TORTURE CHAMBER‎ > ‎

SECRETS OF THE MOON-3



SECRETS OF THE MOON 

"The Black House"

by Octopi Mills

The first track "Sanctum"...hurts me in ways that modern society hurts me; ways that I am no longer allowed to freely express without the hypocritical tar and feathering which i might even deserve. Though I know the English had influences once, which were in a certain question, one might accuse me of not liking the 'goth" influences. This would be a lie, buy also true in certain regards- as such in regards to certain music divorced of the literary natures of such a thing. This music is crumpet stained and something your Uncle Monty could have even found questionable in his private life at Crow Crag. 

The poppy influence is dreadful and destroys the affair entirely. I find myself reaching for another libation to fend off the horror that is not of the horror of one who enjoys horror. I fumble for things decent to say like a man fumbles for his car keys to escape a nightmarish tavern scene and finds only a pocketful of locusts bearing the heads of winged in-laws or an endless chain of sausage links. I writhe and squirm in my seat like an insect under a magnifying glass or in a metal science clasp, forced to view slides of another man's intimate emotions to which I feel no kin. Do I like pimento sandwiches or the wedges that- no, God-damn it, I don't! I drift away, living the lives of others and recalling what i once had in a dream- throwing an old enemy against the wall and him turning into empty clothes. I find myself wondering what I am allowed to say, and what I am not…

As it goes on I cannot help but wonder if the thumb in the butt sound was found in a genuine way and as always, I feel like the arsehole that I might be if I were allowed to properly show and tell it to the class, unabridged I chuckle to myself in secret scorn and the true prize glows within; that inmost light I know I was put here to conceal and never reveal but I let it shine like a firecracker in a luncheon grade school hot dog party. As Poe was unto Griswald(?) or in his own critical writing of others, I feel I am as to the mustard yellows of this terrible disease to be an artist, and I feel blessed in the cursed thing we call life, Don't spend money on this album in any manner...go buy a fire arm and rounds instead.