John Siney

The November Featured Poet is John Siney

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john siney


Blue o’clock in the morning,
the sun had just passed seven,
demons fled from the dawning,
all was quiet in heaven.

Indigo, lapis lazuli,
the colors crept across the sky.

A clock chimed green,
suffused the scene,
the minutes marched in line.
The hour passed,
the time amassed,
the world was olivine.

Soft sages, jades, aquamarine,
Time’s varied colors reconvene.

At twelve the sun did redden,
its hands crept on to thirteen,
clouds approaching were leaden,
my fate already foreseen.

Once crimson, rouge and cinnabar,
the hours now have gone too far.

Night grows so dark,
the world is stark,
minutes now are dying.
The demons come,
not all, but some,
and for my blood they’re crying.

Tar-black and jet and ebony,
time has become my enemy.


They’re selling seats in heaven,
buy one get one free,
we thought we’d take advantage,
Aleister and me.

He said it was a bargain,
and I could but concur,
the offer seemed quite genuine,
they sold them at the fair.

We spilt the cost, we paid our fee,
then set off on our way,
an energy in every stride,
our spirits bright and gay.

Yet as we neared Paradise,
the way ahead descended.
But surely, no, this could not be,
the place we had intended.

A burning gate, a flaming sword,
a noxious baking heat,
a sulfrous stench assailing us,
the smell of roasting meat.

It only then occurred to me,
as I approached more slowly,
only then I thought to ask,
what heaven meant for Crowley.


She had the general philosophy that young men who professed their love for her,
like poisonous creatures and wild beasts,
should be beaten over the head with a blunt instrument.

You say that you love me?
That your love is true?
How deep can that love be?
From someone like you?

Your love is so shallow,
and dull is your mind.
I hate to sound callow,
but death would be kind.

She beat him over the head with his own baseball bat,
buried him in the garden, where the worms fed on him.
She visited the worms every evening,
enjoying their industry.

You say that you love me,
but worms often do.
So how would that love be,
for me and for you?

You squirm in my fingers,
you writhe in my grip.
His memory lingers,
then slowly lets slip.

The worms welcomed her caress, enjoyed her titillation.
Like lovers they wrapped themselves around her fingers.

You say that you love me?
I think that you could,
but doubt that it would be,
a love that is good.

For if I was to love you,
how long would you stay,
before you return to,
your world of wet clay?

Until death, the worms promised.

John Siney is a fine art graduate from Liverpool UK. He now lives in Zamora, Spain. Previously, under the pseudonym Severin Rossetti, he published numerous works of an erotic nature, in the UK and the USA, with stories featured in anthologies edited by Maxim Jakubowski and Adam Nevill, among others. Now concentrating on the Horror/Weird Fiction genre, and writing under his own name, he is finding some success with stories published by The Horror Zine, Schlock! Magazine and Infernal Ink. Generally a fiction writer, the poems included in this edition of The Horror Zine are his first attempts at the medium.

You can find him HERE