Admixture in October
The burymen sit smokng and contemplating
Their new dig. It is a musty morning fog
They rest in. Then as they dig
They hit a hard hand, with curling nails twitching crust.
It is the Beast.
The creature now stands up through the tenuous dirt
And coughs a laugh at them.
No man, I am. I am no man. Its one eye spreads,
Spouting obscenities: he is Polyblasphemus.
The arms entangle the two and rife with horror
Tears them to shreds. Blood flies across the tired moor.
It is All Hollow's Eve. The fortelling was true.
What are gravedigers to do tonight,
Except call in with a vicious cough of their own?
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Admixture in October by Stan Petrovich )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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