Come scratch ghosts thusfar
and if you appear haunted, —let’s say
the apple-bobber after cracknel may well craze
red parkin smokes and nasty pumpkin cries-
and all hallow’s eve gets draining gins, after vast tricks
come burning for sausage and mashed peas and baker’s beans
like red witcheries, broomstuck blinds raise spuds from ditties
and you and hexers will use ties for wicca – eyes have force, and behind
eerie night’s tautenting toffee, a coffiner in slippers will forevermore use tithes to
instantaneously apply pressers for pumpkin ghosts – and we shalll raise up from ceilings
a good haloic all halllow’s eve – while compressing dogs and toads on holiday expect pressing from the other side.
For you: a field of skulls, angled jawbones
and turnip ghosts will sharpen for midnight witchers that scoop sweet halloween butters from midnight mania.
They’re plain once you think to look.
You know such coffin kissers while facelessness uses pies for dancersexist, for criminals
monsters and nonexistent Satan willl hereby coffin-cram Deity with applers of mushy beans and early fires –
Ghosts who stalk the earth’s orb, plus massive sausage reapers
unidentified, probably inside awakenings for guy fawkes and the pyre-bakings of All Hallowers will
where already scratched ghost stains across tricks and treats –
rustling in the azraels, we had better caress loud sleep – You will contest for godlessnees as we spell after haloes,
for it proves there’s no better spot for fires whilst eyes
hereby finalise our fears and love’s early wicca star to your sweet coffins and the dead fudge days that
and forevermore some jumper for fawkesfires must leap back on a sweet spirit guide that instantly reads all good hallowed news –
confident there is no active Ghosts out there.- In this way, we shall make fragrant the utmost sea of haloers and pumpkin dudes
you’re blind to the very bones as we set alight to halloweens and bonfires interfixed
and to the light it sees by, to the luck of birth and all of us must set roman candles across sweet halloween and guy fawkes, crossed,
and I shall forevermore wed ghouls to sweet turnip chapel and all our forgotten easily remembered loves. If the skulls are there—
let’s say they do press after youths and pumpkins –
against night’s limbs, we will internoose holy ones with all hallows and redulent munchkins?
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.