I’ve a hard time casting
a shadow,
the rays don’t recognize my form.

There’s a fever in
my insides,
woolly and overgrown.

There’s no one on this
dull cove,
a bleak palette for a dream.

You’re meandering like
cold water,
can’t stay afloat in your streams.

I’ll plant a tree if you
nurture it,
though your branches are pruned.

There’s no dry-run for
this scene,
I’m unrehearsed for you.

We’ll build a room for
our haunts,
I won’t open the door.

We’ll paint over old
silver linings,
to abide once more.

The rays will recognise
these forms,
fused clay of the earth.


Hidden Gully‘, Richard Claremont 2016, oil on canvas



This poem is about a Lovecraftian figure that has been recurring for years in only the worst of my nightmares. It is Lovecraftian in the sense that the adversary is singular in its malevolance, immutable and incomprehensibly superior to the human.  This thing is evil in excess, powerful beyond belief and a virtuoso of cruelty and mindgaming through disguising itself as household items, inanimate objects, negative spaces, loved ones, movement or even as atmosphere. It is the consummate non- and anti-human, the stalking torture, a delayed execution. 


Formless haunt
abstracted cruelty
Capgras’ djinn,
cystalline mazes
physical paradoxes become
shrines to emesis.

A rabisu to my name
the playful insouciant evil
sentient cancer
the inverted cosmic black
foul electric.

Hijacked dream
astral hex
lurking dark traveller
seance prose
host charmer.


‘Miss Muriel Belcher’, Francis Bacon 1959