The Deaths of Crescent Crowell
They say sanitariums are where the sickly satyrs sleep
To dream those songs like broken records, twisted lyrical lyres
Draining downward tone of I will be your father figure,
Put your tiny hand in mine, I will be your preacher teacher,
Anything you have in mind as our minds retch and rip —
But nothing as darkening as the chorus of Crescent Crowell.
An asylum deep within the bowels of songs played backwards,
Afterward unlocking tears in a veil to unveil words come to life,
Wielding jagged procedural blades to bleed out the corpses
And let the tired, tainted and terrifying souls slip —
Mind in have you anything, teacher preacher your be will I,
Mine in hand tinyyour put, figurefatheryourbewillI —
And the noise shatters whiter than snow, and ghosts will die,
Breaking vinyl like spinal infections injected to break and lie
The pieces down, turning patients into hollow puppets that cry —
I’ve got no strings to hold me down,
To make me fret or make me frown,
I had strings, but now I’m free —
These awakened demons indeed have no strings in me,
And now have their wicked ways and wings to fly.
Such sweet music they make, these never-ending deaths
Through doors of Crescent Crowell, the place where patients
See all their pain lifted away with the help of these records playing —
Come stay awhile if you can and hear them echo everything they’re saying —
We at Crescent Crowell care about your well-being, seeing
That you’re indeed in need of the never-ending,
The service we provide for your souls will never be your undoing.
Why? Because it is your souls for our service, which you will be paying.
Originally published at https://medium.com on March 28, 2020.
