thisisforhorror’sfuneralday

Little known fact: I love horror films. I mentioned earlier that I enjoy the paranormal but I never really did express my love for the horror genre. I love the scares, the blood, the icons. It’s strange, too. I was introduced to these elements at a very young age, the first horror film I’ve ever seen being the classic “Scream”. To this day I still watch and love the film and its three sequels. I remember when I was younger having a crush on Sidney Prescott, played by Neve Campbell, because she “always kills the killer”. I never really took the movies seriously, of course. I was young, so the ideas of serial killers were not too unlike cartoons on TV. We expose ourselves and our children to violence more than natural things, such as sex.

But now I have noticed that the horror genre is dwindling. Scream 4 actually gave me some hope, but I was disappointed that the film under performed at the box office. I personally enjoy the film (I’m watching it right now, actually), but I understand exactly why it did not become a major success. No one knows what horror really is anymore. A majority of the films Hollywood is spitting out with the genre “horror” smacked on are one of two things: terrible, ridiculous remakes of past films like Halloween and Friday the 13th, or films that are outright dumb as fuck. They lose the scares and replace them with sexual content and overdue to violence to the point of torture. Now, for anyone who has scene Scream 4, the death scenes are full of blood and brutality. But this is practically NOTHING compared to what has been done in recent horror memory.

There are a few elements that work in some horror films. Paranormal Activity brought on a nice, fresh concept and executed it well. But it spawned a litter of bullshit sequels that I somehow own on DVD. I enjoyed the rendition of Freddy Krueger in “A Nightmare On Elm Streets” remake, but the cast was emotionless and stale. This is the major problem: lack of character development. They are always the same, recycled personalities in different teenage bodies.

So this is where I’m going with this post: Where do you guys see the horror genre going? My love for horror is still at a high point, but love and hope are two very different things. My hope is so low it’s drinking brandy with the devil. It’s a bit disappointing to think horror is in shambles, but who couldn’t? Coming from someone who has been enjoying horror films for at least fourteen years, I feel I am able to make this statement without sounding like a stuckup kid. Of course I have other things in life to tend to, but I felt I should bring this up and get an opinion or two on the subject.

The Howling

Possibly one of the strangest things about my writing, whether songs or poems, is  the involvement of paranormal and fictional entities. My life has been filled with fascination about what might exist and what might not. I’m not ashamed to say I believe spirits and demons exist. But ghosts and Hell’s soldiers aren’t even the most common monster among these piles of writings. The fictional werewolf is the most common.

I feel that my interest in the fictional lycanthrope stems from a novel by Toby Barlow titled “Sharp Teeth”. It’s one of my favorite books, written in the form of free verse poetry. It’s well written and contains all the elements we expect from a werewolf-related novel: horror, humor, romance, and some melancholy moments. The plot itself revolves around a territory war in the city of Los Angeles among various “packs” of lycanthrope creatures.

Cover of Toby Barlow’s novel “Sharp Teeth”.

A few weeks before Christmas, I wrote a long, narrative poem titled “The Werewolf’s Musings”. Now that I own a functioning computer, I can post much longer writings and posts, and this is going to be the first of many. Please let me know what you think and check out “Sharp Teeth” by Toby Barlow!

“The Werewolf’s Musings”

The moon is my mirror

Full, shining against the sky of broken wishes and dreams

Signaling the loaded gun to release the lead

And my metal-made body emerges beneath the costume of skin

Shattering the face of a man who is not I

Icy winds howl

And my own voice returns the call

The sounds of freedom mingle into a song that sets me at peace

My lungs steady, my muscles ache from the transformation

Suddenly, the moonlight’s own song escalates

Into a cascaded demand fro the darkest of deeds and thoughts

Murder, blood, meat, fat, marrow, guts, bones, passion, rage, and freedom

Silly freedom

Only when the full moon prowls on the unsuspecting masses

Are we allowed out of the cage of battered brains and vintage ribs

But not for a personal adventure or to embrace nostalgia on the edge

But for a hunt with the pack

The lust, the hunger, has stretched into my very heart

An adventure does come

Through rat-covered alleys and cities of troubled men

Starving children, abused women, deadbeats, and other rats

But the miserable dance of life was forced to a bloody end

For a few particular beings within their own disconnect

The blood of a young mother spatters against my eyes

Painting a vision of a bloody masterpiece

Her body, her soul, radiant, as it found the stairway to the skies

Outstretched to absolving freedom

Trapped in the kiss under Life’s wretched veil

Locked behind tattered ribs and another false man’s blue eyes

‘Why not me?’ I beg the moon

‘But, again, why me?’ I never am returned the answer I seek

I almost envy them, the vile, twisted, fat creatures

With freedom branded onto iron souls

While chains bind my heart to the moon

To an undesired devotion

The lone wolf weeps among these hills of individual thought

Freedom; how easily the monsters shackle it around their throats

Just like the tyrant moon, tattooing their bodies with thick ink

But I’m tired of chains

And those tattoos are out of my claw’s reach

A month passes; in the sky dangles the full moon

My eyes his at after the venomous transformation

Winds press against my face and squall against my chest

Within is the echo, intertwined with a mocking tone, ‘Freedom’

My eyes bleed; the moon has ultimately given the answer

It will only tease me

Sharp teeth clench

Gums bleed; how badly I wish to bite and tear its hand

Angst and rage pound my heart like a black drum

Reteaching the lessons of anger and blood-lust

The true faith is shattered; I am a lunar slave

Envying the place where dreaming ends

And where only human dreams are translated

Written into an ancient script titled “Reality”

Songs of Blades, Inhuman Men Without Shame

One particular thing that stands out in my mind is the topic of insanity and murder. My fascination is not because I find murder and early deaths shocking, but I often think of one strange thing: what if they aren’t those that we deem “crazy”? Perhaps we are those who have no real grasp on who or what we are. Many months ago, a little poem came out of my thoughts (as I was watching the legendary TV series Dexter):

The Canvas’ Song

They say a killer is an artist

And I’m the Michelangelo among them

Precisely sliced legs, buckets of brutality and blood

I go out to paint as the moonlight sings

Only the monsters in men’s bodies are what I want

The ones who kill, destroy, sin and love

The feeling of innocent on their serenading blades

My blade sings the canvas’ song; a sing of crimson redemption

My personal opinion is that acts of murder and pain caused on purpose are horrendous, but I find it fascinating that people still react based off of simple human instinct. They are so devoid of emotion that they learn to adapt to their environment, and than strike when the monster says so. It’s absolutely fascinating to me. I mean, just imagine walking down a crowded, busy street. Now, how many of those various people that you walked by just might have thought of committing an act of brutal instinct and homicide? Perhaps only I truly think of this, being as observant and paranoid as I am. Yet it is still a fascinating idea.