FREE Fiction Friday: Dark Poetry by Blake Offret

This week’s FREE Fiction Friday comes in the form of creepy and bloody work by poet and foodie Blake Offret.  Offret focuses on topics like sex, god, and death–because what the hell else is worth writing about?  Offret was raised in Maine & currently living in New Orleans via Boston and Chicago, escaping the past & spending too much time in graveyards & writing like hell. Educated at public university and kitchens across America.

BlakeO 1

Open Boat

In an open boat

lost upon the face of

the sea

you and I lay, starving

and skin cracked,

drawn cheeks and

desperate hollow eyes.

The sun overhead,

you crouched in the prow,

and I can hardly speak –

only croak out the words

“I love you”

softly from the back of my throat

through swollen tongue

and cracked lips.

You don’t recognize me anymore,

and I won’t be able to hold you off

once you realize just what hunger means –

and so I pray to the gulls

for a ship in the distance,

or a quick death.

And there you are in the prow,

my love;

I can hear you scratching

a tally of the days into the

boards of the boat with your


I cannot see you any longer,

but I can feel your hungry eyes

as I pray for a pair of sails

to save us from each other.


BlakeO 2

Our Lady of the Holy Death

 When Death comes for me

I will be wearing my favorite T-shirt,

an old pair of jeans,

and my motorcycle jacket.

She will stand in my doorway

in black lace and chains,

smiling through shadow

and calling me by an old name –

and I will be ready for her.

I will slow time –

hot maple syrup,

and me a bed of ice –

slowing the moment

into something sweet on the tongue

remembered from childhood.

I want to draw

that moment out forever –

lovely Death wearing

houndstooth Mary Janes,

sliding toward me

across the wooden floor.

One last caress –

the taste of cool maple –

a scent of perfume

worn by a past lover –

a faint static charge

at the base of my skull –

one last long deep breath

and I’m gone.


BlakeO 3

Dorian Gray

This town has bled me dry.

Knowing that,

Knowing this damn town may have taken the best parts of me,

There is still a melancholy in me as I

Pack my things

To leave.

If this place has taken anything good from me

Than that good thing is now possessed by the spirit of this sleepy New England town,

Like some ancient demon from Lovecraft,

It has taken something from inside of me.

I can’t name what it has stolen from me

But inside of me there is a large empty space,

A barren plateau atop my soul,

And if it really has bled me dry then, when I depart,

I am leaving some of myself behind.

Perhaps pieces of myself will be left which are undesirable –

Maybe I will leave behind my heavy drinking,

Or a penchant for cocaine –

Even my proclivity for drunken lonely women.

I’m tired of fighting,

And I’m tired of falling in love.

Maybe I’ll leave that behind, as well.

This town is a painting and I am Dorian Gray.

I will arrive in a new city and I will be youthful and clean,

Leaving this New England town the possessor of all my faults.

Someday, we will meet again,

The Town & I.

I will be forced to come face to face with that which I have left behind,

The things I didn’t pack up and take with me,

And everything that the town stole from me outright.

It will be a fresh day in April.

I’ll step off the bus and breathe in deeply and the memories will flood back to me

As I walk down the street, remarking upon new buildings and old drugstores.

From behind a vacant building will step my hideous Lovecraftian demon.

It will lurch down the street in my direction, at least 50-feet tall and dragging

Tentacles lazily behind, reeking of age and sex and mildew.

I’ll stand frozen in place, and as it lumbers closer I realize that underneath the slimy

Moss and filth hanging from it’s hair and face, it has my eyes.

It has my nose, and my mouth, curled into a vacant snarl.

Passers-by will stare in horror and dive behind cars.

Small children will remain unmoved with wise knowing looks in their eyes.

The ancient thing will stand over me and blot out the sun.

This monster which has inherited all of my sins.

You can leave a place

And you can leave behind the people you’ve hurt

And you can forget.

But there is a balance and an order in this universe and

One cannot simply unburden themselves of all their ugliness

Without leaving it somewhere.


Thanks, Blake!  

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