca, the brethren are king sharks.
    The observation is never complete;
    Chess pieces in motion as i play for higher stakes.
    Great is my need, but the power's enthralling.
    Mobile screens stay glued to beady eyes, watching for the slightest change in the indexes.
    What sort of monster among monsters am I, if I can see lives as stocks & bonds to be traded and feel nothing about the average line if my pockets aren't affected?
    Ah yes, stare in awe at the *_shrewdus tycooni,_* a rare hybrid beast, ravenous and utterly devoid of positive emotions.
    Run, little one, run.
    He loves your screams, talk not to him of things such as love and peace and all those illusions you poor folk dream up to help you sleep.
    Such is the life of this sadist, cynical in nature.
    Ever adaptive, this is war.
    The victor's who's left, not who's right.
    What do I seek, with hands this deep in green?

  • ghoulfrost 65w

    Apply pressure.
    Dead measure.
    You bleed bored,
    Holes ooze zero love.
    You feel sod-all;
    The crust of pavement, the chamber's floor.

    Eat your fill.

    Search and destroy the perceived point,
    There's a gridlock in front.
    Greased fingers crossed grisly faces.
    You rest the scenic;
    Revelling in limit-testing the rebelling.
    Rules for you, rubles for you, and oh, for you, rubble's for you too.
    Is that crimson cinders on your calcium plates?
    Inflate the price,
    Pilfer from the remainder.
    Panic's the trade
    Mark the oxygen.
    Forty-seven digs;
    Where's the AR-15 to keep the peace?

  • ghoulfrost 66w

    The carnage is thy camouflage;
    The massacre of many, thy great weapon.
    There be fury in thy bones:
    Much ancient.
    Picking targets through fine focus;
    Gazing through the wrong end of the telescope.
    Thou art a paradox of emotions and a jigsaw of words.
    Rashly thought out plans with no actual purpose but thy hands carry signs.
    Uncertain are thy lips' uttering,
    Now scarcity is thy companion.
    A bowl of quicksilver are thy very eyes;
    Futility in the opposing sky as thy demands are met with faulty lies.
    Guilty, oh, thou art guilty,
    Every minute of thy life is living in a ruined city.
    What is thy end?
    Mediocre, mundane,
    Sacrificed or slain:
    Sod the aesthetics;
    Thou wilt decay.

  • ghoulfrost 69w

    Slow is the tune and heavy is the beat
    To which my feet gently groove to.
    As my heart trembles violently in sync with the tempo,
    Watch my fingers twitch just before I do my dance.

    My little banshee sings a song for the opera.
    Our virtuosity reveals itself only in a cadenza,
    The synth of her voice to make me cry
    She loves the taste of my blood, my darling violin.
    Even as the performance ends with heavy applause;
    The curtains fall and my lips let out a sigh.

    The bells are ringing in Arkham tonight.
    Such a classic, rarely heard except on a blue moon night when the frost bites.
    A cell is empty,
    frightfully wild eyes gawk at the chaos.
    A man walks in the shadows, he serves the light.
    In the darkness, the blind are but humbled royalty and the one-eyed man may claim divine.

    They heard no music so they thought them mad;
    Them that danced to a tune which no one played.

  • ghoulfrost 81w


    What are the things that interest you?



  • ghoulfrost 83w

    An apple takes a fall
    Far from the tree
    Over the canyon, it lets out a scream
    With every dying breath.

    Not the prettiest of scenes,
    Its deathbed.
    It came to rest at the base of a skull
    & brained a lad at the end of the world.

    A voice like murmuring thunder, the valley did carry
    The sands heard the song & rocks once set,
    Came rattling on.

    The ground went to war
    Making a widow of his lover.
    Seeking to drown,
    An orphan was born.

    Far from a mighty tree did an apple fall
    Leaving this world whistling a scream
    Over the canyon & into the quiet
    Without ever knowing love.

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    Far from a mighty tree did an apple fall
    Leaving this world whistling a scream
    Over the canyon & into the quiet
    Without ever knowing love.


  • ghoulfrost 87w

    Here's to the lies and truths.
    Raise your glass as he plays you for a fool.
    Let the wine overflow as she teaches the real meaning of abuse.
    It's quite a merry night, love.
    Your tears won't be permitted to fill this pool.
    Cardinal is the chlorine fancied to treat it;
    Isn't romance such a nice cutting tool?
    So much to say, but by all means, please, let him blame you.
    Take a seat, my good man, and listen closely to each and every sin she swears you repeatedly commit.
    Where are the crackers, boy? Seems your olfactory nerves are numb to the coffee's scent.
    Dear little one, is that you on the floor, bleeding white from behind the eyes as the roses sing a dirge in honour of their falling petals?
    You wonder what you did to have him turn deathly cold towards you.
    You ponder on all your crimes as her phone's answering machine informs you of its temporary owner-induced unavailability.
    Boo-Hoo, here's to the façade called young love.
    A toast to the broken hearts;
    Doff your hats, lads & lasses, to the sobbing crew.
    Cheers to the fallen, to the losers and of course, to you.