The Twins - 1

Among the pews of polished birch,

Two siblings huddle in the gloom,

Fighting off the coming doom;

Though both of them are pure of soul,

One's sustained a bullet hole --

A wound that has the brother screaming,

Watching his own lifeblood streaming;

By rights, the brother should be dead,

The bullet tore straight through his head;

Yet death, for him, shall never do,

                No rest for this Nosferatu.

 

"Close your eyes, ma petit frere,"

She whispers as she strokes his hair,

"Everything will be alright,

We'll go back out tomorrow night --

Your head should be okay by then,

And we shall stalk the night again,

Please, my brother - stop and think:

You'll heal much faster if you drink.

I cannot watch you writhe and twist --

                Drink, mon frere -- I pledge my wrist!"

 

"Please, dear sister -- tempt no more!

I've told you more than once before,

I cannot do this horrid task,

Nor could you, so please don't ask;

I fear that you would suffer more

(I've never had to stop before),

And I don't think I could, with you --

'Tis the worst thing I could do;

I'd drain your carcass, toss the husk

                And sleep until tomorrow's dusk."

 

"I can take it," says the sis,

"I've been in rougher straits than this --

But if you can't drink from me

(Despite my lycanthropy),

Then let me go find us some food,

For me, a steak -- for you some blood --

I can't stand to watch your pain

(I lost you once -- but not again)

We're safe now, brother -- coast is clear

                I won't be long, but please -- stay here."

 

"Hurry please -- I fear the sun,

For if it touches me, I'm done --

All the blood from here to Hell

Won't save you from the burning smell --

True, the blood's my sole desire,

But I can't drink it while on fire;

This church shall be our sanctuary

(Though I'd have picked a cemetery...)

But please, my dear: fast as you can --

                And then we'll hunt our bogeyman.

 

 

Simon 3

Old Father Tucker

The dirty soul-sucker

Took refuge beaneath his own cross,

His body destroyed,

Condemned to the void,

'Good riddance to that albatross.'

You may remember

Our most evil member,

Along with the gypsy he raped,

Then hung on a spire,

To be set on fire;

A torment she couldn't escape.

Withered and scrawny,

The tortured Romani

Exacted a vengance extreme;

She cursed the whole town

Before sinking down

Boiling the water to steam...

And last but not least, 

Ol' Tucker the Priest

Was brought forth to be put on trial;

With no judge nor jury,

T'was done in a hurry,

And Tucker was gone for awhile.

Till sometime ago,

From way down below

Something disturbs Tucker's rest;

A force of pure wrath;

Complete psychopath,

In whom Father's very impressed.

The subject: a coach

With a softer approach

(Especially with the young teenage girls)

He'd give them his coat,

Then open their throat;

Their death throes his coveted pearls.

But not quite as much

As his personal hutch

Of each victim's last photograph;

The fear in their eyes

The best of the prize:

Pure terror: the best epitaph.

But smart he was not,

For soon he was caught,

And took his life without remorse;

A dangerous glitch 

Forced Tuck to unhitch

And choose someone else as his horse.

The second of merit

Who stood to inherit

The curse of the unholy man

He didn't last long

Thanks to the song

Sung by his least biggest fan.

Of course, we all know

Where that guy would go,

Thanks to the ghost of Collette;

But ghosts aren't Tuck's racket;

He hid in the jacket,

Not to emerge from it yet. 

And then, Marty Bloom,

Headed for doom,

Confessed to his terrible share;

He'd clear lost his mind

When he left life behind,

Strapped in the electric chair.

With all of this rhymin',

I forgot about Simon --

But he's indisposed, so to speak...

The foul stench of death

Makes him hold his breath

A tear staining each dirty cheek.

Don't worry for him,

For his life and limb

Are safe for a stanza or two,

But once that's been done,

Our most evil one

is going to eat Simon, too.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Simon 2

Lest we too harshly judge Simon, 

Though already I feel your hate climbin';

For though so reviled,

He's the mind of a child

With too much rough hiding the diamond.

But that begs an interesting question:

Why commit such a transgression,

And risk getting caught? 

His choice, this was not;

His mind was too ripe for suggestion... 

...And being the size of a tractor, 

Attracted a dark benefactor

With candy and toys

If he didn't make noise;

Discretion a primary factor. 

The details were too complicated

For Simon to see as ill-fated;

He saw a reward

And bounded aboard

To do as his master dictated.

Always the huge people pleaser, 

He crammed the kids into the freezer

Till all it could hold

Was frozen and cold;

To delight his ravenous Caesar.

"My Master -- I did as you asked me:

Their bodies aren't ugly or nasty;

No bruises or cuts,

and no blood or guts --

"I did good?" asks the ignorant patsy.

"Yes, my child. Thy work is noted,

Proven thine soul is devoted,

And for every hour

I grow in my power

Within my heart, thou art promoted."

"Oh thank you, my most gen'rous Master!"

Says Simon, his heart beating faster,

"I live by your hands

And obey your commands!"

(Unaware that he's bound for disaster.)

Simon stands, puffed up and proudly,

Exclaiming (ungodly loudly),

"My life is for you,

Tell me what to do!"

(Hypnotized, youthful eyes cloudy).

"For now," replied the dark stranger,

"Thy work's done -- no need to endanger

Your limb or your life --

Now pick up the knife,

And clean them, my most trusted ranger."

"Clean them?!" asks Simon, disgusted,

Imagining himself encrusted

In innards and blood --

A viseral flood --

But he told Master he could be trusted...

Trembling, poor Simon (now teary)

Sweating profusely, eyes bleary,

Confused and afraid,

He takes hold of the blade

Squeamish, revolted and leery...

"Good work," says this tale's evil author,

"But Master's too formal to bother;

Not demon, but priest;

Once finally released,

You may address me as "Father."

----

- Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Simon 1

Simon has an ice cream truck

He drives it down the street

While all the children grab a buck

And rush to get their treat

Smiling at the little folks

He gathers them around

Telling lies and dirty jokes

As belly-laughs abound

Stacking up the waffle cones

Scoop by careful scoop

Whistling in friendly tones

To calm the giddy troupe

Chok'lit, 'nilla, junior mint

Till every scoop is gone

But one kid waits, his eyes aglint

Sullen and withdrawn

"Please, mister ice cream man"

Piped in trembling voice, bereft

"I've got enough schange in my hand

If any treats are left"

"Of course" says Simon, in a lie

Knowing well that isn't true

"C'mon back here, little guy

Let's see what we can do"

"Chunky Monkey, Rocky Road

Which one would you like to taste

It's melting fast, my wealthy friend

There isn't time to waste

Open up the Frigidaire

Take a gander deep inside

The best stuff's at the bottom there

Oh wait... that's right -- I lied"

One quick motion -- in he goes

And downward slams the door

Locks it shut to keep him froze

And seen again no more

The worst of Simon's evil feats

As if this won't suffice:

Three more kids, wrapped in sheets

And frozen in the ice

Grinning like a crocodile

Having trapped his latest prize

Simon and his evil smile

Glares with hungry eyes

The doors are locked, windows rolled

To keep eyes off his prey;

Ice cream man, with treasures cold

Drives three blocks away...

Simon has an ice cream truck

He drives it down the street

While all the children grab a buck

And rush to get their treat

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

King Series 4 - 'The Dead Zone'

I

Winter, circa-1953:

Young John Smith wipes out on the ice,

Mumbling premonitions absently --

But prophecies demand a hefty price.

Adulthood comes, ice incident forgot,

And Mr. Smith (now teaching English class)

Falls again, this time in coma caught;

Four whole years in silence gently pass.

Meanwhile, in more rural atmosphere,

A Bible salesman, cursing 'neath his breath

Dreams of power and a rich career,

His enemies (like dogs) swift kicked to death.

Let's hope that by the time the two converge, 

Lest the whole world suffer in the scourge. 

----

II

Our scripture slinger's moved up in the world,

Not for lack of gerrymandery,

Bribes and blackmail -- round his finger twirled:

Those who present opportunity.

Mr. Smith meanwhile, wounds on the mend, 

Has gained a feature hitherto unseen:

By touching something, his senses bend,

And tell him things about where it's been.

Johnny's power works on people, too --

And this is where our adversaries meet --

On shaking hands, John knows what he must do:

A murder, lest his rise to pow'r complete!

The question, as his looming panic mounts:

Can he pull the trigger when it counts?

----

III

Trying to return to normal life

(Despite his death just one more poem from here),

Pain creeps in -- a dull and rusty knife --

Filling Johnny's heart with dread and fear. 

A phone call, asking Johnny for his aid,

Which he'll do, despite his urge to balk;

The hunt is on, with little progress made:

A killer prowls the town of Castle Rock. 

Of course, John puts his psychic skills to use

To catch the Strangler, put him in a cage

Where no one else can suffer his abuse,

Or endure his mindless, hungry rage. 

But, despite the truth of Johnny's hunch,

The Strangler's dead (he beat them to the punch). 

----

IV

While John recovers from the Strangler case,

Our villain (now the Mayor of his town,

Elected through his lies and grinning face),

Dissatisfied, decides to double down. 

Questions plague poor Johnny's fractured mind:

Would Hitler's death in 1932

Prevent the worst mass death in humankind,

Or would that lead to somewhere hellish too?

Johnny's visions turn to dark nightmares --

Even as his health deteriorates --

Repulsed by just the thought of such affairs,

Johnny must become the thing he hates...

And yet he knows, despite his fear and doubt,

He's got to hurry -- time is running out. 

----

V

When the moment comes for him to act,

John summons all the courage he can wield,

Fires a shot that fails to make contact --

And villain grabs a child, for human shield --

The pregnant pause that follows is enough

For John to take two bullets from the guards;

Falling to the ground with wheezing chuff,

His life collapsing like a house of cards...

And that's when Johnny hears the camera clicks,

And knows his target's done with politics.

----

 <fin>

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

- "The Dead Zone" is © Stephen King, 1979.