Memoirs of Lord Halloween

Desiree D. was found in a derelict building nearby the Devils Castle in the old city of Ghent (Flanders, Belgium) together with the decapitated body of the poet and singer-songwriter also known as Lord Halloween. Miss D. handed over to the police a map, titled MEMOIRS OF LORD HALLOWEEN and containing various poems. Miss D. said the motive for the ritual murder was to be found in the Memoirs. She resides now in a closed psychiatric facility. The head of Lord Halloween is still missing.

Read here the continuing story of a Passion that Kills!

And while reading, listen here to some Halloween Soundscapes (free downloads too).

You'll find here more of these!

And this is the website of photographer embee!

My oldest memory in this life:

A summer evening. I am seven.

My poor mother sits by my bed

in the last light of a day

that only brought darkness & death.

Night falls

through the window of the silent attic

when she sings, no

when she sighs slow and sadly

this madly talking

blues.

And now I ask you why

resounds the song of my life -

with its barbaric morals

never ever described -

on a melody from the Roman liturgy

meant to worship a one & only

God Almighty?

I would run through

blackening Badlands & sail

Seven Seas to finally appear

on your horizon.

I would sing a new song

about an old hero who drives you

insane and out of your mind

& body.

I would bless you

with horny prayers about a sword

in your scabbard & how deep

I will digg into your secret tunnel

of love.

And then, at last, I would be stripped

to the bone and relieved of guilt

and shame & saved

in your slavery.

You are as strange

as a woman emerged

from a grave and gone

looking for other

corpses.

You are as beautiful

as the moon, as a virgin

chaste and cold and never

will you love a mortal

man.

You are Snow

White and the bleakest

flower in my Black Forest

and not melting, never

melting away

in my hands.

And so your father locked you up

in a Red Tower by the River

of Love, where no man

had gone before.

He called you his little Salomé.

‘You may not go and play

and dance on the water,'

he said. ‘You can see there

beyond the horizon how a man

has made the world. You can hear

him sing his song!' -And you

went to the water.

(‘Don't look at the Moon,'

my mother said. 'She will drive you crazy!'

But there I was looking at you

and singing.)

You were my wife.

I loved you as I loved

my life & I've sung

so you would live again.

(‘She is down under!'

a voice said to me.

‘Don't look back!'

But I did.)

And so, for years I sang

my song for the animals

in the woods & they all

turned cold.

On a blue Moonday,

some women asked me why & when

I could not answer

they chopped off my head.

Silent is my tongue,

now I come to you

& this time

I will not look back.

We are the Old Gods, we love

blood, but we can't get no

satisfaction :

Slaughter 7 virgins tonight

and we demand 8.

Because if you believe in us,

we live.

Some of you think we are dead

(mortal men are drinking wine now

instead of blood) -

but we sleep and even not

that deep.

Call us by our real name,

kiss our red mouth

and see us

awake

awsomely.

This is not love. This is more

something like fate,

the fake mating

of a Solar Deity

with a Moon Goddess.

They can not live

together. They have to

rise from the body

that is a grave in this life

that is a punishment.

Lord Halloween sings every morning

and Salomé dances again and again

in the sunset.

And still you have not seen

who will be bleeding here

soon.

This can not be

love, this life

is not alive and death

is not dead.

It is too cruel.

I am feeding myself

with your blood

as if it were wine.

And you are the black widow

who breaks my body

as a loaf of bread.

And eats.

A Black Widow came to me

in a dream

and she said:

'As in ancient times,

crown thy head

with thorns and celebrate

this celestial body

of mine.

Drink my blood-red wine

& enjoy the joy

of my flesh & fresh flowers

blooming in my country

flooding of milk

& honey.

Run with me through the woods

as a foal in the meadow

and love me forever

breathless.'

You were bewitched

by the magical force of a voice

blowing in the wind,

taking you from the land

where you were dancing

in the sand.

You have no idea

of the crush I had on you,

of the crash that erased

my hard disk and how

my memory is missing

now.

But ask me if I am

Lord Halloween and I will

politely reply:

‘Hi!'

I will be your singer-

songwriter. I will

write you down, your body

& soul & I will

make you sing in this little

song of mine.

I will be your ghost-

writer. I will

make you live forever

& together we will write

an endless story of darkness

& light in this little

poem of mine.

At her feet he gets high

on the hill where the sun is

golden.

From love they live

in a web she weaves,

centuries old and the fire

turns cold and she

whispers:

‘Be my sweetheart

till death do us part.'

It's a short trip

to Paradise if the Prince

on his White Horse

is waiting.

By day he sleeps, at night

he weeps upon the 666 women

he had in the Crypt

of the Devil's Castle.

(I'm just a piece of shit

& grief who feeds

upon their blood,

because of my one

& only that is

no more.)

I tell you - and my voice

is as sweet as the night:

'I still have a room

for you in my little castle

by the River of Love.'

And I lay my left

hand on your head

because my right

hand is a hook

& hiding.

And I can see you thinking:

‘What do I have to lose

to this dirty old man

with his beard a bit

blue & his voice

so sweet as the night?'

Only your life,

I guess.

Her eyes are boiling

as the sun & burning

two smoking coals

in his face.

And nothing is as hard

& black as the pain

in the eyes

of Lord Halloween.

Quartzite not, nor

the silence of the desert

But his mouth is soft

as an open wound

& redder than the red wine

that makes you forget

everything.

And when I have to come,

let this be my Last Will:

Remain in Light

& shine, because I am

your Darkness - let us be

Twilight then.

And let me watch you

when you undress & caress

yourself with these fingers

of mine that keep on lingering

on your lingerie as above

a treasury chest.

And let me lick you all the way

down, from your hands

upon your head, down

to your legs widespread, down

till my lips meet your lips again, down

under.

Let me hear you when I seize

you, when I squeeze you, let me

hear you moaning & groaning,

let me hear you sigh as I am

between your thighs, now

I mate you, now I

saturate you.

Let me fill in your blanks

as if you were some form

from the bank, let me

fulfill you, I am

at your command.

And let me tease you & please

you, let me be a male

chauvinist pig called Alice,

rubbing my way through

your rabbit hole, getting all

wet while wandering in Wonderland

& before

I lose my head.

I would sacrifice 7 virgins & more

if you in return only would give me

your life.

8 stands for Infinity, so be

my wife & see

them float in the moonlit night.

See them wave in the wind, see

them dancing with each other,

stiff als thindersticks.

And I'm such a lonely Knight...

Nobody ever dances

with me!

I'm looking at clouds

that can't cover

the Moon.

She exposes

herself to me, she

looks at me

like hysterical women

are looking for a lover.

She tears

off her clothes

as if she was in mourning.

But I'm not dead,

yet.

I am no more

than this ornament

on a chain

between the breasts

of a radiant woman

under a crescent moon.

I have to submit

my head in her lap

as I was John the Baptist

who was baptized

in his own blood.

And the wind blows

and a sword swings

and I am no more

than this head

severed from its body

and squeaking:

‘Get down in the shadow

under the gallows, get there

a pot with ointment, get it

spread around my red neck.'

And the sword swings

and the wind blows

my limbs over the land

and I am no more

than a trunk

of petrified grief.

But you will

still hear me

singing.

A summer evening.

I am 7 and my mother

is a Black Widow.

She sits by my bed

in the last light of a day

that only brought darkness

& death.

Night falls

through the window

of the silent attic

when she sings, no

when she sighs slow

& sadly a madly

talking blues:

‘Only what dies,

shall live, my son.

So I had to release

his immortal soul

from the body

that is a tombe.'

And night falls

infinitely &

forever

I will be

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