As a movie fan, I got into horror movies quite late. I was 20, and then I saw Night of the Living Dead (1990) and I was an instant fan of the genre of guts and screaming and the world of the weird. I’m not into it for the blood or torture, and I’ll grit my teeth at the highly distracting shaky camera of Saw and the like, but there’s something else. Some indefinable something that draws me again and again to the drama of it. I think it’s the mystery. You don’t know what’s going to happen next. You think you know, but you don’t know.
These poems are my mind trying to make sense out of why I like the classic, the modern, the gore that is horror.
Ben Ohmart
choosing a selection results in a full page refresh
