DeadMansPressInk & The School of Night Newsletter

To many of those of you who follow or read my work there are only a few that are aware that I run, along with my friend and coeditor Hex M’ Jai a small independent poetry press known as DeadMansPressInk as well as a page called The School of Night Newsletter which promotes the teachings & mysteries, articles and rituals of magic. DeadMansPressInk has a very fun & all inclusive popular group for poets called POETS WHO HATE POETS ON FACEBOOK which has been growing day by day and allows writers & poets to share their work in a safe, secure atmosphere of respect and humor with an eternal ” no trolls allowed” policy.

I hope that if you are a writer who would like to publish your book of pagan based poems ( we also are interested in noir, the occult & the macabre) that you will send us your manuscript or join our group to just enjoy people’s work and share your own. Find us on Facebook as well as Instagram.

Many Thanks. Join Us.

~ R.M. Engelhardt Editor DeadMansPressInk

https://m.facebook.com/theschoolofnightmysticism
The School of Night Newsletter

Poems In Retort Magazine

I Was Once Dead Too  R.M. Engelhardt

I WAS ONCE DEAD TOO

In a famous painting
of Christ nailed to
and crucified upon the cross
I am the watching 
leper on the right.
And with my one good eye
I watch as Jesus dies
and screams up into
darkening sky asking
his father for a reason

why?

And then, suddenly 
as the clouds open up
and the rain begins
the Romans scatter like mice,
the water, burning off their
flesh like corrosive acid.
As I feel the wetness upon my
skin like the warmth of a beautiful woman 
touching my face, I raise my
hands outward, and I am healed.
When a voice comes
which tells me I am now
the angel of death, and the
watcher in the eternity
that is time, wandering 
the earth.

The screams of both Jesus,
and his murderers the Romans
now a distant sound & memory
in a world without messiahs
or miracles to amaze us.
Only questions
which remain unanswered.

THE DEAD WEIGHT OF HUMANITY

You reach inside

Your guts and you

Pull out

A fuzzy bunny.

You reach inside

You’re soul and worse

Yet you pull out

A teletubbie.

The image

In your mind appears,

the voices speak.

You’re probably insane.

And you wonder;

Has this ever happened

To Whitman? Dickinson

Or Frost?

Probably not.

But then again,

They didn’t have

Drugs

As good

As ours.

More …   

http://www.retort.brentley.com/RETORT/06/id_01.06_rm_engelhardt.htm

Literature  R.M. Engelhardt


Poems In Retort Magazine