There’s a face upon the moon, A phantasm, Beelzebub or something far worse, Oh aye, On this night of all nights, The twilight of the harvest, It dances across craters as sorcerous shadow, Gazing down in mad glee, With its eerie light upon the graves, All lunar rays and violet mist,
Under its scrutiny things begin to rise, Spirits and corpses pulse from the dirt, Crones look up from their cauldrons, Every terror imaginable walks the city lights, All of the outcasts and weirdos, Swamp beasts and bloodsuckers, It’s like a summoning, A dark entity beckoning to its kith, For this festival of the occult, Under the moon we are family,
The monster in the moon smirks, This will be a hell of a Halloween.
This Halloween, Something prowls the neighbourhood, A titan in boiler suit and Shatner mask, A haunting of a different kind, This isn’t a spectral creature though, But a man of flesh, As much as a being of evil can be, But you can’t kill the bogeyman, Not by fire or bullet or blade, When he comes home, He’ll just want to say hello, In his own way, A keenly bladed greeting.
Roll up, Come in please, Welcome to our museum of the occult, We hold all manner of oddities, Relics of the other side, Like this here unsettling portrait, Dark scrolls and dimensional mirrors, And like this Raggedy Ann,
I didn’t hear any giggling, No wooden footsteps either, Are you sure?
Don’t mind the doll, I don’t think she likes you, But she’s well-behaved most of the time, Well there was this one incident, She roams about at times, This is no typical plaything, Possessed? Oh maybe,
You feel breathing next to your ear? Where’s the doll? Her glass cabinet lies empty.
In life, She had been maltreated, Abused and beaten, Betrayed and scarred, Cruelly slain for another by her husband, A sakura petal singed by life, But she came back, Revenge being an ironclad anchor,
She walks the world again, Animated by rancor, Snow white skin, Black hair like a frayed funeral veil, Draped in ivory kimono, That which began as hatred for a husband, Is now hate for life itself, She’s no longer finical on her victims,
She’s now a dark spirit, They say she stops hearts, She will find you, Crawling from under the bed, Bones cracking and rasping breaths, Eyes wide with spite, Her breathless stare shall be your last sight, And her vengeance be done.
Ooooo, I’m loving this season! Its like Halloween before the actual special day! I’m absolutely loving it. It’s put me in the mood of focusing on horror and monsters in my poems. I really hope that y’all enjoy my darker works cause I’m going to be posting them up to the special day! How are we all enjoying the season? It’s definitely feeling like the harvest season isn’t it? I think that other nations consider Halloween a bigger deal than here in the UK. Particularly my friends over in the USA. It’s a big deal with you guys. That’s the impression I get anyways.
Speaking of big deals, did anybody see the clue for todays writing theme? It was less of a clue and more of a general announcement to be honest. How could the writing theme be anything else after all?
The writing musical theme for this week is, of course, Halloween! I think everyone could have predicted that eh? It just had to be the theme for this week. It’s my favourite time of the year and I think it gives me a creative boost to be honest. The time of ghosts and ghoulies. The time of witchcraft and monsters. I don’t even think I need to describe how Halloween inspires music artists. Horror and magic and monsters are always going to be inspirations for artists, whether they be musicians, writers or whatever else. I’m going to share some of the most horrific (in a good way) music artists that I can think of. So let’s see what I can come up with this week eh?
So, join me as we delve into the musical minds of freakish artists the world over!
And there we have it! I suddenly have the urge to buy a ton of pumpkins right about now. Some pretty spooky song choices there don’t you think? I hope they give y’all the shivers, in a good way of course! I also hope that you enjoy the musical choices for this week. Please check out all of these artists, they all deserve the attention for sure!
Speaking of attention, would you kindly offer me some as well? The social media kind that is! The asylum has a few social media pages. I have a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well! Please think about following/liking me over on those sites as well as the blog. Also, if you really enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well! Thanks for everything!
Welcome to my ordinary bedroom, Such as it is, It’s not much but it’s home, It’s not frightful at all, Ghosts and ghouls? Never heard of them, It’s just ordinary here, Mundane,
Please make yourself comfy, Don’t mind the red running down the wall, The flies converging in that corner, Those aren’t bats roosting on the ceiling, Nor are those shadows moving on their own, Pay no attention to that low chanting, Or the scratching under the bed, It’s like any other home,
Indeed it’s not much but it’s home, Don’t you find it snug? Just don’t look in the mirror, She doesn’t like that, And when the lights go low, Don’t mind the figure, The one at the foot of the bed, It’s totally ordinary.
Have you heard of me? They call me Dullahan, I was once a mercenary, But grew too impetuously ruthless, And the headsman brought on this curse,
Have you seen my head? It scarpered as if on the breeze, So now I must search for it, Or a substitute at least, This Jack-O-Lantern doesn’t cut it,
I ride every October, On a nag of pale flesh, My sabre has taken many potential proxies, But they just don’t seem to fit, Or mayhap I enjoy cleaving them free,
Be careful child, During this season of the harvest, When I take to the gallop, And that nape lies exposed, You just might lose your head too.
Those relics of the past you excavate, Brought to the fore, By brush and pick, Sweat and appliance, From that dig site in your heart, A quarry of harsh truths,
Forget them,
The scars upon your brow, Every cigarette burn and police report, The words still anchored in your flesh, They’re not fit for a museum, Not deserving of conservation, No glass cabinet will contain them,
Forsake them,
They are not precious mementos, Tokens of a past age, My friend, Shatter them with a hammer, They merit a morgue, Not a podium.
WorldofHarley 