By Angela Wye Feet quietly trespassing to night-fire the gun. The moonlight tracking the bullet to the prey. Then the death throws halted with a whack from a stick. Food to go, raw and real, cooked crudely, unmatched to the pages of a recipe book stained from the past endeavours of fancy gluttony. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By The Menopausal Poet Vampires are neurodivergent. Photosensitive, restricted diet, prefers enclosed spaces, sleeps somewhere quiet. Hyper responsive to certain smells, garlic for one. Avoids bathing. Certain water causes sensory pain. Religiously against. Eye and physical contact on their terms. Fleeting or overly intense. Stands close. No awareness of personal space. Prefers to keep teeth and hair long. Dislikes dentists and hairdressing salons. Eschews change. Prefers wea

By Rhian Elizabeth thanks to my teenage daughter, if you dare me to sing you every single song taylor swift has ever written, i could easily do it, lyric perfect too. in our house taylor’s name is sacred, her face repeated on our walls like the image of our blessed lady mary, and i feel i ought to make the sign of the cross each time i pass it, even though i am not a practising catholic. i once asked my daughter who she would save if we were both drowning, me or taylor (she c

By Steve Shepherdson He slowed down, waved the man across the road, then ran him over under the cloud spattered moon. The man had nodded gratefully when crossing, never expecting the growl of death to arrive so soon after the polite exchange. The driver had planned it all. He would tell the police the man just stepped out. ‘Unavoidable’ is the word he would use when asked. Pulling his cab over, he exited and began to shout, making a scene for the blinking CCTV above. His face

By Romany Patton Gaston burned Belle’s books today, I watched her chase charred pages as they blew away. She was meant for more— a scholar, not this provincial life. Now she walks past the baker, face buried in a story to hide her eye. Gaston boasts in the tavern, singing nightly, ten pints deep, that he has biceps to spare. No one says no to Gaston— it’s written all over Belle. The town sleeps. Except them. One punch too many. The handsome brute finally caused her to crack.

By Cat London Oh! I thought your eye was shot The veins were bulged The blood was clot And dear! Sincere apologies I thought your silky brains were cream! Of course, I would have had you for tea. See I thought you were dead And couldn’t join me, So I planned to use your bones as platters Skin as placemats Tongue for batter Scones of scapula Tendons for toast And nail-beds for flavor A hot bottom roast! Apologies! Truly! The plans weren’t set, I would have had you for tea, But

By Helen Grant At work in the now vacated hotel room, I see a newspaper left behind and put it in my bag on the linen trolley. Back home, I bundle pages into the hungry stove and I burn The Sun. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Murray Eiland Looking down I see a dead cat, In front of an apartment building, In finance, they speak of a dead cat bounce, A small glimmer of hope in a sea of decline. Did the cat jump from a great height, Seeking excitement, seeking adventure? Or did it simply slip and fall, Taking a risk, paying the price? No matter how long I stare, I see no bounce, no recovery, While a broker may see potential, I see only loss. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Giles Constable First evidence of the campaign came at dawn. Early risers found bouquets of carefully matched flowers laid softly at their doors. The trials of the citizens were to continue throughout the day. Inspirational music was widely piped across suburbs and divisions of dancers blocked essential thoroughfares. Disputed footage shows a man violently hugged by a clown. We most fear the poetry, a young father said, There are rumours of recitals. And if that begins, h

By Johnathan Nilsen Factions and fractions In religious interactions; Reforming through warnings Adorning a dawning mourning On theocratic doors. Schisms and divisions Erupt from envisioned missions. Legions with precision March to the beat Of an ordained king. Ringing and singing With apostles bringing Hostile clinging To immutable laws Claiming soul authority. Chasms and spasms Between sects: a phantasm Of enthusiasm for Derision Superstition And mythical permission To divi

By Bob W Christian I’ve learned to grin where the ground coughed fire. The shockwave a violent handshake Where night stitched shrapnel into our sleep. Not because it was easier, But because the dark pressed harder. Out there, laughter was contraband. We smuggled it between heartbeats; Called the crater a pool with a view… Rated incoming rounds for their customer service; Gave the Grim Reaper a nickname so he felt less like family. My jokes were tourniquets - Crude, necessary,

By Lady C Smith The fortune-teller said, ‘You are in love… with a man who is ugly’. Beauty is in the eye of those who behold, And I don’t see him as ugly, instead I see him foolish, lop-sided, Scooby-Doo. I see him double-denim, Half-mast trousers, moustachioed. I see him flailing, nervous, failing slow. I see him fuck it all up like billy-o. He smiles like a half-wit in kitchen photos. Teeth like George Washington, Looking twice as old. I see him Block, parry, dodge and stal

By Gabrielle Munslow First, apologise for still having a body. Then moisturise it like a crime scene. Cover yourself in eau de vie or desperation— whichever was on sale. Smear peanut butter on your nether regions. Someone on the internet swears by it. Baptise your face in the fountain of youth— or Botox if the fountain’s closed. Hold very still. Desire prefers a smooth surface. Meanwhile your actual life— messy, breathing, glorious— waits impatiently offstage while you negoti

By A.N. Szymanski They say to talk to plants, to sing, to whisper love into their stems. I did. It never perked up, just drooped, like it had already decided to ghost me politely. I gave it water, light, my midnight thoughts, my half-hope. Maybe that was the problem, not neglect, but too much of me. It died quietly, like it was proving a point. Even something rooted would rather rot than stay with me. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Alice Evemy How I died, you’ll never know. An elm became my coffin. My remains, now a dining hall. A buffet, long forgotten. I hosted my guests graciously, The crawlies feasted like kings. Sunken eyes, cleanly plucked, Dark hair stolen by beaks. Teeth remained, but were no use In finding my identity. For eighteen moons, I lay untouched. At last, finally some peace. The cage cinched my ribs, A corset of bark, laced too tight, The figure I dreamed was finally found. Pity, it

By Scorpia Belle he said this was the most coveted role, so i bled quietly, hitting my marks on cue. he gave me notes on my grief, calling me too dramatic, rewriting my trauma into a consent scene. my reviews were glowing: ‘exceeds expectations in swallowing screams’ i ate up their hollow praise, while starving my pain to fit their ideal. they rewarded my restraint with the Oscar for ‘Best Placating’; a heavy gold statue for a gold star good girl, i made sure to thank him

By In Sana So I made myself cum Screaming fucking rage At all the watchers Who ever were Or could be - Proud of my Broken, maybe, Sexuality And I saw a ghost Of my old room, Radiator, blank White wall And I felt your Choking weight Above me And I loved me Anyway And I came without guilt And I hugged the child inside And the cat disappeared from the window It's message delivered Like a dissection Knife #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Paul Fuller The sun rises in the east. It sets in the west. Black Lives Matter. All lives matter. The unfortunate, unshod. They have bootstraps. It is written. You already agreed. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Mark A. Hill In jaune Spring, he might have told me that love was hoodoo, He may have told me what all things meant before ember life became amber death. Now, my heart no longer holds the colour of the coin or the true meaning of circumstance, the now. The plastic tank of yellow-shelled parched terrapins that we sat afore is no more, and even the Menthol cigarettes have been smoked. The combing of each other’s dreams with breadstick caution is folded, all I hoped would re-

By James Whitaker Scratched DVDs, Christmas socks aplenty, Dog eared books, sent for a pound then put down, and a black bag of blood and severed limbs— Wait, what? I price the discarded memories— but what’s the going rate for arms, legs and a weeping head? The bell rings, customers scream, vomit, run at the sight of flesh and scarlet shelves. I stand at the door, gazing out at the fleeing crowd and I wonder out loud: “Was it the pricing?” #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony