Joseph V. Danoski is a writer of letters and essays on diverse subjects, with strong opinions on many topics. A poet of horror, science fiction, and fantasy; he has been published in journals and webzines both in America and abroad.

Various publications include Scavenger’s Newsletter, Pegasus, Red Owl, The Ultimate Unknown, Penny Dreadful, Pivot, Psychopoetica (UK), The Nocturnal Lyric, The Quest (India) The Aurorean, The Mentor & Masque Noir (Australia), Twilight Ending, Talvipaivanseisaus (Finland), The Romantics Quarterly, Hadrosaur Tales, Endemoniada, Northern Stars Magazine, The NeoVictorian/Cochlea, Frisson, Black Petals, Outer Darkness, Sanitarium Magazine, and The Horror Zine. Other activities include being a multi-instrumentalist, songwriting, and recording original music.

Joseph currently resides in Berlin, New Hampshire.



Just another John Doe; actually, Joe Shmoe,
According to the tag hanging from his toe.
Right place at the wrong time, or wrong place right;
Chalk line on the sidewalk one crime-scene night.

He’s lying beside a looker, name: Jane Doe;
At least that’s what the tag says on her toe.
The coroners flip coins, but still can’t decide
If she’s a ‘silk stalking’ or suicide.

He remembers her from the days of his life;
Thought that someday she’d be the perfect wife.
The girl he worked with at the high school lab;
They went to lunch once, and he paid the tab.

Indeed she would have made a perfect wife;
Lying quietly beneath the surgeon’s knife.
The mortician gives perfect tints to her skin;
Joe is looking sad in the skin he’s in.

Years later in the city, they shared a cab;
The girl he kissed once in chemistry lab.
His life had been drab, and hers had been fab;
Again they parted ways, he paid the tab.

The last time that he saw her was in rehab;
The girl in the city that shared the cab.
Life gives us chances,
But three strikes, you’re out;
And that’s what this tragic tale is about.

Now they each sleep in their own body bag;
His life was a bitch, her demise a drag.
And even in death their lives seem to entwine,
For one last time at the end of the line.


I’m the last one down the mountain trail
Before they close the park;
The last car in the parking lot
Before the day grows dark.

See the first star in the evening sky
Before the lights go on;
That row of lights left on all night
To be left on till dawn.

I’m the last one in the store tonight
Before they close the doors;
The last before the cleaning crew
Show up to clean the floors.

There’s a woman in the parking lot
That had to hit my car;
She hit it with her shopping cart
And now it has a scar.

I’m the last car on the lonely road
Before it starts to snow;
The only one still heading home
And no one you would know.

It is said that nice guys finish last
As others pass them by;
They never cross the finish line
However hard they try.


This will be the last masquerade,
The final act in this charade;
The last play
And performance on this stage,
Before the footlights begin to fade.

Welcome to our last reception,
Celebration of deception . . .

Let’s hear it for the band that played,
And all the spectators who paid;
And stayed for the party
And cavalcade.
Now the rain must fall on our parade.

We thank you all--thanks a million
For attending our cotillion . . .

It’s the last masque ball of the season,
And the end of an age of reason;
Enemies breaching the barricade,
Upon the eve of a new decade.

The clock strikes midnight in the hall;
The time grows short and shadows tall.
Paintings on the wall
Depicting the fall;
The party is over for us all.

It’s the last masque ball of the season,
I sense a friend committing treason;
And the feeling of being betrayed
By the face behind the masquerade.