"His Haunted Song," by Hans Ostrom (Lyrics) and the Fred Fairclaw Band.

"Desert Apparitions," by Hans Ostrom (Lyrics); High Mesa Riders (music)

"How Our Story Ends," by Roger Illsley and Hans Ostrom

The Key

There's someone in the basement wailing.
It must be that fellow other tenants call Poe.
That's all I know. Wailing and Poe.
I don't own, don't hold the keys to,
that ambitious dungeon. Otherwise,
I'd knock trepidation aside and descend
toward the sound like a responsible person.

I start wailing myself.  Weakly, at first.
And I begin to wonder what the tenants
will call me, if indeed mournful cries
lead to nicknames and dungeons.  It
all depends on what the rules are. The key
will be to know who has the key.



hans ostrom 2017

"Poe," by Hans Ostrom

"Gothic Fog," by Hans Ostrom

Gothic Fog

He stepped outside
and rubbed the fog,
its pliant hide. What's
inside you? he asked.

No answer. Just muffled
rumblings. Suddenly
a woman's hand emerged,
caressed his cheek and neck.

"Come in," a female voice
said clearly. He entered
the fog. In there, faces floated
like unlit paper lanterns.

A chorus of moans arose.
He turned to escape, but
elsewhere had vanished.
He was inside the fog now.

He moaned.


hans ostrom, 2013

Sex in a Graveyard

We were all sinew and youth,
impulse, tendon, and sex.
When we fucked in the graveyard,
we probably didn’t think
of ourselves as fucking…
We didn’t think of desecration.
Or of ghosts. We lay on cool
concrete that topped a tomb.
We heard creatures stir: I
suspected a doe in the sweet-pea
vines that covered the wire fences.
Moonlight made it through
the canopy of old oak branches
and shone on your body as it
arced above mine: rib-cage,
nipples, breasts, neck, hair,
face, abdomen.. . . Afterwards,
you clutched me close, on top of
me who lay on top of corpses.
Young, anyone might fuck
in a graveyard. Later, they’ll
think of the holding-close, the clutching,
the chill on flesh, everything that happens
before, and after.


Hans Ostrom 2013

Garbage Disposal

("Insinkerator")


It is a rabid wolverine trapped
in a mine tunnel under the sink.
It is the misbegotten id of the kitchen.
As it masticates food we wouldn't
touch, it snarls, snorts, and chokes.
It is the lawn-mower's mad cousin
holed up in the gothic under-counter
cabinet with terrible chemicals.
As I stare into the sink's hole,
afraid, I hear the monster lacerating shadows.
I will feed it a fork again one day
because I must.


Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012