The May Selected Poet is Ed Blundell

Please feel free to email Ed at:

edblundell@talktalk.net

THE SONG OF MERLIN

If we could read the runes that tell our times
And see the future, what things lay in store,
We would not waste our days with petty dreams,
Regrets, there’d be no room for anymore.
But with a certain and a conscious tread,
We’d make our way towards our end, in dread.
I, born in a future, distant age,
Slid back through time to live each yesterday,
Knowing what fate had written on each page,
Seeing the hour, the destiny and way
That all things turn, what all men will be,
There’s none so blind as they that will not see

THE NAME

Chill and cold, a cloudless night,
A dark wind from the fell,
Full and leprous hangs the moon,
Casting an eerie spell.

The men of the village seek the inn,
To warm themselves with ale,
They gather round the roaring fire,
Recounting many a tale.

The haggard evening slowly fades,
The embers almost dead,
A drunken reveler speaks the name,
That never should be said.

And as the clock chimed midnight,
They stoked the fire again,
For all the ale that they had drunk,
There were never more sober men.

So swiftly they hurried homewards,
The moon hung white and high,
Like the wild eye of a specter,
In the socket of the sky.

And as they lay in restless beds,
A shriek of bleak despair,
Shattered the silence of the night
And hung in darkness there.

Next morning in the graveyard,
A ravaged corpse was found,
Around it in the mud and blood,
The paw prints of a hound.

The hound of Hell, the sound of Hell,
The smell of Hell that came,
In the dead of night, the night of dead,
To the one who uttered his name.

THE GRIM RIPPER

I was the best but now I am a beast,
How strange it needed such a little change,
Some milk that was not from a mother’s breast
To make that thing I was just rearrange.

I walk and talk just like a normal man,
But I am mean and mean to wade in blood.
I’ll roam and rape and reap what lust I can
And live for evil leaving all things good.

I heat my hate and walk the dingy streets,
I feel their pain and pine to give them more;
Their eyes reflect a lifetime of defeat,
From drab to slut, to harlot then cheap whore.

Fair Jekyll gone, foul Hyde now walks the night,
Searching for girls who then I can take back,
To dingy rooms that stink of lust and fright
That sweet wet sweat when I say
Jack is back.

Ed Blundell worked as a teacher of English, a school inspector and as Director of Education for the town of Stockport.

He has had short stories and poetry published in over thirty magazines in the U.K. and the U.S. and has had a collection of his poems: “Sweet Nothings,” published by Atlantean Press

He has appeared in several horror zines, including Abandoned Towers, The Horror Zine, Death Throes, Hellfire Crossroads, Lorelei Signal and Death Head Grin. He is hoping soon to publish collection of his horror poetry.