Thom Yorke takes a walk on Halloween Night (a triku)
The night howls, fog curls
a thin cloud bisects the moon;
at the graveyards’ edge
an abandoned well
at the bottom of that well
Thom Yorke cries for help.
The dead wake slowly
grey fists punch through mounds of earth
Thom Yorke cries for help.
This poem appeared last week in Oddball Magazine.
Stopdraggingthepanda 
Congrats on the publication, Jim!
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Great poem. Being buried alive is an old fear that I believe many people have. Congrats on being published.
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Thank you……it came to me while listening to Radiohead!
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