The May Second Selected Poet is Paul Uriaz
Please feel free to email Paul at: pauluriaz@gmail.com
IN THE TREES, AGAINST THE DARK
The network of black limbs crept closer to the window panes,
As the wind clawed through its branches, making them linger low to
The ground, imitating a gesture of falling and grasping
The darkness had its ominous hue, so glossy and unreal, wet and
Clotted like old blood,
Even the birds had moved far away, lest the night
Terrors swallow them up and away, while I looked on, through cracked
Window panes, the blood and glass erupted and my face a dreadful mask
Met the darkness, in the trees, against the dark
THE FAR-FETCHED SCREAM
Out of the summits of abandoned decay, a long jagged squeal erupted and curled
Its audio terror, against the stillness of shadows that tremble well into the night
The broken open dead mouth, filled with dust and bone, pulled out of a dead cranium
The callous scream bending its jaws open, like a desert bone beast afflicted by
The rage of the sun
Far-fetched are the green ghastly bursts of foul air that leave the vapid
Mellow carcass that sleeps, yet screams, when the living invade its
Premises, the outcasts must be made to hear and feel the sense of their
Not belonging, until the night takes them away….until they scream and scream again
BELLY TALKERS ASYLUM
the wooden creatures, strewn in every monstrous position,
corrupted by the notion, that were alive and real, animated in the
darkest and most willful manner possible,
the scent of dead bodies on their lips, bloodied wooden teeth
stained by a seesaw of uneven brittle planks of sharp pine
almost like children, but only better, in their psychotic
amusements of personal torture, the way and means, that
they inflict punishment, innocent and just like a very
dead thing, unable to feel pain or empathy
made to last, wood against wood, eye against eye,
even while dreaming, it is not possible to be safe
from the silent words that erupt from their wooden
mocking mouths, strange whispers from the assault
of a far away land of pure hate
the envy in their eyes, that shines a reflection, of convex
misery, a spell that sees, well beyond the light and
into the darkness, the human void of death
godless and bloodless they entertain while they
devour, both spirit and soul, almost like children
but only better
born from a vaudeville in hell and instructed
in the fine art of doll murder
where murder looks so innocent, and there is sweetness
almost…
Paul S Uriaz lives in Los Angeles, California, is retired, and yet writes horror and mystery poetry and short stories. He records music and videos of the same genre, studies the occult, and would like to adapt his writing to stop-motion film.