Some writing music: Part 117

Good day inmates!

Happy new year! I know it was a few days ago, but that was for everyone I hadn’t got the chance to wish well. I hope you all had some grand celebrations. I think you all deserve it after the last couple years eh? Did many of you have to nurse a monster hangover afterwards? I’m genuinely curious. I had a bit of a quiet one myself. Not due to lack of invitations, but rather a distinct lack of energy. As it happens, it was also my birthday on the 2nd as well. Happy birthday to me and all that. Another year closer to the grave eh? Haha!

So, it’s time for the first edition of the Harlequins writing music of 2022! I wish I could claim I’m going to do something special, but alas, not this time my friends. It’s going to be a pretty standard showing. I hope that isn’t the negative it sounds in my head. Did anybody see the clue earlier today? I quite liked that one as I’m rather fond of that kind of artwork.

Well, now for the “big” reveal! Todays musical theme is the macabre! I don’t know if you knew this, but the generally grisly, morbid and darkest things have informed much of my creativity for years. Poetry about the undead, monsters, death and yes, those darn serial killers. Sure, much of my work is political, philosophical, satirical or just generally wacky in nature but I find it hard to conceal my interest in the macabre. It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but the darker aspects of the world and human experience are not to simply be shirked. They are as real and unavoidable as the reaper itself. Art is not always aesthetically pleasing. I watch a lot of horror movies and shows alright? It’s not my fault. So, want to hear some music inspired by the darker aspects of the mind? I knew you would!

So, join me as we delve into the musical minds of ghastly artists the world over!

Gothminister – The Sun
https://www.gothminister.com/

Brothers Osborne – Skeletons
https://www.brothersosborne.com/

Ghostemane – Bonesaw
https://www.ghostemane.com/

Rammstein – Stirb Nicht Vor Mir
https://www.rammstein.de/en/

Ghostfire – Vaudevillain
https://www.youtube.com/c/ghostfiremusic/

And there we have it once again! Some interesting artists there no? I actually tried to avoid the obvious macabre choice of just loads of gothic bands. That would have been a little too easy I feel. Cradle of Filth, Tiamat or Behemoth wouldn’t be bad choices if you’re into those kinds of bands. Also the Tiger Lillies and Creature Feature! I hope you find something that you enjoy here anyway. Check them all out, they all deserve the attention you know!

Speaking of attention, mind if I have some? I have social media sites you know! The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page on Twitter as well. Please consider checking out those pages for random stuff! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page too! Thanks for everything!

Until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!

Garden Of Corpses

This nursery is held often out of sight,
Behind church walls and ragged hedge lines,
Out of mind,
At least that’s the hope,
This garden of corpses,
Decorated by obelisks and headstones,
It’s home to crops like you and I,
Planted here by fate and chance,

The rows are a series of stories carved into granite,
This old soil holds more than morbid botany,
There are memories planted here,
From babes cooing to final embraces,
Joy and rancor and fear preserved,
Every romance and broken heart under the sun,
All eventually find themselves interred here,
Along with worms and flies,

Awaiting a harvest that will never come.

Last Elegy

I do wonder,
What plays in the head of a dead man?
As all warmth finally fades,
What regretful dirge,
What orchestral round of applause,
A decapitation by piano strings,
A bowstring run across the jugular,
It’s all static cremating your brain,

The reaper hums a gloomy tone in your ear,
It’s an aural kill-switch,
As the lights finally bleed out,
Will it be an elegy for a lifes mediocrity?
Or a celebratory crescendo?
Either way it will be your final song,
And there shall be no celebration,
Only the void.

Lonely Funeral

There was a man from Amsterdam,
Who had fallen foul of the reaper,
Taken from life a touch too soon,
In the morgue he did repose,
Waiting for so-called family who’d never show,
His family had forsook him years ago,
It was thought he’d rot alone,

But this was still his big day,
So along came the poets and civil servants,
Bouquets and verses in tow,
To perform this hallowed show,
To send off this main failed by society,
To gift him a final valediction,
The words,

Rust In Vrede.

Talking To Death

Aloft I hold this charred skull,
In the parlance of Hamlet,
Mocking the heavens,
Eye to eye,
Ocular to cavity,
Azure to dark void,
A hateful grimace grows across my face,

I feel the desire to interrogate this spectre,
Of inevitability,
Of decay,
Of entropy,
Of black veils and autopsies,
The unwanted rest and ones left behind,
Of an end like a runaway train,

I hate all of it,
I hate you death,
I resent the fires of hell,
And the zephyrs of heaven,
I hate your wielder of the scythe,
I hate that you force this rot upon us,
I hate that this all ends,

In the laconic gloom,
I swear the skull grinned back.

Funerary Rites

Life slips away,
So begins the last rites,
There’s no end to the ceremonies,

Cleanse the dead,
Wash away the sins and victories,
The cloth wipes away any humanity left,

Dress the dead,
Hide the scars we all made,
With a stately red tie,

Serenade the dead,
Tell lies and fake anecdotes,
Pretend you didn’t abandon them,

Bury the dead,
Hide it from our eyes,
Let us not see its white skin innocence,

Drink to the dead,
The rum and revelry shine on,
Heartache becomes headache,

Forget the dead,
Let them travel to the styx,
Onwards to the next one.

The Writing Dead

That thing there?
That fetid and putrid thing there?
That stinking sack of necrosis?
That rotting monstrosity?
That musty cadaverous creature?
That insult to the senses?
You want to know about it?

That’s one of the writing dead.
See how it feebly grips the quill,
Rotting hands writing reams of scripture,
In this sacred crypt-cum-factory,
Soul-less eyes barely keeping track.
We constructed this abominations from our dead,
As hopeless in death as in life.

You see them now?
Rows upon rows of scribbling cadavers,
At oaken desks built from coffins,
Rotting in harmony with one another,
Decomposing guts spilling to the floor,
Skin decaying and yellow,
Scratching parchment in concert.

What do they write?
Further death sentences of course!
A most unholy charge,
Perfect for these unholy beasts,
Devoid of mind and soul,
Bereft of emotion and morality,
Without hope or aspiration.

I hate this one in particular,
This disgusting shell of a life,
I loathe its dead adoring face,
I despise its silver locks,
I abhor its stunted form,
I knew it in life,
It once called me Father…