What is horror? Horror is that day that feels as if its contour map was the palm of the paw of a cyclopean beast ready to crush you, with total indifference because to it you are nothing.
Horror is knowing that you are traversing an unknowable universe, a universe which is not home, a universe where there be monsters, the abominations that Bosch and Goya and Polanski and Lynch sought to convey, abominations which are metaphorical and also real.
Not knowing which is which, that is horror.
It is that day when you wake up out of joint, as if you had been trying to squeeze through narrow dream-passages, between the legs of our mother of darkness, who birthed you into more darkness, into a day of Horror.
When as you try to shower yourself into light, thin filament-hair-crack-spider legs tingle just beyond your field of vision like flagella in the digestive system that will dissolve you in a bath of acid in this day of horror.
Then you walk down the hill towards the train station, a glimpse of a room in a basement flat imploded like a charnel-house, in it a bed, a shapeless outcrop in an ocean of garbage, in the bed a blackness and in a blackness an eye, teeth, and something red, and then you have walked past and it’s gone, you are going down the hill in this day of horror.
The train leaves town, you stare out of its windows and catch your own reflection (that’s a whole new country of horror), also something in the seat behind you, a face that is not a face but a blotch of ink in translucent paper, eyes that are not eyes but the glimmer in the abdomen of a carrion fly, teeth, something red, a stench of putrefaction as if you had passed through region of death, which you have, remember, this is a day of…
…Horror, or whatever is its closest neighbour, children silhouettes that would be macabre if they came into focus, jaunting in the mist of the dawns around a witch tree down in the Sussex Downs through which the train speeds rickety like a victim, from the pan to the fire.
There is a book in the library and that book is always out and the book is a compendium of instances when you look up into the glaring windows of the buildings of London, and its back-alleys and its parks and the metal sludge of the Thames, and you see something that shouldn’t be there, shady deals between satanic forces, a barge of worms and the blink of a gargoyle, imagine a preview of that book whence Machen & Moore stole some of their pages and that is what you get today.
Horror Horror Horror.
And then underground, into that network where a sickness spreads glazing eyes and cramping fists, past an out of bounds door ajar, within it a pillar of light, within the pillar limbs flailing in colours yellow and then red, symbols on the wall and an eye tracking you as you walk past, blink, horror.
Arrive at a cylindrical cathedral and stand at the edge of a pit grafted with metal, where mice and rats scurry, or what is that that is not a rat. You balanced precariously over the yellow line as a whistle rises from the black tunnel, glaring eyes and metal teeth and that whistle, a tap in your shoulder, a multitude of faces that are not faces and mouths gaping like blotches of ink behind, chanting ‘the worm king’s hungry the worm king’s hungry’, tap becomes shove and you fall into the pit and inside the all-encompassing whistle and the burning yellow.
Which puts an end to horror.
Happy Halloween week!!
Never Trust Anyone at The Carnival is a garish combination of John Carpenter/Goblin tremors and lurid Italo strutting. If it was going to look like something, it would look like the mega-garish textures of Moore/Bolland’s legendary Killing Joke, specially . It concludes the remastered reissue of Leæther Strip’s 1990s teenage demos in Dark Entries Records.