Onlayn kitobni bepul oʻqish Horror Without Borders. Volume 2. Hidden Realmsmuallif Олег Хасанов
Horror Without Borders. Volume 2
Hidden Realms
Fonts by «ParaType»
Editor Олег Хасанов
Compiler Олег Хасанов
© Олег Хасанов, compiler, 2025
Horror needs no passport. Enclosed within the pages of this volume are 145 poems written by 64 poets from 21 countries around the world. These morbid lines delve into the deepest of the human psyche. It’s a free fall into the world of madness, nightmares, and your darkest fears.
ISBN 978-5-0064-7336-2
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Contents
Horror Without Borders
Volume 2
Hidden Realms
A World Anthology of Dark Poetry
Edited by Oleg Hasanov
Horror Without Borders. Volume 2: Hidden Realms
The authors of the individual poems retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology.
All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
© 2022 Oleg Hasanov
Cover Artwork © 2022 Infographics
A HORROR HAIKU FOREWORD
Do you have the time?
I’ve got a story to tell
About dead beauty.
I once believed that
Life’s a fairytale romance,
But no, I was wrong.
Life’s a ghost story,
It’s a cemetery walk
In winter. No doubt.
I remember that
Journey to Antarctica
Was like a red mist…
In a frozen ship
Is where we found these demons
By the night candles.
Unholy union
Chanting a spell for Satan
From a little black book.
Religions in ice…
A disentombed communion…
A cannibal house…
A girl was summoned,
Concubine of necrosis.
This book’s the portal…
A warm meal helped me
To regain my consciousness.
They gave me potions.
I see a raven
Through the barred window.
Landscape with a tower.
They gave me a pen
And a big stack of paper.
They want a report.
The long road to hell
Through the labyrinth of my
Memories, more like.
In the darkness of
My padded cell, all my thoughts
Go to Dorothy…
They got their report.
This diary of death is
A piece of my mind.
The revelation
In the asylum, a song
From the wailing tomb.
I want to escape.
My amygdala
Tells me I’ve got to.
If I stay any longer,
The lobotomy will be
The ultimate price.
In the waiting room
I hit the nurse with a chair.
Her brain’s a blood soup.
Here comes death. I eat.
No remorse, only hunger.
I am Nosferatu.
I grab the keys and
Open the door. I am free.
Vampire energy.
I am the ripper.
Beyond the dying stars I
Get my freedom.
I have to get home,
I’ve got to see Dorothy.
I hide in the moors.
The night in the swamp
Does me good. It covered me,
Saving from dissection.
I go through the woods
And reach a railroad station.
Red balloon floating.
Now! I slip into
The freight car and hide myself.
But I’m not alone.
Hidden behind the
Big boxes is the dark man.
He is watching me.
His hand slides into
The dark valise and comes out
With a little black book.
The black book I saw
In the demented ship.
He makes me read it…
I know everything.
What killed Aleister Crowley?
Now I know it all.
In her room at last.
My lost love under the sea.
Dorothy, save me.
The day was breaking
Outside. Footprints in
The snow… Not again!
Thought I have escaped.
The curse of the Internet!
They know where I am.
There is no escape.
I shave my beard looking in
The mirror. That’s it!
That’s it! The demons
Are acting on a par with
The government!
They’re here to harvest
Our citizens. Why am
I still pretending?
And Dorothy is
Their agent. I stop shaving
And wipe the razor.
She infected me
With thanatophobia.
Sweet dreams, Dorothy…
Better not take the
Train this time. They’re everywhere.
Don’t trust anyone.
There’ll be no escape
When the dark man comes. The Earth’s
Their inheritance.
I go to the cops.
The enemy within me
Tells me to do so.
Do you have the time?
I’ve got a story to tell
About dead beauty.
I ask for a pen
And a big stack of paper.
I’ll write a report.
They get their report.
This night has a thousand eyes.
So let them have it.
I include weird signs
And bizarre incantations
In this new story.
I write until this
Chalice is empty. It’s done!
The Black Testament.
For all I know they
Hid my little black book somewhere
In a frozen ship…
I know it by heart,
So let me be your darkness.
Feel the poet’s pain.
— Oleg Hasanov
February 13, 2022
Michelle Moroses (USA)
BLOOD SOUP
Michelle Moroses is an undergraduate student at Emerson College. She is on the management team for The Emerson Review and enjoys dogwatching and Wikipedia rabbit holes.
I’m making blood soup.
I’m letting a lot of blood out for it.
Enough to feed an army.
Here we are in the blue bathroom.
Cotton candy blue.
I will miss you when you leave me.
I’ll miss your oven mitts, your
garlic stained hands, your paring knife, the way you
separate skin from bone
the same way god must have separated man out from under his own flesh.
I will miss you even though you hurt me. This is the stupid thing, the part where the dinner guests you invited over get to clutch their full bellies and laugh. When they do, I will excuse myself to go out to the yard and beat the feeling back violently, with the biggest stick I can find.
It doesn’t work. It never works. My love is not so easily killed as my body could be. You wanted both of them, together, in a way you could consume. I’m afraid I’m not going to taste very good.
Nevertheless you want me, and I want you.
And I am fully clothed in the bathtub,
And the water has been shut off for days
yet the tub is filling up.
you’re making blood soup.
Michael Mulvihill (Ireland)
WRITER’S HEAD ON A STICK
Michael Mulvihill was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1978. He eventually, in his late teens, became a bookworm completing degrees up to the Master’s Level in Addiction Studies, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and Social Sciences. His initial fictional work was surreal short stories of horror which have been featured numerously in Black Petals, an online horror science fiction zine. He branched out to write an apocalyptic, post-Soviet horror novel, Siberian Hellhole, which was translated and published in Georgia. His latest novel, Syriacide, features The Syrian War. He is an avid reader of history and is fascinated by world events, South Africa, the USSR, and the philosophical idea of a dystopian society. At the moment he is writing a dystopian novel. An avid martial artist and film buff, he trains constantly in Kenpo Karate and loves to also relax whilst watching films.
They used to shoot the messenger,
But this horde wanted gore,
A torture and a killing from the days of yore,
A piece were writ that had too much grit,
It told truth,
Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,
And thus was vowed there shall be blood,
Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,
Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,
Knee-capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,
When all was done his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,
As this horde, this cult of death,
Raised their flag outside a mansion,
And placed the writer’s head on a stick,
A thick stick yes,
But none the less a stick,
The hurly-burly was done,
What was achieved in this?
Stephanie Ellis (England)
COMMUNION
Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her poetry has been published in the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume 6 and her latest stories include Asylum of Shadows (Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shocks series), and Snowbooks industrial horror anthology, Thread of the Infinite. She is co-editor and contributor at The Infernal Clock and also co-editor of Trembling With Fear, HorrorTree.com’s online magazine. She is an affiliate member of the HWA.
Website: https://stephanieellis.org
It’s important, the detail.
She sat, as I recall
Small, a doll, eyes daring
Beyond caring of the future
And?
She wore trainers, to run
Said she’d always been running
From men like me
Men like you?
Men like her father
Forever after possession
Paternal monsters, always hunting
And did you hunt her?
No, no need. She knew I would wait
I’d baited her, held the line,
Sedated her, reeled her in
And then?
I measured the length of her, the stretch of her
As communed without communion
Shrouded in scarlet
But you see her still?
Yes, she sits at my shoulder
My angel, my perfect angel
And she whispers, Daddy…
Norbert Góra (Poland)
CONCUBINE OF NECROSIS
Norbert Góra is a 29-year-old poet and writer from Poland. He is the author of more than 100 poems which have been published in poetry anthologies in the USA, the UK, India, Nigeria, Kenya, and Australia.
One-to-one trysts, which were too weird
to understand how those feelings appeared,
the light of beauty met the darkness of eyesore,
innocence tasted the filthy bitterness of gore.
In the arms of death she quickly forgets
about the sort of things that can upset,
she worships the smell of decaying meat
when the slimy tongue touches her teat.
Longing washes her body during the day,
at night she loves the carcass, to whom she obeys,
infatuated and blissful, the concubine of necrosis
submerges in the source of lifeless hypnosis.
With each grain of time her face becomes paler,
brighter than the fabric kept in the hands of a tailor,
with every sunset, such a visible difference
between them disappears, fatal severance.
