Welcome to Gothic Poets and Writers Literary Club!!!

Gothic literature website – ‘Gothic Poets and Writers Literary Club’ is a place where Gothic and dark poets and writers can post their works and discuss them. We are eager to collect as much as possible gothic poems and gothic stories, dark poetry and dark prose. The website is totally free and aimed to consolidation of European, Asian and American Gothic and dark poets and writers.

Gothic style is a sort of fusion of horror and romance (it is well-seen in both gothic poems and stories). The first gothic novel is ‘The Castle of Otranto’ (1764) by Horace Walpole who was an English Gothic writer. Later gothic literary tradition spread all over the Europe and arrived in the USA. The most famous American gothic literature author is Edgar Allan Poe who is a cult person for every goth today.
Asian Gothic literature is separate phenomenon that has it’s origin in Eastern folk dark poetry and prose and philosophy traditions and formed as unique wonder of our civilization thanks to taking into account Gothic literary genre development in Europe and American gothic literature special features experience.

Point characteristics of Gothic fiction, gothic poems, dark poetry and prose are terrible psychological and physical terror, mystery, paranormal activity, spirits, ghosts, haunted and abandoned houses and samples of the best traditions of Gothic architecture, medieval castles, dark, death, decay, madness, macabre secrets and hereditary curses.

The main gothic literature characters are typically tyrants, peasants, rogues, maniacs, Byronic heroes, persecuted lasses, femmes fatales, madmen, sorcerers, blood suckers, werewolves, monsters, devils, revenants, spirits, ghosts, living skeletons, the Wandering Jew and Satan himself.

If you are a Gothic poet or writer don’t miss the chance! Join us and make yourself at home!

the black plague of the Pendulum's lace. by Ravenskraft

The lacing of the river of blood.

The masteress is the white lace of the plague.

London is still crying over the deaths of many and

Wondering.if (HIM).

Still wonder around next door.

But still it's a sibling right across town,

the famine of lusting, tasting favor reddy spices to end the game

of her beloved,

father the lace of black demise.

But the pendulum was found many scum,

bags. Perish the testament of cyanide become a new breed of recipe for the wrongdoer.

A quick slice of naughty nice. Meaty fresh of polaris skies breast,

salt, pepper,.the harvest seasoning delight.

Murder collects bodies and the pendulum is decayed with smelling aroma.

Death. Famine. Soon. Blackpool.

Longing for justice,


she fills up more filth,

the slaughter the innocence.

The footstep of (HIM)

the waters of Loch Ness mourns over the blood as the river sleeps

in anger.

The rich shall burn for taking from the poor.

Whitehall shall promise her.

But not so.nighty night cyanide nights.

White lead cometh. Arsenic lights

One. Two. Three. Four.

She lusting the love of bloody midsummer.

Delightful delicious of sweet and favor

drink the wine from your cup.

Find the colour awful and bright,

don't breathe so hard, suffer her wrath of Him's Reject.

The moor will cry blood in land and screaming.

Drinking rum in the dead's darken sea.

They say catch the fiend of his bliss.

The runes of the pendulum.

Collects the ashes of dust.

The night of rejected England.

Running scared wandering.

Why those fiends live.

The township of the people begging for a hanging of her

catch her now soon be done.

She slips away from the queen's thumb.

Nighty nighty.

foggy shores

sweet dreams england

taste the lust of her cyanide's grin



Whitby, Dracula and Wait Until You Die.

Hi All,

I went up to Whitby in North Yorkshire last weekend. If anyone is thinking of going soon to the place where Dracula came ashore in the Demeter I can recommend the 'Dracula' tour run by Harry Collet. He really knows his stuff and he's dead funny as well as very informative.

I spent some of the time (Saturday night in fact) in the graveyard of St. Mary's church with my son Dylan and our good friend Captain Morgan (he's a rum old cove is that one). Dylan took a really atmospheric photo of the gravestones in the moonlight. I wish I could share it with you. If you've read Dracula you'll know that the Count spent his first night in England hiding in one of the crypts. That's not in the text but the subtext, the discovery of the old man who gives that terrible prophecy of doom is evidence though, and the location has a very special place in my heart.

My eighties London Modern Gothic Romcom Wait Until You Die seems to be selling the occasional copy, and to anyone who wants an insight to the early Gothic scene I don't think you could do better. Unless you're going to read a textbook of course, but let's face it - you're not going to are you? Here's a link to the book's Amazon page http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wait-Until-You-Die-ebook/dp/B0059M1EIG

You can read the first chapter or so on the amazon page 'Look Inside' feature, and there a a few excerpts available on the net, but the story doesn't get really Gothic until about chapter five or six.


Keep It Gothic!!

Richard A. Ridley

Sacred Taint

She danced on with passion, with joyous heath,
Across the altars, with blooded feet.
Her scarlet stains to sacred taint,
Defying the temple, with shine of faint,
Crying yet laughing at fallen saint,
His crosses dear in sinful black paint.

She cast crimson hail storm, shimmering array,
Beneath domes of shadows, of halos that betray,
Her soul screamed at icons, but all in vain,
Their eyes brightened, but of darkness plain,
Pressed under torment evolved from her pain,
Unheard by puppets, beings far from sane.


All with depth conceives,
That Inner side of the world,
Magnet that repels the Sun’s gold.

No later but in this life,
Depth has crafted our souls for itself.

We are deep beings, we hide from strife,
Beneath the skin, beneath the masks, beneath,
The words we have told to enrich life,
Or left silent, to with sorrow seethe,

Language is water behind a great dam gathered,
I daily within it dive,
And when air is thinner, I, even more shattered,
Leave to where I already did thrive.

If the Earth is shaken, that truly,
Am I, dreaming in an abyss,
Where my silent desperation’s bliss ,
I’ve hidden away from all, fully.

Within the depths is my domain,
Where through tongues is only felt pain,

My domain is within the depths, where
The pain is felt only through tongues.
From that darkened dictionary’s rift,
I only feel the warmth’s drift,
Of your gaze that to words shift.



… Midnight comes.
In darkened veil there are no goddesses,
Sacred are free souls combating the menaces,
That silent hour, that darkest time,
But what news, what rhyme?

By blackened wing of voiceless twilight,
Like single giant wave’s sheer might,
Rolling across the sea’s vivid face,
Howling as If perishing without a trace,
Or from the Earth’s bowels race.
Perhaps soil’s spirits chanted?
Or it damned fruits that were granted?
Or skies, perhaps, onward veer,
My deepest curses not to hear,
And stars weep, heavens grieve,
Caressing the earth once more before leave.
Should world be left without the skies soothing?
Should earth be forsaken by dawn brooding?
Should it be solely…

And footsteps are heard slowly…
Is midnight so silently traveling?
Not even air was so calmly unraveling,
The mystery from another world appearing.
Were clouds in secret upwards steering?
Or ailing creatures sorely breathing?
Or angels heavenly cure bleeding?
Or sharp scythe mowing brought?
Is it that love falls?... Is malice for naught?...
Perhaps it stalks so that It claims,
This too cup of joyous names?
Yet, perhaps, tear for sorrow sheds,
So that sadness above us spreads?
Or is ground returning ancient deceased?
The door screeched…

The Beast Inside My Mind

The Beast Inside My Mind


I went deep inside to find the mysterious door,
I opened it only to regret
what I found inside,
what I released afterwards.



The louder the creaking,
the closer I feel its breathing,
a fear up through my spine,
the beast inside my mind.


My sky gets lightless
and I only stay in silence,
as I watch my creature taking control,
making me start and endless war...
...with myself.

The Gilded Vampire (Chapter 4)

Hi All,

Here's a chapter of my latest novel. I usually do this by adding a link to a different site (Short Fiction UK) but on this occasion I've decided to upload the complete chapter. It's not currently available on any other site, although the full novel is available on Amazon (Kindle).

The Gilded Vampire (Chapter 4)

By the time Zoë had finished her phone call the noise outside had dwindled to normal levels and instead of blaring sirens and revving engines I could hear birds singing and the soft babble of the television anchorman, who had lowered the tone of his voice in the way they do when they’re delivering sad or tragic news. The T.V suddenly switched to a live broadcast from the scene of the crime, and a rather flustered-looking reporter stared straight down the lens of the camera, glancing periodically at a notepad in her hand as she delivered the shocking news. It was weird seeing it all on the screen; the local church I never attended; the graveyard I was so familiar with; the local vicar, standing in the background with a shocked expression, hugging a large bible like a frightened child would cuddle a teddy bear. I knew exactly how he felt. I was still in a state of nervous tension about everything, and the location of the forensic investigators’ white tent was yet another shock. The site that the Gilded Vampire had chosen to leave the corpse of his latest victim was the site of my wife’s grave.

The Executioner


Death makes us all tread on an endless sheet of fragile ice. He watches, anticipation twisting His face, waiting for us to fall through the holes in the ice. Threading a thin fabric beneath our feet.
He does His job with gentle and tender hands; cutting of heartbeats, ending breath. Yet it saddens Death when He has to work alone, gathering souls like lifeless spiders into his numb embrace.
Which is why He chose a friend.
The Executioner.
The Executioner's steps splinter upon the scaffold, the wood rotting away behind him.
He runs the rope through his hands habitually, and it scratches over his parched skin; the rasping breathing of Death Himself.
The Sentenced's backs are turned to the Executioner, not wanting to mar their last moments with the man tightening ropes around their necks.
Death is waiting, his cold fingers caressing their flesh.
He enjoys the warmth of the skin, relishes how it will never feel that way again. Death smiles as the frantic beating of their hearts drown out their last pathetic prayers.
"Cowards," He spits venomously. ''Every last one -a COWARD.''
Death fails to notice the sky today.
Today the sky is a different kind of blinding. It bleeds with hollowness, yet sings with every possible colour as the Executioner pulls on his mask.
With the world engulfed in familiar black, he wonders if the mask could muffle the screams. He dislikes how the screaming tears open the painted skies, ripping through his mind.
"No," he thinks. "They die FAR too quickly for any of that.''
Today everything is different.
Today the Executioner doesn't step back from the Sentenced.
Today it isn't his hands - that are calloused with stale slaughter - that pull the lever down. It isn't him that is to end the lives hanging from the nooses.
Today the Executioner dangles among them.
"Do you fear me?'' Death fastens the rope around his friend's neck.

A real nightmare

A real nightmare

As I stare to the skyline,
as I look to my road,
to the silvery clouds,
to that hideous storm

"I must go through",
think as I open my eyes,
solely hoping to sleep
not dreaming anymore.