Creepfests: A Time for Dungeon-Delving

In the spirit of the Creepfest Blog Hop, I thought I'd share a glimpse into my inspirations: what attracts me to dark poetry.


I'm a poet at heart, my ordinary thoughts twisted into curls of language and hitched to images I can't escape. I love speech--old speech, poetic speech, the lofty structures of Byron and the pedestal-worthy rants of Poe. Every now and then I'll dip into a book or watch a Shakespearean play and wonder: why don't people talk like that anymore?


I never got into the goth look and I'm too old for emo but I've always had dungeons in my heart. Those dungeons are a fun place to visit.


Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not into iron bars or rusty manacles. I prefer the long halls lit by wavering torch flame, the far-off skritters of unknown things, the echoes of dripping drips and scratchy scratches against cold stone. But most of all—I love the desperation.


Desperation is the purest emotion, the absolute essence of the human spirit. It beats hope in a foot race without breaking a sweat because whereas hope is blind, desperation has a goal, a focus, a reason for the drive.


And, sure, hope is a nice thing. No one survives without it. But sometimes I get tired of bouncing along, full of optimism, waiting for something. A big, nameless, something. On the other hand, desperation gets stuff done. Got a deadline? Tap into desperation and the job gets tackled. On the verge of losing the one you love? Desperation makes you step out of your safety zone and do what needs to be done to save that love. Without desperation, we'd drown in defeat and complacency.


Desperation is at work behind a lot of what I write. Now, I'm not normally a desperate person: I gots me a happy marriage, a wonderful if slightly nutty family, a double-fist of job security, and an overall fortunate life. But who writes about that stuff? Not the dark poets, that's for sure.


Sometimes I need help getting down to the dungeons so that I can tap those tales. Most of the time, I call on my muse: music.


Today's muse is Sebastian Bach of Skid Row fame…but I need to get something out of my system before I continue: THE HAIR.





Look. At. That. Hair. Twenty-some years later and I'm still trying to grow mine out like that. He has the hair of a god. Sweet Lawd A-mighty.


Anyways. The dungeon.


I popped in Slave to The Grind today because I was looking at shoes on the Victoria's Secret website. In case you can't see the connection, here it is:


Shoes-->heels-->stacked heels--> Stack heels kickin' rhythm-->Monkey Business. See? Logic at its finest.


I popped in the CD and immediately my tweener left the room. She's allergic to hair metal. (She's not adopted, either, so I can't figure that part out.) Lots of fun songs started to play—like the aforementioned Monkey Business and Slave to the Grind…but then the slower songs came on.


Wasted Time.


That song is an express elevator to the lowest levels of my dungeon complex. The desperation runs like a crystal spring there. The despair rings clear. The door opens and I find myself in a room I haven't visited in a long, long time.


I closed my eyes and let the song take me, unsure of what I tried to remember. You know how a song brings back a buried memory? I could feel it, digging closer to the surface and I almost didn't want to remember. I didn't know how much it would hurt.


Luckily, the song was over before I got any clear image. I don't know if I want to go back that far anymore. I like where I'm at. But…I know where my next project is going to be waiting for me.
There's another song on that album called Quicksand Jesus. Bach is the only guy who could sing that song. No one else would have done the desperation any justice.


Quicksand Jesus, I'm so far away without you. That's exactly how I feel when I'm down in my dungeon. So far away.


And it's not a bad thing, either. It gives me the room I need to turn those images into words.
Everyone has a muse, the magnet that pulls them closer to their stories. Care to share yours?


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