Posts Tagged ‘death’

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!

Throughout this thousand year war,
Numberless threads have been severed,
Both political and carotid,
Every fall gives rise to a cult,
A coven of worms,
A morbid congregation drawn together,
Each elongated creature both priest and disciple,

Each slain prince or pauper,
Becomes a temple of writhing masses,
Another prone parish of rot,
Erected on putrescent pillars,
Ribcages holding up their necrotic chapels,
Flesh is chewed away in ritual feasts,
Marrow supped like wine from bone,

These cultists are no fiends though,
It’s simply the way of the world,
Entropy and taxes being the only certainties,
Even the most triumphant and grand of us,
Shall be naught but a temple for the worms,
Little more than grisly alms,
Meat for the cult.

Among those fearsome boreal raiders,
When a warrior falls,
Respects must be paid,
For a warrior to rest easy,
Like a toll to the reaper,
A gift to the hereafter,
Like any legendary fighter has a moniker,
A warriors sword too has a name,
A hero in its own right,
And like any partner would hope for,
It was interred beside him,
The warriors sword was bent double,
Granted a warriors death itself,
And covered in the same graveyard dirt,
To lay still in the same valhalla.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Down those hospital stairs,
That chilly room is a sterile graveyard,
Clad in cold iron doors,
In place of stone markers,
Names replaced by codes on little tags,
Souls preserved just past the point of death,

Their stories will never rot though,
Even entropy can’t rewrite time,
This body here was a tyrant among tyrants,
This one has saved orphans abroad,
Over here we have an artist to succeed Picasso,
This one here was a master thief,

The lights behind their eyes are dark,
But these husks are still receptacles of stories,
People reduced to their bodily memories,
Held in iron caskets,
To be burned to ashes,
Or rusted away by time.

In that old photograph,
That two-dimensional coffin,
I see a different funerary rite,
Morbidity crossed with sentiment,
It retains a person as they were,
Holding their face from the rot,

The glazed and sad eyes,
The agape jaw,
The hands that’ll never caress again,
The erosion of a life,
Frozen in time,
Held in amber shade for eternity,

In grim contrast does it bring comfort,
Seeing that revenant of a life,
It’s a posed denial of entropy,
That grainy image,
It’s an icon of mourning,
Memento mori.