Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator

Couldn’t resist posting the Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator as we are reading Gothic fiction in October. I know this is a little in-joke for the black clad creatures of the night of the present day, but as I’m reading The Mysteries of Udolpho, I am seeing the crying, fainting, handwringing, lovelorn, “pleasureable melancholy” literary great-grandmother of it all. In fact, my Goth-O-Matic poem below might be slightly less histrionic than the novel!

Here is my “poem” — I’d love to see yours if you do one! He hee!

dark love

It is a night of sorrow, a song of blood,
wolves vent their howls. The dark one
stirs.

Evil shrouds her gaunt form,
an eternal wanting.

Her inky black hair cascades over
translucent ivory shoulders, and her
full crimson lips part slightly, to taste the
soul streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.

Now a night of new awareness,
I remember her.

P.S. I’m totally not making fun of Goths!! I’ve always thought of myself as an olde skool art fag if I had to have a label, but I’ve spent many an overly made-up evening whirling and twirling to Bauhaus and Siouxsie not to mention Rasputina!

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5 comments

  1. jackiemania

    Years have passed (and I wear much less make up — but you will have to pry my burgundy lipstick from my cold, dead hands!!!) but I am still exactly that same person inside who adores all the same things. It’s just who I am 🙂

  2. tuesday

    I think I’m too cheery for all this talk of death and doom, but how fun!
    Here is mine (It speaks of anguish at receiving unwanted, unrequited love hahaha)

    Remembrance of My Death

    Around, all around, the angels gather.
    My dread grows as doom’s scythe falls against my naked soul.
    It smites me, and darkly my
    vitae drips
    to the thirsty earth.
    In unholy terror I flail madly
    while Death’s shadow takes my hand.
    Now alone, my fervent plea falls upon darkened eyes.

    This is your love

  3. Wallace

    Um, THAT WAS AWESOME. I’m going back to make another. 🙂

    Untitled

    Around, all around, the mourners gather.
    My dread grows as the headsman’s axe falls against my naked soul.
    It severs me, and darkly my
    blood drips
    to the thirsty earth.
    In unholy terror I beg forgiveness
    while the Reaper takes my unwilling hand.
    Now alone, my supplication falls upon uncaring eyes.

    This is my doom

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