crows circling
Laura Chowanski

The September Selected Poet is Laura Chowanski

Please feel free to email Laura at: xcentricchow@gmail.com



There is a severed head under the sink.
A man with a limp mows my lawn.
Ghosts are duct taped to my closet wall and
Little bits of him litter my dirty floor.

The knife is soaking in bleach.
Blood droplets cover the room
Dripping from the ceiling.
Crows circle an invisible corpse
As the sound of death lingers.

Nightmares are sung on Salvation Army vinyl.
Someone walks over my grave.
The man with a limp
Stares menacingly through my kitchen window
And Mercury in Retrograde destroys my plans for world domination.

My stomach rumbles from the sweet aroma of warm chocolate chip cookies
Shards of broken mirror stare back at me.
There is a jar of moonshine in the bathroom.
The devil is moisturizing
And enjoying a glass of port on my sofa.

The plants all died last week.
Is there really safety in numbers?
The rice pudding is poisoned and
Fingerprints inside the microwave
Warn me of horrors yet to come.


Dwell upon the fickle whims of lust or the gloriously agonizing longing that almost threatens your sanity.

Heart beating wildly gasping for our last breathes in our hour of judgment
White noise vibrating through damp flesh
A stark tepid air surrounds,

…it’s gone.

Stroll along a dilapidated bridge thru macabre fog
Alone in the dark.
The dank smoke of a cigarette and the fire of a dram of whiskey to chase down the hunger for that which cannot be consumed. Come to me 

A charge in the air evokes a shiver an exhale and a flash of heat under the sparse light of an old gas lamp. Come to me 

The immediate desire is palpable, floating out of the fog with the courage of many men gently bestowing upon bare skin a soft caress. Come to me 

To run would set off a thrill that would outlast the hunt
But the body is motionless unable to move one throbbing muscle as
The eyes are blinded to what your soul is willing to give up,
Bargain for. Come to me 

A single shot rips through the belly ending on an agonizing gasp,
A single tear. Come to me 

Feverish glazed eyes stumble through the fading delusion
Hand outstretched begging to be held,

…The memory is a ghost
Come back to me 

Turn and walk away
leave behind the cold empty tomb of what could have been.

Torture, sweet torture, dangling in front of you
That which is most desired,
That cannot be,
Should not want,
But would die without.   


My heart bleeds through my chest cavity.
Webs of pain travel beneath pale flesh.
Blood seeps, till pooled in every chasm of my lifeless corpse.
Sticky warmth overflows my middle.
A sad, weeping fountain of misery and despair.
Sections of what was once my lovely curves
Separate into hunks around my bare, lonely spine
Soaked in tears.

Each pound of flesh,
Give or take,
Is tied with a lock of hair and sealed
With a big,
To all those righteous bastards
Who believe I owe them something.

Laura Chowanski is considered to be Queen of the Macabre by many and the purveyor of all things dark and dreadful. She has been published by The Horror Zine and Dark Moon Digest. Laura enjoys old cemeteries and staring lovingly into the abyss.

She resides in New Hampshire, for the time being, with her awesome son Zack and neurotic dog Toby.