You hear laughter
Cracking through the walls
It sends you spinning
You have no choice
Following the footsteps
Of a rag doll dance
We are entranced
I wander through your sadness
Gazing at you with scorpion eyes
A sweet reminder in the ice-blue nursery
Of a childish murder of hidden lustre
And she cries, “Trick or treat”
“Trick or treat”
The bitter and the sweet
Memories of Return of the Living Dead for Halloween.
No Halloween music set should overlook early Ministry’s “Every Day is Halloween”.
Personal theme song. Just saying.
Well, I let their teeny minds think
That they’re dealing with someone who is over the brink
And I dress this way just to keep them at bay
‘Cause Halloween is every day
I used to hang out at the clubs and watch a local goth band (in retrospect, I don’t know that I would label them as such) back in the day named Morticia. They were great folks to chat with: never too haughty or above the people who paid the cover charge to see them and I think they did what they did more for fun than out of seriousness. I mean, they named themselves after a campy sitcom character and they never came off as treating it as anything more than theater (unlike quite a few goth bands in the 80s, which took themselves far more serious than many fans did). I can only say that I was always aware of the campiness while I listened to them and, well, that was as much part of the scene as were the Sisters of Mercy wannabees.
I was a teenage werewolf
Braces on my fangs
I was a teenage werewolf
And no one even said thanks
And no one made me stop
skitter scrawl the upstairs room swimming in evernight eventide bare bulb filament broke atop the bareboard stair chains and anamnesis aching oblivion's constant gut pull whisper wood her sobbing longing specter shade
we hunger on a blood red moon hunting soft flesh to taste and feed her legs holding us sighs like velvet in witching tydes she cries, alive
[art by Victoria Frances]
The following is in response to the prompt/post on Lady Jabberwocky’s site:
Describe your fondest Halloween memory.
It was laziness on my part.
To avoid the unfriendly stares and elevated cover charges that I would garner at a fetish nightclub in Seattle called The Vogue, I’d started wearing PVC clothing, crushed velvet frocks and skirts, mesh tank-tops and other BDSM gear that would put me squarely into the “acceptable” attire category. Sure, some of my motivation was “touristy” in the beginning, but my main motivation for attending the club was that the music was largely gothic and industrial at the time. When I wanted to burn off the anger and frustration stemming from a recent divorce, I wanted angry, dark, angsty music and this club happened to have it. It was a bonus that it was located less than two blocks from where I lived.Continue reading
rubbed away like clay
in shame wandering
of the past
memories center stage
we thought we'd lost
the features of our face