This week, we denizens of the Night Bazaar weren’t provided with a topic, and to my chagrin, without the help, I haven’t come up with anything worth saying. But I didn’t want to go a week without posting. So here’s a poem I wrote and published on my blog last year. It celebrates a particular kind of horror movie and is evidence that I’ve probably watched way too many of this particular type.

Ghost-hunting guys who make a stand
In films on Netflix on Demand
More oft than not will come to grief.
It’s not a question of belief.
You can credit; you can scoff.
Either way, your head comes off.
Mansion, jail, or old asylum,
The dead get testy when you rile ‘em.
Game show, hazing, true research,
Each will leave you in the lurch,
Blund’ring in a panicked daze
Through corridors become a maze.
First come noises, then the visions,
Then the stabbings and possessions.
There’s a mystery to decipher,
But seldom will that save your life or
Really, make a lick of sense
(At least not to the audience.)
Yet you MIGHT survive if you can last.
Sometimes one dude gets a pass.
(But sorry if you’ve got a dick.
The odds are better for a chick.)
Caked and smeared with gory spatters,
Babbling, your mind in tatters,
You’re locked up to make amends,
Blamed for the slaughter of your friends.
But still, ALIVE! A feat unequaled!
You don’t perish ‘til the sequel.