Sunday Scribblings #53 - Deepest Darkest

The words “deepest darkest” may invoke images of Manson, Satan, pentagrams, hidden secrets, fears, holes, caverns, oceans – a plethora of mental associations.

I was rather morbid during my younger years. I embraced the gothic punk lifestyle of the 1980’s and early 1990’s (before this modern generation turned it into an embarrassment consisting of “oh pity me!” and cutting.) That was not to say I was one of those scrawny-looking “freaky chicks” with raccoon eyes and black nail polish; I straightforwardly elected to push the edge of angst to an intensity unfathomable by most people. I was (and still occasionally am) dark in thought. I took pleasure in gothic horror. I wrote disturbing poetry. To this day, I play my ancient music (I still have all the LPs.)

Today’s Sunday Scribblings prompt instantaneously brought to mind one of my favorite Bauhaus songs, “Departure”:


"He was in his room, half awake, half asleep
The walls of the room seem to alter angles
Elongating and shrinking alternately
Then twisting around completely so that he was on the opposite side of the room
A trick of the light and too much caffeine, he thought
Then came a knock on the door
And this sound was the same dark-brown tone as the wood of which the door was made
At first, he thought he'd imagined it
Because it would not have been out of place with the other strange hallucinatory events of that night
But then it came again
Only heavier this time
With a sense of real urgency
So pulling himself up
And stepping through pools of moonlight and shadow
He made his bleary way across the room towards the door
And slowly, apprehensively, raised the latch

The latch became a fingertip, touching his own

Energy sapping as a new form, transversing the edge of his emotions
His power became his agony, his power knew no bounds
Whereas before, his peace withstood the vastness
His prerogative became an endless force of the all impossible
His final soul is flying with contempt only
Even the legendary glance backward to meet with eternity's stone in peace or save his already destroyed
You cannot share, the temperature is rising
The ghost and monkeys make a choice
This...
This...

He tried to will himself back to bed
He wanted desperately to feel the reassuring crisp, white sheets once taken for granted
To be back home, safe as houses, protected by walls covered in familiar patterns
But even wallpaper had become sinister to him
He remembered staring into the paisley print and seeing a repetition of skulls
At night he would listen to the click of heels on the concrete outside
And try to imagine the facial features of the unseen figure
He would always see his own face
And another realization of this prophecy rang terrible and true
For at this moment, it was indeed, his own feet that filled the shoes
Shoes that no man would want to wear

Into the hills then to search for another searcher's closely held goals
Into the forest under the billowing leaves
Under the dreadful birds, the singing soil, the decrepid babies, the unhappy new loves
The preaching alphabutics, the long-lost lovers never to find the safety of their mothers
In fact, all the guilty clouds he will move into a playground
A sense of moonlight and shadow
All the stars touch to the cold molten sunflower, fly to his middle eye
The wallpaper had sinister tones
Alas, white cold
Alas, rainbow's middle infinity's destination.
All life's drums drink from bottles and visions are blinded..."