Welcome to the Bedroom of the Poetry House of HORROR!

You might find yourself tired, looking for rest of sorts. Well, in this house, you have no rest.

Corpse Washing by Ranier Maria Rilke

They had gotten used to him. But when
the kitchen lamp came and burned restlessly
in the dark draft, the one no one knew
turned utterly unknown. They washed his neck,


and since they knew nothing of his fate,
they made up another one with lies,
washing all the while. The first had to cough,
and set the heavy vinegar-soaked sponge


down on his face. Then there was a pause
while the other rested. The drops kept falling
from her hard brush; while his terrible
cramped hand tried to make the whole house
see that he no longer thirsted.


He got through to them. With a short cough,
as if embarrassed, they resumed the task
more urgently, so that on the wallpaper
their hunched shadows writhed and twisted


in the mute patterns as though in a net,
until the washings came to an end.
The night in the uncurtained window frame
was pitiless. And one without names
lay there bare and clean and gave commands.

Death is perhaps the most terrifying thing in this house of horrors.