Aboard this airship of rigging and iron,
A wrecked vessel of steam and gunpowder,
We are pirates of the stratosphere,
Scorching a tyrannical smile across the skies,
Spying our next lost mark,
Our next banquet of blood and swag,
Amidst cranking gears and screeching pistons,
Both vessel and crew are shrouded in man-made fog,
Half-mad and mostly intoxicated,
We are heavily armed corvids of crime,
Come to pick clean the iron bones of helpless shipping,
Errantly the pilot guns the behemoths engine,
So load you brass pistol,
Fasten your goggles,
Brandish your hungering cutlass,
And take this rope,
Swing onwards to glory and riches,
Or a hundred mile drop to oblivion.
I am dragged from my sleeping nirvana,
To a bedroom suddenly unfamiliar,
An unseen force holds me in place,
Diabolic manacles upon each limb,
The bed becomes a gaol,
The infinite weight of sleep paralysis,
I feel ominous eyes upon me,
Two corpselights in the corner,
Limpid apertures flaunting hells own fires,
Fixated upon me like an eagle spying prey,
There’s a malice behind them,
A demonic spite,
Ice-cold dread burning as the eyes approach,
Twin lasers cutting into my very bones,
As the eyes draw close,
Enough to feel the abominable heat,
Swelter emanating from them as if breathing,
They simply stare in ghoulish hate,
Holding inches away with their malicious effusion,
Feasting upon my soul in its throes of terror,
Until the morning comes with banishing sun.
This plane of existence is tethered in veiny ivy,
Wrapped up in vines of jade design,
Strangling it while in turn holding it up,
The world in perpetual struggle,
Enduring strangulation,
I thought to climb them to the top,
Foolish Jack and a dire beanstalk,
To look out across the cosmos,
To see if there was escape somewhere out there,
A metaphysical cure for this infestation,
But the thorns claw at my hands,
A million little bayonets defending the crown,
The status quo,
Mustering pain and blood for each inch taken,
Punishing my hands for daring to seek change,
As the atmosphere grows sparse,
There are still malms of viridian barbs above,
Even the very heavens are tied by these green fingers,
Bone-weary my grasp dares to let free,
Maybe there is no way out of this sphere,
My heart is heavy,
Am I a bad person?
Am I poison?
My very nature that of a No.4 reactor going wrong,
A walking simulacrum of a mass poisoning,
I hear that I’m an irksome childish contaminant,
Detrimental to any social environment,
I send peoples geiger counters into spasms,
I nick my arms,
Naught but toxic waste oozes free,
Radiation of selfishness and cold indifference,
Sickly liquid noxious to the touch and anathema to goodwill,
Fallout from excess harshness and fatuous sulks,
I fixate upon the poisonous comments of the past,
Upon reflection there is no mistake,
This atomic waste permeates my conduct overmuch,
I cannot deny it,
I require a decontamination,
To cleanse myself of this pollution,
To restore the prudent self I thought I remembered,
I need to be better.
I am not foreordained to be remembered,
Not like the greats,
Shakespeare,
Austen and Tolkien,
Dickenson and Dickens,
Keats and Angelou,
My exertions are that of a novice in comparison,
My work akin to finger painting,
My aspirations that of a foolish mummer,
I’m not to be remembered,
Not to be celebrated,
I am a ghost among artists,
Not yet exorcised,
Scratching nonsense in to chalk,
Wailing from outside the halls of fame,
I won’t be allowed in,
As souls of creative import congregate within,
Myself an ungifted wraith will claw limply at the door,
I’ll pass with not a mention,
And when I am finally ash,
Everything I’ve done will follow,
Off into the solar winds,
And out of memory.
I’m trying to hide,
Though this wardrobe be a paltry citadel,
Subsequent to this ambush on a frigid moonlight night,
A gathering reduced to a bloodbath,
Human bodies hewed to mulch by terrible implement,
I know that blade thirsts for more,
Insatiably it took my friends,
I still hear the drips,
He’s coming,
A hell sent juggernaut,
A boiler suit rendered crimson by lives cut short,
And that mask,
Oh lord that mask,
The face of a shinigami,
Bound by wire and bone,
A crooked grin with iron teeth,
I’m trying to hide,
But my gasping and perspiration scream out my location,
Those wooden stairs are a countdown,
Each foreboding step a stopwatch counting down,
A boot upon the landing is a deathknell,
The doors to my harborage shrill open,
That awful mask appears from the opacity,
That dripping brand of gore is raised,
I hope you’re all having a wonderful today my friends and I hope you’re all keeping safe as well. Its been an interesting week here at thr asylum. I’ve had to isolate due to somebody else testing positive for the grand old plague. Quite an inconvenience, but at leaat I’m always in the warm. I do like the warm. Haha!
So, its time for another edition of the Harlequins writing music today. However, as I mentioned last week, I wanted to focus on a single musical artist instead of multiple. To shine the eerie spotlight on an artist whom I particularly like to listen to. Especially if I find the artist inspiring or otherwise unique. For this instance, I have decided to share Ghostemane with you all.
Now, Ghostemane is a curious American mix of a rapper and an industrial metal artist. I was introduced to his music by a close friend early in 2019 and my interest in his work has only increased. It’s strange because I am not typically too big on hip-hop or rap, though I find his music quite different. Indeed its rappy, but it has previous intense gothic and industrial overtones with subjects like serial killers, demons, mysticism and astrology. Many of his songs are quite explicit and even violent, as you’ll soon witness. Another aspect of his music I enjoy is his vocal range. He can go from singing, to screaming, back to screaming before rapping at lightspeed. I actually believed it2 was several people originally, but all the “voices” are his. On a side note, I always like the gothic aesthetic that he toys with anyways.
But enough chatter, want to hear some of it? I know I do! Without further ado, join me as we delve into the darkly musical mind of Ghostemane!
Ghostemane – Nihil
Ghostemane – Hydrochloride
Ghostemane – Hades
Ghostemane – Lazaretto
Ghostemane – Venom
Ghostemane – Gatteka
And there we have it for some Ghostemane music to whet your appetite (or scare you off!)
So, as you can tell, his music is definitely not for everybody. There are a great many expletives and disturbing imagery. But art is not always sunshine and rainbows. Hell, my own work should give that away! So I’d suggest giving him a chance, even if you don’t like one song you may enjoy another as they are quite varied. As usual, I’ll include a link to his website here.
So, that’s it for another week. I hope you’ve enjoyed this look into a side of music not many seem to understand. It’ll be a normal writing music poat next week, honest! So, the asylum has its own social media prescence too. I have a Facebook page, an account over on Instagram and also a page on Twitter. As always, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page! Cheers guys!
Life ain’t no movie kid,
That’s what an old man once told me,
That silver screen don’t care about you,
You’re just existing like the rest of us maggots,
His grizzled lips chastised,
No red carpets are waiting for you,
Not a single accolade,
You’re no action hero,
Take off those silly shades,
And save the petty bravado,
There are no days to save or dragons to slay,
Damsels don’t need no champion,
This ain’t anything like the movies boy,
You’ll pass away with not even a credit,
The loathing in the old mans eyes grew heated,
We ain’t no all-star cast,
We’re just nobodies and hacks,
There’s no adept director guiding us,
No expertly crafted romance and plot,
Just a slow treadmill of life,
Steadily trudging towards a void with no acclaim,
His words trailed off,
Head in hands,
The old man wept.
We sit scathed within this crater,
Still white-hot from that blast,
Amidst smashed plates and torn photos,
You and I my love,
We’ve taken shrapnel damage,
Devastated by this severe detonation,
We jointly set off this dire explosive,
A grenade of a lovers feud,
A shockwave of verbal munitions,
Heat of conflict scalding both our worn hearts,
Sent afly with shards of glass and porcelain,
Leaving us frayed and tearful in blood,
Broken we crawl amongst the rubble,
Embracing as the air cools,
We don’t want this bond to bleed out,
So let’s pick up the debris,
The pieces of us,
And reconstitute our partnership.
From my silken casket,
I am dragged to cognizance,
By painful aural hooks,
The night pierced by an unseen cacophony,
An orchestral banshee wail on the lawn,
Illuminated by a crescent in emerald hues,
Moonlight through a lens of wisps,
From my dusty window I spy a dread throng,
An assembly of ghouls,
Skeletons of the closet,
Bony fingers clasped on to instruments of every kind,
Shrieking stagnant air into flutes from lungs long rotten,
Guided by a softly groaning conductor,
Hollow cavities reading from songsheets comprised of past mistakes,
Their mournful tune sings dead memories into my mind,
And I can’t help but well up,
Their revenant of a chrous is anathema to my balance,
Brass and woodwind accuse in shrill tones,
Violins pinching at my arms with raucous timbre,
A melody that shan’t allow me to rest guiltless again,
And the flutes parade ever on.
