Ring out the bells, The carousels, The minor-thirded Murder swells ! The long-sustaining, Over-reigning, Peace-destroying, Cloying bells.
Some use clappers, Some use hammers, Gentle tappers, Noisy clamours, Hear their sobbing Undertones Then feel their throbbing In our bones. From wedding airs to fun’ral songs, Let swing those gothic gongs !
Ring out the bells, The peels of spells, From churchy chimes To grimy hells. The long-decaying, Belfry-swaying, Steeple-hanging, Clanging bells.
Some say angel, Some say villain, Pure or painful, Each carillon. Hear their numbing, Hear their mourns – In want of drumming, Lacking horns. From monast’ries to citadels, Let speak the tongues of bells.
The Devil’s Parlour, an AI confection created using Leonardo
Cusp & Foil
Despite its very un-human appearance, Brutalism is not of the Devil – Hell is not open-plan nor split-level, But rather refined in its elegance.
For Satan loves him a good bit of moulding, And finds the Gothic suitably striking – It’s churchiness is much to his liking, With shadows and alcoves with secrets withholding.
He relishes how it is so un-chaste – A messy farrago, where carvings cavort, So clearly theatric, but not overwrought. He’s rather old school in his decadent taste.
He champions all human endeavour, He hungers for art, and lusts for pleasures, Encouraging people to greater measures Of genius accidentally clever.
Now God, he think, is a philistine, And Jesus just sees a building as walls, While Paul doesn’t care for the awe of St Paul’s – They can’t see the passion within the divine.
The rage of the counter-Reformation Is nothing but pigments on canvas, alas. They hear no angelics within the Mass, Nor thunder within a preacher’s oration.
But Satan knows humans are flesh and blood, Like gargoyles hanging from rafters and nooks – They may be grotesque, but we cherish their looks ! For Adam was formed from the dust and the mud.
But Heaven, he finds, is a Brutalist hell, Raw and unfinished, with Puritan spartan Enough to frown and hush and dishearten – At least the Pit has some tales to tell.
The Pearly Gates are some steel-and-glass doors In a weather-stained wall, not old, not new, With nothing to say to those who pass through To where ceilings hang low above beige-grey floors.
It makes good sense, though, that Hell with its fires Has flames in its tracery, flickers of polychrome, Bringing a warmth to Lucifer’s home – For beauty is something that even the Devil requires.
Technically, both philistine and spartan are racist terms, but since the people who identified as such are no longer around as groups distinct from their neighbours, these are victimless crimes.
Appropriately enough, this grim render was produced by AI.
Brutalism on a Cold Dark Night
Was there ever an architecture Better suited to the psychopath ? A soulless, sucking void of arrogance From a concrete aftermath. Revolted by the human touch, They strip us down to a naked shell – Forget the creepy Mansard roofs, When this is the door to Hell.
Architecture that loves to unnerve us, Streaked with grey and urban rot. It stalks us down the side streets, As its slabs are looming into shot. Ashamed of beauty un-grotesque, It’s where our inner demons dwell – Forget the spooky moonlit tombs, For this is the door to Hell.
But worse, is the way this architecture Spreads its gloom across the globe – All local style is crushed beneath the bulk Of this alpha xenophobe. Abhorring even a glimpse of nature, Condemning us all to a prison cell – Forget your wrought and iron gates, For this is the door to Hell.
Haunted Castle by nihileswari (though surely AI…?)
Haunted Houses
Whenever I watched those creepy old movies, I’d always ignore the psychos and ghouls, And focus in on the architecture – So wonderf’ly Gothic, so atmospheric ! Why were the characters in these old movies Such philistines and such fools ? Ignoring all of this architecture And long to return to safely generic ?
I never found them creepy – The shadows and arches were part of their charm – Those Second Empire carpenter’s mansards, That echo the castles of Prussia or Serbia. And always the films were so sneaky, Suggesting flamboyance is doing us harm – For florid is evil – don’t stray from the standard By daring to question the rules of suburbia.
For all that Conservatives moan about Horror, It’s always been an ally of theirs – Punishing drinking and sex in full While the Final Girl is a goody-two-virgin. And concrete has a Protestant aura, A purity in its workaday airs – Don’t be too flashy, too individual, And squash down any expression emerging.
But all that Brutalism delivered Was paranoia in ev’rything else – Satanic panics were preached from the pulpits Of low-ceiling’ed prefabs and walls of glass. The decadent styles of the past sent shivers That must be exorcised from our house – And always rebellious goths were the culprits Within the fantasies of their class.
Yet Horror wasn’t so saintly or pure – With teenager heroes against their parents, Yet parrotting cultural norms unwittingly, Not quite thinking them through – Which brings us back to the architecture Mirroring this clash in appearance – Dormers and towers are outcrops that fittingly Symbolise warts on the face of the New.
But the poor jocks and nerds were always too busy With running and screaming, to ever behold – But I did. And I wept if they set one alight, To pay the ultimate cost. Capitalism has left them so dizzy – To buy all this new stuff, and knock down the old. You think they’re haunted ? They’re haunted alright, By all of the beauty we’ve lost.
I must spotlight a recent video essay by Kendra Gaylord. I cannot concur with her admirtation of Edward Hopper, but I certainly can agree in her love for the Mansard Roof. And although the groteque capitalism of both the French Second Empire and the American Gilded Age are most-assuredly horror-worthy, I have always found the inhuman sterility of Brutalism far more suited for existential dread.
How can something so mellow Sound so scratchy in the wrong hands ? How can a starting fellow Be encouraged to stick to their plans ? And not be lured away By an easy piano with its separate keys – How can we learn to play If we never can go as sweet as we please ? If we must have things like untuned strings, Then the neighbours don’t need to hear. If our notes are bums and our fingers thumbs, Then we need some friendlier gear. Yet the pros aren’t a piglet’s squeal, Or the hinge on a rusty gate – So how can a sound so real, Be a sound so hard to create ?
I know where we’re going, trust me, All the signs are showing thusly – Follow me, I have the knowing Of the way like nobody. For I know where the cows are lowing, I know where the crows are crowing, I know where no debts are owing, And the air is free.
Where the stream is flowing fleetly, Where the wind is blowing sweetly, And the strings are softly bowing – That is where we need to be. So nevermind how much it’s snowing, Soon we shall be warm and glowing – For, despite our to-and-fro-ing, Still our stars agree.
Though it seems we’re slowing quickly, And our path is growing prickly, Still we have to keep on rowing, Or we’ll wash back out to sea. So let’s keep on this line we’re toeing Let’s not think of overthrowing – Soon we’ll reap the steps we’re sowing, Home in time for tea.
The jumbos joined the battlefield, To put the steeds to fright. For what use were mere horses In the face of so much might ? But the other side were not done yet, This wouldn’t be a rout – They launched their secret weapon As they rode their mammoths out.
So the jumbos and the mammoths Clashed upon the battlefield – They flared their ears and trumpeted, And neither side would yield. They reared-up on their hind legs high, They broadsided and barged, And they shook the ground beneath them As their ten-ton leaders charged.
But what with all their bellowing To war and kingdom-come, It soon become apparent That these hunks were not so dumb – They targetted the riders, Pulled them off with probing trunks, And skewered them upon their tusks, And flayed them into chunks.
They stamped upon the humans, And they kicked them from their path, Till they were the last ones standing In the bloody aftermath. And they touched their heads together in a truce, And sallied forth – With the jumbos on to Africa, And mammoths heading North.
Old London Bridge & Nonsuch House by Peter Jackson
Nonsense Avenue
Why can’t our road names Be honest and neat, As regular codenames To Gardens and Street ? A road name is two-fold, That ought to be checked To see me and you told Just what to expect- A Lane should be narrow, A Way should be broad. Alas, this clear arrow Is often ignored – Our naming mis-uses And gives itself airs, With Prospects and Muses And circular Squares.
Once, a photo was all the proof we needed – Unfakeably real. From journalists to private eyes, They’re cutting-through a thousand lies. Snap it, print it, we’ll believe it, Wasn’t that the deal ? But Stalin should have taught us right To never trust in black and white.
A photo’s a tangled weaving – Of light, and of how we feel – They’ve always been a compromise Between our out and inner eyes. So now, with AI’s bold deceiving, Why make such a meal ? As if King Kong and Georges Méliès Had not exposed the shades of grey.
How do scarecrows scare crows ? Who knows ? They seem such feeble foes. Do they even work, do you suppose ? With their hessian nose and wooden toes, These crucified guards in hand-me-down clothes Must scare the birds that thieve he rows. But corbs are smart, and their learning shows As they crop the crops while their wardens doze…
Rhyming Couplets 