The Love Song of Ghouls Verne, formerly of Aarhus, DK
(Decomposed by Ghouls Verne, Esq, and Communicated to Professor Pennywhistle, PhD, Ed, via the medium of a Medium on 14 Feverary 1893, in the Low and Tortured tones of a Heartbroken shade, and a thick Danish accent)
Ten t’ousand leagues under de zea
Dat’s me
Doze ashen flakes you zee
For Yulia could not bear nor loss
Nor cost
And zo my ash she tozzed
Vrom off de rocky Danish reef
Her grief
Azzuagéd by relief
But mine vas not. Zo, pale and gaunt,
I haunt.
______________________________________
©2012 Percival P. Pennywhistle, PhD/Peas Porridge Press
About the author
Ghouls Verne was burn on the Worst of Dismember, 1783, in a little crematorium outside of Aarhus, Denmark, on the Horsens side. He was revived by his parents, Karl and Grete Verne, twice, and by his new bride, Julia, once, but it didn’t take. Hence the cremation.
Percival P. Pennywhistle, PhD, is a poet and a purveyor of poetry for perspicacious and precocious people of all ages. “The Love Song of Ghouls Verne, formerly of Aarhus, DK” is part of a planned anthology of sickly sweet and darkly ironic poems and prose called Gothic Dreams and Other Things. You will wish to purchase it. You will also wish to sleep light after reading it.
Portrait 1 is a representation of what Ghouls and Julia might have looked like if they had married, lived in the late nineteenth instead of the late seventeenth century, and were named Peder and Severin Krøyer.
Portrait 2 is of Ghouls in happier times, when men whose heads were heavy with sleep or worry had the option of carrying them in the crooks of their fashionably (if somewhat poofily) clothed arms.
Wilderness Interface Zone 
The quality of the professor’s scholarship never ceases to startle me.
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He really is a marvel. I don’t know where he finds this stuff. Well, this one was the result of an apparition, which is plainly stated in the note, but there are others that defy reason and reasonability as to their provenance, appurtenance, and significance. I count myself privileged to be his amanuensis, and not a little perplexed at the same time.
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A ghost I’d love to meet.
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The Professor cannot, sadly, arrange such. But he assures me your instinct is, as usual, correct. Despite an unfortunate moniker, Ghouls is apparently (and only apparently, lacking substance detectable by the physics of touch) a lovely fellow, if forlorn and ashen in aspect.
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“Morbid Arts”.
Nice touch, Prof.
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