This time of year, The suns hand grows more distant, And the nights spread further round the clock, All blood chills at the realisation,
The land once again dons her ivory dress, And tiaras like frozen stalactites, An ice queen crowned anew, Blizzards and bitter rain as coronation melodies,
The winds rise up in rumpus, Servants of the wintry monarch, Blades firmly pointed at us serfs, Guffawing and scratching at our cheeks,
The ice queens rule shall persist for months, Snow and sleet as her bishops and viscounts, A frigid stasis holding the world, Under cold iron fist.
I find myself too close to the frontline, A contest between two flags, I see flames encroaching on the horizon, The heat grins upon my cheeks, Scalding like impending doom, These highlands are a no-go zone, A board game too close to a fireplace, The stage of a ruinous romp, The two flags converse here in mushroom clouds, Talking points at destructive decibels, Airstrike arguments, And howitzer handshakes,
I dare not linger, These men in high castles care not for the little guy, They propel uranium darts at this wasteland board, Collateral damage upon their tongues, Before kissing above the carnage they wrought.
That prevailing miasma, It hits your eyes first, Injected by longing gazes met, Washing like a tsunami to your heart, Insidiously at first, Veins burning in the passionate causticity,
Propagating in your chest and thoughts, Euphoric over time, An addiction like any other, Racing pulses and endorphins, White-hot and devious, A venom taking its course,
Destructive in the end, As toxins are wont to be, Culminating in cardiac collapse, Your heart split like a vase, Shards lost in love letters unsent, And those same eyes bleed aqua in turn.
You see this creature atop my shoulder? This fiend of mana, This decrepit homunculus, This breathing effigy of a devil, Neither feminine nor masculine, Something akin to an insect blended with a raven,
Be not afraid, For it is beholden to me, It is my familiar, My arcane assistant, Summoned to support occult exertions, Clutching my nape with bestial claws,
Its feral eyes help seeing mystical patterns, Its hand able to weave magicks beyond mortal ken, As abominable as this thing appears, It was created to serve, To aid, A sorcerers best ally.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
In the heart of sylphic woods, In glades no man has ventured, Does a lady of the green reside, Behind an oaken mask she hides, Confining an ethereal and virgin face, Her hair is a canopy all its own, Viridian and amber and verdant, Cloaked in the very same foliage she loves, A moss ball gown, And this forest is her masked gala, Here she speaks to deer and tree both, Listening to their aches and pains, And tending to their woodland souls,
She’s a warden in this jade locale, A motherly figure, And one this natural world adores in return.
WorldofHarley 