Rufus Hobster is a vampire.
He writes poetry.
La Petite Mort is a poetic recollection of the time Rufus spent with Elise, The Girl Who Synchronised Death. Despite the way Elise makes God weep, he cannot leave her side.
In the end, it is Elise who abandons Rufus, and his mental health deteriorates rapidly until his psychosis leads him on a far darker path than the one he has walked these past 200 years.
La Petite Mort spans several genres, including mental health, dark romance, horror, philosophy and fantasy. It will appeal to fans of thought-provoking and gothic poetry.
How I Mean Nothing to You is a collection for readers who enjoy themes of obsession, fantasy and isolation. Each poem combines with the others in the collection to form a story.
This evocative anthology is about a nameless man who leaves Paris to return to London after breaking up with his lover. Travelling to Brighton by train each day, the man reflects about the woman he left behind and the life they once shared. Everything he sees and experiences while he travels the lines reminds him of her.
As the story unfolds, the narrator mutates his own feelings into the imagined emotions of the people he encounters on his journey. Sometimes his fellow travellers weep the tears he cannot weep; sometimes they are hiding a secret, sometimes they die in place of him.
Who is Mr X?
He is one of the characters in Neophyte.
Mr X shows Evan Jameson and Emily Cullen how to love in a different kind of way. A broken kind of way.
Who are the Broken Ones?
We are all broken, in one way or another.
I love poetry because I can read it in a single sitting. But mostly, I love how it makes me feel when I write or read poetry. Its effect is instant in most cases. I read the words and the meaning, emotion, effect go straight to my heart.
At times, its effect is not felt until later. And felt much more profoundly when it eventually takes hold.
I can quickly read it again and again.
For me, poetry is the closest writing can get to music.
My top three favourite poems (at this moment in time):
Hope is The Thing with Feathers
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
- Emily Dickinson
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
- John Keats
Grace with me your sentiments
And move my heart to beat
Take me to your passion place
Where sleepiness is sweet
Touch me with your tenderness
In words we should have said
Then dream a way inside of me
And climb into my bed
Makers of creative love
When alternating time
Redesign with reasoning
Both in and out of rhyme
- 'Anna DeVine
And this one is always there or there about: Annabel Lee - Edgar Allan Poe