An Incredibly Gutsy Artist

RIP Peter Steele (1962-2010)

I read the news last night, oh boy. I was devastated, Peter Steele, legendary frontman of Type O Negative and Carnivore, died April 14, 2010 of apparent heart failure. Just like that, in an instant, one of the most unique, creative, and intelligent voices in Metal history was silenced forever.

I remember, back in the 1980s, first hearing Carnivore and saying "Holy fuck! It doesn't get much heavier than this!" I remember when Slow, Deep, and Hard came out, I raced to the record store to buy it thinking "Fuck yea, Pete's back".

I can't successfully express in any words what Pete Steele and his music have done for me over the years. His lyrics have expressed some of my deepest emotions for me. His music has brought out the primal in me, as well as the scholar. How many Heavy Metal band lyrics actually send you researching the meaning of words? His work has inspired my own writing in many ways. Bloody Kisses is one of the all-time best albums to have sex to! He wrote violent, shocking, and sometimes comical songs, quite serious but at the same time often tongue-in-cheek. Pete's music was and is an outlet for me, in more ways than I can count.

Personally, the saddest part for me is that I never got to see Pete perform live. I've always called it the 'Type O curse'. Over the twenty plus years I have been a fan of his work, every single time I was planning to see him live, something inevitably happened to cause me to miss the show. Everything from rides not showing up to bring me to the show, to friends forgetting or neglecting to get me tickets, and more. The absolute worst was Ozzfest in the late nineties, Type O was on the bill along with a shitload of other bands. I had tickets, I was on my way, finally I was going to see Type O! Mere minutes away from the Meadowlands in NJ where the show was happening, one of the cars travelling with us died. Actually, died is an understatement. It literally spewed oil into the air like a shower of black tears. The car owner stayed with his vehicle, the rest of his passengers jumped into other cars that were traveling with us. We finally got there, I was pumped to see Type O. On the floor, I ran into a friend and told them how psyched I was for Type O. My friend looked at me and said "Dude, you missed them. They were the openers, and they were awesome." I was beyond disappointed.

Now, my chance to see Pete perform live has passed forever. My loss. My tears.

I'm really not sure what else to say, other than a huge hole has been left in the world of Metal. NOBODY WILL EVER FILL THE SHOES OF PETE STEELE.

In tribute to Pete and his bands here are some links to check out:

Official Type O website, includes official statements from his band mates: http://www.typeonegative.net/index.php

Check out Pete's earliest recorded material, a band called Fallout: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jquW3AEZ_E

One of the Gods of Metal is dead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mlM1ZFcw3M

Perhaps Pete is finally at peace, his Inner Conflict finally ended: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jw3BuORXZFg

This one is for you Pete, you've told us Everything Dies, and now you've shown us (I'm listening to this one, tears streaming): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJ3aiM8K6D0&feature=fvsr

I can't tell you how many times over the years I have said I Don't Wanna Be Me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LXIWRan3XGY

Probably one of my favorite Type O songs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEfeR-4DzMQ

And finally, the two songs from Bloody Kisses that propelled Pete and the boys into Metal stardom: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0LSO-dtsxo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFwYJYl5GUQ

GOODBYE, PETER. YOU WILL BE SORELY MISSED, YOUR INFLUENCE WILL LIVE FOREVER. ALL THAT IS LEFT TO SAY IS THAT I HOPE YOU HAVE FINALLY FOUND PEACE. YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT WHAT YOU HAVE WISHED FOR FOR A LIFETIME. I HOPE DEATH HOLDS FOR YOU ALL YOU DREAMED IT WOULD.

Love your fan for all eternity,
Paul Ingrassia


Photo swiped from: http://muzyka.xlonline.pl/peter-steele-znowu-umiera-2/music/

SLEEPYTIME GORILLA MUSEUM

Risen from the ashes of the awesome anti-rock performance band Idiot Flesh, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum is a band that can truly be called eclectic, strange, and unclassifiable. Their music can be melodic, artistic, creepy, and ass-kicking heavy, all in the same song. As far as genre, good luck, single songs contain multiple genres. Think the love child of opera raped by death metal and raised as the adopted son of folk theater and prog rock. In short, fucking awesome. Every song on their three studio albums is a unique piece of musical creativity, well-conceived and expertly executed.

Personal faves:

From the album Grand Opening and Closing
Sleep is Wrong
Ambugaton
1997
Sleepytime

From the album Of Natural History
A Hymn to the Morning Star
Donkey-headed Adversary of Humanity
The Freedom Club
The Creature

From the album In Glorious Times
The Companions
Helpless Corpses Enactment
Angle of Repose
The Salt Crown

The best way to understand SGM is to check them out. Their official website: http://www.sleepytimegorillamuseum.com/

Here are a couple of vids. Warning, they are strange, creepy, and fucking awesome, especially 'Hymn'. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Helpless Corpses Enactment

A Hymn to the Morning Star

If you want a real journey into creepy weirdness, check out this vid by Idiot Flesh, the band SGM was before SGM was! Their album Fancy kicks ass.

Idiot Song

The REAL Dead Poets Society

This is great stuff!

A gentleman by the name of Walter Skold has a passion for visiting the gravesites of dead American poets. He embarked on a 90 day journey in his 'poemobile' across country photo documenting, holding poetry readings, and creating what he calls 'tombstone art' at the gravesites of famous and forgotten American poets. His tombstone art consists of photo collages created at the gravesites using the tombstone and props related to the poet's life, death, and work.

He intends on making this an ongoing project, and he is encouraging others to join him by photo documenting, submitting tombstone art, and/or holding graveside poetry readings.

What a wonderfully dark and morbid way to honor poets who have passed on. I think I just might consider joing in the fun, I love old boneyards and cemeteries, and of course, dead poets!

More Info:

Yahoo news posted the following article:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091031/ap_en_ot/us_dead_poets


Visit the Dead Poets Society home at:

http://www.deadpoes.org/

FEATURED ARTIST: CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821 - 1867)

Below I have posted two of my favorite prose poems by French decadent poet Baudelaire. He is considered by many to be a pioneering master in both decadent and prose poetry. He lived life as he pleased, was infamous for his drug use and indulgences, and much of his work reflects the beauty that can be found in death and decay. His work was considered shocking for its time, often called Satanic, obscene, and heretical, but ultimately he was revered by some literary critics. Despite his infamy, he was unhappy and most often poor due to his refusal to work. His highly over-indulgent lifestyle eventually caught up with him, and he died of general paralysis (most likely from his huge appetite for hashish and opium).

Further Reading:
~ Twenty Prose Poems, Translated by Michael Hamburger, Grossman Publishers Cape Editions, London
~ The Flowers Of Evil And Other Writings, Translated by F.P. Smith, W.J. Robertson, and Joseph T. Shipley, Barnes & Noble, New York
~ http://www.baudelaire.cz/

The versions I have posted here were translated by Michael Hamburger in 'Twenty Prose Poems Charles Baudelaire'.

~~~

GET DRUNK!

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters; that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without ceasing.

But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on the steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak solitude of your room, you are waking up when drunkenness has already abated, ask the wind, the wave, a star, the clock, all that which flees, all that which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply: 'It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!'

~~~

The Old Woman's Despair

The little, shriveled old woman felt quite overjoyed when she saw the pretty child whom everyone wished to amuse, whom everyone tried to please; that pretty creature, so fragile, like herself, the little old woman, and, like her also, without teeth and without hair.

And she approached the child, wishing to smile at it and make faces pleasantly.

But the terrified child struggled against the caresses of the good, drecepit woman, and filled the house with its yelping.

Then the kind old woman retired into her eternal solitude, and cried in a corner, saying to herself: 'Oh! for us wretched old females, the age when we could please, if only the innocent, is past; and we fill with horror the little children whom we wish to love!'

In Memoriam: Adelaide Crapsey (September 9, 1878–October 8, 1914)

In memory of Adelaide Crapsey, I present four of her poems below from her book entitled Verse. I have also included a poem (which is a tribute to Adelaide) written by Carl Sandburg from his book Cornhuskers . Finally, there is a tribute poem by myself.

Paul

~~~

Moon Shadows

Still as
On windless nights
The moon-cast shadows are,
So still will be my heart when I
Am dead.

~ Adelaide Crapsey

~~

Dirge

Never the nightingale,
Oh, my dear,
Never again the lark
Thou wilt hear;
Though dusk and the morning still
Tap at thy window-sill,
Though ever love call and call
Thou wilt not hear at all,
My dear, my dear.

~ Adelaide Crapsey

~~

On Seeing Weather Beaten Trees

Is it as plainly in our living shown,
By slant and twist, which way the wind has blown?

~ Adelaide Crapsey

~~

The Immortal Residue
Inscription for my verse

Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look
In the pages of my book;
And as these thy hand doth turn,
Know here is my funeral urn.

~ Adelaide Crapsey

~~~

Adelaide Crapsey

AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
I read your heart in a book.

And your mouth of blue pansy—I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.

And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.

And the blue pansy mouth sang to the sea:
Mother of God, I’m so little a thing,
Let me sing longer,
Only a little longer.

And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.

~ Carl Sandburg

~~

Adelaide Crapsey

Whisper
of flame at dusk
twinkles on the lake's edge,
shadow-shrouded, frail - eternal
echoes.

~ Paul Ingrassia

(First Published in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, Spring 2006 Issue. Awarded 4th place in first annual Adelaide Award, nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2006. I was inspired by the photo at the top of this post.)

OZYMANDIAS

OZYMANDIAS

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

~ ~ ~

OZYMANDIAS

or

On A Stupendous Leg of Granite, Discovered Standing by Itself in the Deserts of Egypt, with the Inscription Inserted Below

Horace Smith

In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand." The City's gone,
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder, and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragments huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

~ ~ ~

for info about these poems visit:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ozymandias

Poems by Robert E. Howard

One of my all-time favorite authors is Robert E. Howard (creator of Conan, Kull, Solomon Kane, etc.), here are a few of his poems.

Enjoy!


Howard commited suicide at the age of 30 after learning his mother would not recover from a coma. This was his suicide note:

All fled--all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The feast is over, and the lamps expire.


An earlier poem shows his suicidal thoughts:

THE TEMPTER
Something tapped me on the shoulder
Something whispered, "Come with me,"
"Leave the world of men behind you,
"Come where care may never find you
"Come and follow, let me bind you
"Where, in that dark, silent sea,
"Tempest of the world n'er rages;
"There to dream away the ages,
"Heedless of Time's turning pages,
"Only, come with me."

"Who are you?" I asked the phantom,
"I am rest from Hate and Pride.
"I am friend to king and beggar.
"I am Alpha and Omega,
"I was councilor to Hagar
"But men call me suicide.
"I was weary of tide breasting,
Weary of the world's behesting,
And I lusted for the resting
As a lover for his bride.

And my soul tugged at its moorings
And it whispered, "Set me free.
"I am weary of this battle,
"Of this world of human cattle,
"All this dreary noise and prattle.
"This you owe to me."
Long I sat and long I pondered,
On the life that I had squandered,
O'er the paths that I had wandered
Never Free.

In the shadow panorama
Passed life's struggles and its fray.
And my soul tugged with new vigor,
Huger grew the phantom's figure,
As I slowly tugged the trigger,
Saw the world fade swift away.
Through the fogs old Time came striding,
Radiant clouds were 'bout me riding,
As my soul when gliding, gliding,
From the shadow into day.


Two poems illustrating Howard's distase for life in our 'civilized world':

The Weakling
I died in sin and forthwith went to Hell;
I made myself at home upon the coals
Where seas of flame break on the cinder shoals.
Till Satan came and said with angry yell,
"You there - divulge what route by which you fell."
"I spent my youth among the flowing bowls,
"Wasted my life with women of dark souls,
"Died brothel-fighting - drunk on muscatel."

Said he, "My friend, you've been directed wrong:
"You've naught to recommend you for our feasts -
"Like factory owners, brokers, elders, priests;
"The air for you! This place is for the strong!
"Then as I pondered, minded to rebel,
He laughed and forthwith kicked me out of Hell.


The Vision
I cannot believe in a paradise
Glorious, undefiled,
For gates all scrolled and streets of gold
Are tales for a dreaming child.

I am too lost for shame
That it moves me unto mirth,
But I can vision a Hell of flame
For I have lived on Earth.


Think twice before stealing from a blind man:

Miser's Gold
"Nay, have no fear. The man was blind," said she.
"How could he see 'twas we that took his gold?
"The devil, man! I thought you were bold!"
"This is a chancy business!" muttered he,
"And we'll be lucky if we get to sea.
"The fellow deals with demons, I've been told."
"Let's open the chest, shut up and take a hold.
"Then silence as they knocked the hinges free.

A glint of silver and a sheen of jade -
Two strange gems gleaming from a silken fold -
Rare plunder - gods, was that a hidden blade?
A scream, a curse, two bodies stark and cold.
With jewel eyes above them crawled and swayed
The serpent left to watch the miser's gold.


A poem about Cimmeria, the homeland of Conan:

Cimmeria

I remember
The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills;
The grey clouds' leaden everlasting arch;
The dusky streams that flowed without a sound,
And the lone winds that whispered down the passes.

Vista upon vista marching, hills on hills,
Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees,
Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up
A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye
Saw but the endless vista--hill on hill,
Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.

It was gloomy land that seemed to hold
All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun,
With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds,
And the dark woodlands brooding over all,
Not even lightened by the rare dim sun
Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night.

It was so long ago and far away
I have forgotten the very name men called me.
The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream,
And hunts and wars are like shadows. I recall
Only the stillness of that sombre land;
The clouds that piled forever on the hills,
The dimness of the everlasting woods.
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.


And finally, a tale of one of my favorite Howard characters, Solomon Kane:

The Return Of Sir Richard Grenville

One slept beneath the branches dim,
Cloaked in the crawling mist,
And Richard Grenville came to him
And plucked him by the wrist.

No nightwind shook the forest deep
Where the shadows of Doom were spread,
And Solomon Kane awoke from sleep
And looked upon the dead.

He spake in wonder, not in fear:
"How walks a man who died?
"Friend of old times, what do ye here,
"Long fallen at my side?"

"Rise up, rise up," Sir Richard said,
"The hounds of doom are free;
"The slayers come to take your head
"To hang on the ju-ju tree.

"Swift feet press the jungle mud
"Where the shadows are grim and stark,
"And naked men who pant for blood
"Are racing through the dark."

And Solomon rose and bared his sword,
And swift as tongue could tell,
The dark spewed forth a painted horde
Like shadows out of Hell.

His pistols thundered in the night,
And in that burst of flame
He saw red eyes with hate alight,
And on the figures came.

His sword was like a cobra's stroke
And death hummed in its tune;
His arm was steel and knotted oak
Beneath the rising moon.

But by him sang another sword,
And a great form roared and thrust,
And dropped like leaves the screaming horde
To writhe in bloody dust.

Silent as death their charge had been,
Silent as night they fled;
And in the trampled glade was seen
Only the torn dead.

And Solomon turned with outstretched hand,
Then halted suddenly,
For no man stood with naked brand
Beneath the moon-lit tree.



To learn more about Robert E. Howard visit: http://www.rehfoundation.org/index.php