Halloween falls as the clocks fall back, When once-more twelve is the mid of the night – The dark comes early, and properly black, For who’s afraid when the twilight’s bright ? Gloom and confusion become our friends To let the pumpkins glow so clear. Halloween falls when Summertime ends, When once more Winter’s the heart of the year.
So once again the world continues its Great War cosplay of tinkering with the time to appease a couple of farmers and the zombie lurch of tradition.
The Grim Reaper by Thomas Roth, showing a sculpture by August Schmiemann.
Appointments in Samarra
I meet the very best of men, too late, At their very end, I meet the kindest women, small and great, As they unblend. I also meet the very worst, But even they become un-cursed – I always find their goodness first, Each temporary friend.
I couldn’t say what sends them on their way – Biology or fate – Who knows what dividends await ? I’ve lost track of the holy text. I only get to spend a beat or two, To take them by the hand, And help them pass on through To whatever land shall be their next.
I meet the very best of folk, And always just in time, For one last breath, for one more joke, Before they quit their prime. I know not why it has to be, That sand runs out so fast – But what an honour now for me To meet with you at last.
The title is a nod to William Maugham’s 1933 play Sheppey which, besides from being a rare celebration of working class life in pre-war Britain, also popularied an old Arabian story. It’s so well told that it’s a shame to have to point out the absolutely zombified worldof Predestinationit implies.
Sheppeyhas always interested me for making me aware of British plays that celebrate working class life long before John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger. I’ve since also dicovered Howard Brighouse’s Hobson’s Choice(1915), Githa Sowerby’s Rutherford & Son, and Stanley Houghton’s Hindle Wakes(both 1912). The latter is particularly fascinating for showing a young woman who spends a dirty weekend with the boss’s son, refuses to marry him, and shows no remorse and receives no come-uppance. I wonder if its being set in the North helped it slip past the Lord Chamberlain ?
The Wiccans are newer than Mormons, Are older than Jedis, As ancient as Hubbard and Xenu. For all that they claim to be Pagans, They’re Beatniks and Hippies, And Goths in a green hue.
And that’s all fine, They’re free to be free – With crystals and Maypoles and love-spells galore. But there’s a good reason They call it all New Age – There never were witches at Salem, for sure !
So write your magick with a K, And write your faerie with an E, And dance around Stonehenge all day – But you ain’t fooling me.
These magpies of Masons and folklore Make far more sense As their Twentieth-Century selves. The Wiccans belong with the Martians, From skiffle to hemp-heads – Suburbanite dreamers and nuclear elves.
Through the village of Longbourn, the undead shuffle, The unemployed and the destitutes. The Luddites who moan in a rustic muffle, Back from Napoleon without any boots. Mr Bennett says he can’t even hear them, So alien is his world to theirs, But they’re getting restless, threatening mayhem – What if it spreads to the staff downstairs ? Don’t worry, Lizzie, here’s bold Mr Darcy With wealth that’s been stripped from the backs of the poor, He knows how to whip should the rabble gets arsey, And put them back down when they dare ask for more. Crush all their groups, and deport the whole crew, This seething horde of the unwashed masses. Best wipe them all out like befell Peterloo – Or the balls overrun with these jumped-up lasses.
When not ignoring the cruelty of the upper classes, Jane Austen liked to describe them at leisure over here.
detail from Saint Peter in front of his eponymous basilica in the Vatican, sculpted by Adamo Tadolini
Mistress Blacklock
Throughout the gothic city-states, Secure with many doors and gates, The greatest craftsmen in the land Were those who crafted locks – Protecting life and property Behind the password of a key – And yet, with just a twist of hand It frees our hearths and stocks.
Thus, whereupon the plague is rife, The locals dread their very life, And conjured up a chatelaine To rattle in the night – A mistress dark and grimly tall With sturdy boots and sweeping shawl, And ring-bound keys upon a chain To lock the dead up tight.
Never in a hurry, she, Yet striding on determinedly – She visits those who’s fever runs As fast as runs their sands. No lock can bar her solemn deeds, For she has just the key she needs To reach all lovers, reach all sons – Where’er the fever lands.
The doors unlock, and slowly swing Upon the rogue and saint and king, And in she stalks with silent ease, And stoppable by none. She takes the ring about her waist And cycles, never in a haste, Through all her heavy iron keys To find the very one.
And that she lifts and points toward Her victim, all the rest ignored And presses to his chest her shaft That bloodless passes through. The fingers of her left discern The bow upon the shank, and turn As smoothly as the masters’ craft, Their workings, firm and true.
Her right she offers to he held By him, that fear may be dispelled – They say her bony, steady hands Are warmer than you’d think. And so his latches spring apart To free his soul and stop his heart – Her key withdraws from out his glands With just the faintest clink.
And with that, speaking not a word, And with no other neighbour stirred, The plague has been about its chores With not a jam or jolt. As through the busy, ailing towns She goes about her nightly rounds, Of dousing lights and shutting doors And drawing home the bolt.
Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil has lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
Old Zeus loved to dress as a bull, While Loki dragged-up as a mare – Pan would never be short of wool, And Bast had a head for feline flair.
Such tales from the priests and wassailers, Of shape-shifting changers Who scared dairymaids – For the Devil had all the best tailors, And demons were angels Who loved masquerades.
It used to be said that only the gods (And arthropods) Could metamorphosise – But humans watched, and wanted-in, To shed their skin For a cunning disguise.
And so came Hollywood, Wigs and prosthetics, And cosmetics enough to make Jezebel blush. Till even the fay never had it so good, And the witches spurned wands for our pencil and brush.
So we’re gloriously gothic and archly absurd, We’re casting a glamour To stammer the Word. And whether we’re devil or psycho or clown, We raise-up the dead for a night on the town.
And the gods all smile at how far we’ve run, As they don a new style to join in the fun.
For all they may claim that religious festivals of the dead are deeply serious and purely about honouring souls and lost relatives, or about warding-off dangerous evil spirits, never underestimate the subconscious human desire to dress-up and have a party.
Breathe deep, my dear, Fill your lungs With the vapour of the day – The hint of frost That pricks your throat, The faint tang of decay. Breathe, A little too rapidly – In with a stutter, Out with a rasp. Breathe deep, my dear, Breathe me in – The better to scream, The better to gasp. Or try to hold me in, Until your chest must heave Its own desire – For sooner, my dear, Or later, You know you must Expire.
Vigilance Vance was a devil for the devils, Finding them all over, in angles and in bevels – He found them in his toolbox, he found them in his bed, As they hollered from his bushes and they whispered from his head. They dulled his steely razor, they sharpened all his wine, They loosened-up his laces, they tangled-up his twine. In ev’ry mouth of mutton and in ev’ry bite of apple, They would choke him at the harvest, they would tickle him at chapel.
Vigilance Vance was awash in filthy devils From the Westmorland Lakes to the Somerset Levels He found them in the woodshed, he found them in the dray, Teasing him and taunting him and tempting him astray. He always knew they watched him, he felt their beady eyes On the bulging of his biceps and the firmness of his thighs – Ev’rywhere he found them, ev’rywhere he’d grapple – Fairies in the garden, gargoyles in the chapel.
The title is a reference to puritan paranoia – pure-annoy-uh.
Why are there so many zombies on our screens these days ? I’d say that they are testament to our improving ways. We’ve beaten violence, beggared hunger, massacred disease, And quarantined our lust for gore into our PG fantasies – Safely evil, nicely ugly, non-stain blood in quick-rip veins, Just round ’em up and mow ’em down in corporate campaigns. Mumbling, lurching, fodder-johnnies, Out-of-towners, dirty commies – Revel in some mindless fun before they eat our brains.
Queasy over blaming Mongols for their famous hordes ? Then let’s recast with green-skinned orks to quench our thirsty swords. Coldly-logic androids cause no controversial mess When we crush their next uprising – show no mercy for the merciless ! Shoot a Nazi, gas a pedo – harmless japes for kids to play, Just regulation bogeymen without the shades of grey. Exterminating creepy-crawlies, Squashing greater-goods with trolleys – Killing humans sure is fun when there’s no guilt to pay !
