Turniphead, it calls itself, when names are worth
Something ,dumb thing, its eyes dawdle, grin goggles,
Filthy earth-birthed thing.
Turniphead, he calls it, the one who fears it, cheers
Himself secretly with morbid musings, sick-wit choosings,
Never normal, not this one.
Turniphead, they call him, idiot tongue lolling about,
Without a brain, an empty head, so long been dead,
Still, crisp crunch inside.
Turniphead, it marks their words, stores them away
Where half-thoughts play, where half-made things
Wait for the right day.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Morbid Children
PuisiThis is a collection of some of my more curious and macabre poems. Many of my poems play with words, the sounds and shapes of them. However, I often attempt to delineate emotion and sensation I cannot otherwise word, or I take inspiration from legen...
