Dark Delectable Delicious Destructive - Poems For Goths, Gangsters and Other Mysterious Souls 20 Years of Nick Armbrister's Dark Poems

Dark Delectable Delicious Destructive -

Poems For Goths, Gangsters and Other Mysterious Souls

20 Years of Nick Armbrister's Dark Poems

Varied hours aren’t too bad.

In the cold light of day what stings

the most is knowing that

2 of my old work mates are dead,

out of 5 of us in the early/mid 90s,

on our department.

I’m not sentimental but that does touch

a nerve on the quieter moments.

Simply put,

this is life...

and I don’t agree with it,

no, not at all.

Nightly Events

I'm used to sleeping alone at night in my bed. No one there.

I'm used to being unloved and unwanted at night, feeling the touch of a bullet.

I'm used to being forlorn and forsaken, dead inside during dark hours. Inside and out. I'm used to having no lover to get wet and sweaty with, damn hot eroticism. Not in my bed or life.

I'm used to having no one hold me close when I need to be loved. Leaving me loveless and lifeless.

I'm used to not hearing precious words like, 'Nick, you mean the world to me and fill my life with joy. I'm so in love with you,' whispered under the covers.

I'm used to loneliness that cuts like a knife in the middle of the night. At times I have a blade.

Real darkness like aggravated anxiety making my heart beat irregular.

Debilitating depression floors my mind.

Engulfed by excesses of drinking, poor liver. No replacement for a lover.

I'm used to low quality gals who try to use me, good riddance bitches!

I'm so not used to you being here. Stay or go?

Zoos Comet

Her empty lies mean more than all the halls of silence.

We've been shafted, double penetrations are the worst.

Are they excited at where they'll wake up after committing suicide?

No more shit.

Metallic grey sparks on metal elements realigning.

A case of falling space objects.

In town they complained of the noise.

Damn rock could have flattened them.

The Theran dance goes on.

Cast out by the hand of fate.

Dawn and Dusk (for Anneke van Giersbergen)

In the dawn of silence,

a pattern of words falls exhaustively upon the shattered shards of sulphur,

on this end dawn.

It begins now,

an event of no significance.

Why is it remembered?

Who will be there to remember

if God doesn't exist to create people?

Who's to say anything happened at all?

You?

There was no event.