I find my minds eye is clouded,
Marred by ocular madness,
By the squiggles,
Shapes appearing like a vinyl,
Little lines dancing about as couplets,
A disco in my vision,
A riot before me,
No colours,
Just monochrome,
They silently play tag with my focus,
Frolicking away before I can make them out,
I seem to have a million friends in my eyes,
Or is it my imagination?
Degeneration?
Insanity finally seizing control?
Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,
Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,
It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.
Death haunts the depths,
A manmade shark,
A machine of war fathoms down,
In the cold below,
It is on the trail of prey,
A cyclopean eye guiding the way,
Stalking those unaware seals of steel above,
Merchant ship or frigate,
Following the reverberations of their iron lungs,
The word is given,
Doom is silently unleashed at knots,
And once the hunt is over,
And the prey is scrap metal,
Fade like orcas into the dark.
They call me a beast,
Better suited to the wilderness,
Out of sight and out of mind,
Poking fun at my snout and feral grimace,
And my growls of nonsense during dialogue,
Derisively patting me upon my bestial mane,
It’s true that I feel lesser,
I’m subhuman,
Flea-ridden,
I stumble across societal rules on all fours,
I’m a flawed simulacrum of a man,
Despoiled by minotaur horns and lizard eyes,
It’s not possible to tame a wild creature,
And my pelt isn’t worth mounting,
So leave me to my slavering and howling,
I’m hardly domesticated,
So why not run free?
I am a beast after all.
I am afflicted,
Diseased,
Infested,
Privy to rigor mortis of the lungs I fear,
A piece of me turned renegade,
Blackened internally like rot,
Respiring becomes a feat of heroics,
My torso doubling over like a crushed can,
Hailed by naught but wheezing,
Breaths like razor blades scrape at my lungs,
Each compression a cut deeper,
Superheated talons across flesh,
To speak of it is blood specks on a napkin,
To hear of it is a death knell,
To an ensemble of splutter and hacking.
What turns a man into a demon?
What is it that breeds evil?
Is it a grim childhood?
The fists of the father,
Is it the occult?
A macabre interest too young,
Is it the narcotics?
That fun white powder,
An amalgamation of all these facets?
Whatsoever the cause,
This foul creature was unleashed,
A stalker in the night,
Dreaming of Disneyland,
Mutilating and violating all the way,
Thirteen souls claimed in red and screams,
By a devil wearing a human costume,
This horned beast was finally caught,
Brought low by his own arrogance.
Good day inmates!
How does the week find you so far? Keeping warm I hope. Keeping those artistic vibes going strong too I hope. It’s gotten bloody chilly here, I tell you. I wouldn’t say it exactly feels like full-on winter just yet, but it’s certainly autumnal. I don’t like the cold, have I ever mentioned that? I rarely do well in the winter. Still, at least I’m not unwell anymore right? The cough is hanging on by a thread, but all is clear apart from that.
So, for todays post you know what to expect by now I’d hope. That’s right! It’s the Harlequins writing music once again. I think I’ve got an interesting one for you guys this week. I was torn between a few different subjects, but settled on this one eventually. Did anybody see the clue earlier? Not too subtle I suppose.
Well, that’s me attempting to demonstrate a little bit of our musical theme today. Today’s musical theme is Goth! I don’t look all that goth in that photo, but you get the idea. This much-maligned (wrongfully so) subculture is a melting pot of artistic ideas. From the fashion to the music, the ideals to the attitudes. Goth is a fascinating scene and something I’m quite fond of personally. But you didn’t come here for a lesson on Goth did you? No, you’ve come for music and that is an area where I feel goth excels. Stereotypically you may think of your average screaming death metal band, but goth is so much more than that. It has propagated into genres of all kinds. You still get your metal bands, but you can find gothic electronica, gothic orchestral numbers and even gothic rappers. Or alternative, if you prefer. Want to hear some? Go on, treat yourself.
Join me as we delve into the musical minds of dark artists the world over!
Dead Lights – The Host
https://www.deadlights.band/
Cradle Of Filth – Nymphetamine
https://www.cradleoffilth.com/
Tiamat – Cain
https://www.facebook.com/tiamat/
$uicideboy$ – Antartica
https://www.instagram.com/suicideboys/
Type O Negative – I Don’t Wanna Be Me
https://typeonegative.net/
And there we have it once again! I hope you enjoy my choices this week. I realise that what people consider “gothic” can vary quite radically from person to person, but I consider all of these artists gothic in their own ways. They exemplify the mindset in my opinion. I hope you guys check out each of these artists and let me know what you think. They all deserve the attention!
And speaking of attention, come and look at my social media! The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Twitter and a page over on Instagram. Please consider following me over on those eh? Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please also consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page. Thanks for everything!
Until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!
Before a vital spark can be buried deep,
It must be cleansed,
A soul given its best chance in the hereafter,
So call forth the sin-eater,
This soul worker will consume each lick of evil,
A feast at a funeral,
An ivory plate placed upon the husk,
Bread and grapes and coins pressed into cheese,
A glass of wine to wash down the sins,
The ritual cleanses the dead with knife and fork,
With each bite the deceased soul feels purer,
A spirit growing lighter,
Sanitised,
Absolved,
Saved.
Stories are kept upon a knifes edge,
Stashed in libraries laid on precipices,
Entropy claws out at them,
A howling void that knows only hunger,
These repositories are locked by closed lips,
The only keys are held by our elders,
To be passed down father to son,
Matriarch to daughter,
And as the adage utters,
Each time an old man dies,
The library of Alexandria burns anew,
Pillaged by raiders of time,
And the stories are gone,
Wisdom lost to the pyre,
If not passed on by generational torch.
I once spent an evening with an angel,
And heavenly she was,
Aside from some goetic tattoos here and about,
But something transpired,
A force took hold of her,
The conversation turned increasingly esoteric,
Her words became sulphuric heat,
Forked tongues in each breath,
Onyx veils covered her eyes,
Stifling any humanity,
Her face became a mask,
Contorted and almost pliable,
An unknown presence lay behind it,
A baneful weight,
A malevolence,
The air felt heavy in her presence,
Like breathing in spiteful ash,
I asked her what she was,
She grinned,
And those were no longer human fangs.
WorldofHarley 