I remember seeing that wasteland, A desert spied through weary eyes, A corpse of an environment, Rotten and cracked, Populated by the spectre of an ecosystem, A dead land, Auburn and drab in its last throes, And it brought a tear to my eye,
Then that ash sapling grew, And as this green warden germinated, It was like time had been reversed, The land came alive once more, Greenery and vines returned to the loam, Viridian spread through the veins of the dirt, This magic came about from a single ash, And it brought a tear to my eye.
They say monsters hide in plain sight, And they may be right, Costumes seem to depict horrors that the silver screen cannot, For I see spectres and witches aplenty, Demons running amok, This season seems to attract such horrific narcissism, Such malefic objectification, It makes me sick and tingly at the same time, This is Halloween, This is the way it ought to be.
On this night of nights, Something releases a scream amongst screams, Did you hear it? That horror of the night, That shriek of a feminine guise, That ear splitting cry, It came from that thing, That spectral visage over yonder, With it the eve grows foreboding,
A woman perhaps, Beautiful yet horrific, A monster perhaps, Enticing yet bloodcurdling, This season attracts such apparitions, It comes with the territory, Spectres abound after all, So I must ask again, Did you hear it?
I find at times, Whether by chemical or trauma, This force comes over me, A kind of visual confusion, Colours dancing in every course, Surroundings growing indistinct, My eyes glossing over, Cellophane in the air, Everything boils down to a blur, A prismatic soup, My brain jumping into its depths, Sights and sounds and frights, Lost on the tongue of my eyes.
Disaster I say! Disaster! I’m feeling rather unwell this week. It’s not the great plague of 2020, don’t worry. Just a bit of a head cold. Seems to be going around a lot at the moment. Tis the season to be ill I suppose. It’s just making me feel rather run down and making my voice sound really low. Haha! It’s meant I’ve kept inside and working on my writing though, so silver linings and all that.
So, it’s that day of the week that I inflict the Harlequins writing music upon you all! You knew it was coming, don’t lie. So, todays musical theme is probably a bit of an obvious one given the season. The clue wasn’t exactly subtle. It’s Halloween! Samhain! Of course it is! My favourite time of the year, believe it or not! The voices in my head tend to enjoy it as well, so it keeps them quiet. I’m going to share with you five musical artists or individual songs that I feel embody this most spooky of festivals. From artists who dress up like monsters to heavy metal that personifies terror. I’m sure I can come up with a scare or two. Who doesn’t love a good scare eh?
So, join me as delve into the musical minds of ghastly artists the world over!
And there we have it! How about those songs eh? Some suitably scary tunes there to be certain. I hope these get you guys into the proper Halloween spirit. Check out these artists by the way, they do deserve the views, Halloween or not. I’ll still be sharing my poems over the weekend. The Harlequin doesn’t take a day off you know, not even for all hallows eve.
How about some social media links? The asylum has a presence on a number of sites on the world wide web. I have an account on Facebook, a page over on Instagram and even a page on Twitter! Be sure to follow me on those pages too! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page! Cheers for everything!
Until next week, have a very crazy week and a crazy Halloween inmates!
When you imagine an artist, You do not see me, You see a noble practitioner of the word, Your Tolkiens and Pratchetts, Not me, Not this freak with a pen,
I’m no artist, I’m a monster of art, My process is more of a hunt, Deranged savagery in each stroke, Less the orchestration of an artistic vision, And more the dismemberment of prose,
The words I scribble are the meat, The meanings behind them are a bitter aftertaste, A happy accident, Rending phrase from stanza, Mutilating rather than composing, Poetry coming from a state of psychosis,
I’ve read the greats, My fangs were cut on their work, This creature is a deviation from their ways, I write because I must, Perhaps one day, I’ll write this monster a happy ending.
Like gravity or time, Domination is a force of nature, A state of mind that crawls in insidiously at first, It is a kind of madness, Corrupting the souls of powerful men, Leading them to utilise that will against lesser souls,
They become cold tyrants, All meat hooks and whips, Little Kaisers commanding grey legions, Dominating the masses with the force of steel, Turning neighbours into archenemies, Fear of the ball gag and boots heel,
The desire to impose ones will, It is a plague with no cure, To which even the virtuous hold vulnerability, It is a fact of life, As long as two souls remain on Earth, Somebody will wish to dominate another.
This battle has ground on too long, Our leaden provisions are loaded, A thousand metal hailstones, Placed carefully into our artifice of death, Our own mouth of hell,
The power I have at hand is grimly palpable, I need only turn this crank, And hundreds of lives will end in gore, Rotate sight and fire, They told me there was honour in battle,
The order is given, It’s us or them, Rotate sight and fire, Our engine of death rattles in rage, Cutting down uniforms like chaff,
Despite the hellfire, I feel cold, There is no honour in this, Warfare has become manufacture, Rotate sight and fire.
There is tell of a fallen angel, Feathers replaced with horns, Some epitome of spite, And of this we are taught to fear, Lauded as some ultimate enemy, But I say different,
The devil is an amateur, Way out of his infernal depth, Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes, A creature as studious as it is destructive, Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse, It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,
The devil should just retire, Last I checked we wore serpent skins, Extinction is just in a days work, Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man, Both in location and scale of evil, Humanity is punching down.
I heard tell of a witch, A maiden in this harvest season, A lady in an obsidian regalia, Where she walks the flock congregates, A winged host of subjects, Upon her word do they fly, She walks paths lost to man, She is the mother of ravens, She is never alone, She is nature, She is death, She carries the murder in her soul,
WorldofHarley 