Midnight at McGuffy's

This one’s for Heath Ledger.
For the roles that became mirrors.
For the laughter that hurt.
For crowns that couldn’t come off.
For anyone who believed in the bard’s song about the knight.

Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein – out now.
A hauntcore ode for the knight who couldn’t retire.

#HeathLedger #NewMusic #Hauntcore  #HeirMonty

Lyrics:
I hate it when you're not around and the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you,
Not even close,
Not even a little bit,
Not even at all.

steel is a skin that never learns to scar
father’s flour dust still clings beneath his stars
they cheer for the lion crest
now it’s a studio logo etched in benzos and nolan’s myth
glory’s a wound that grins through a smudged casanova script

oh knight oh liar
your crown’s a role you can’t retire
the oscars are just lances swung at brokeback ghosts
method is a candy syringe squire to the overdose

we
stumble in cracked threshold skin
eyeliner rivers naming our descent
into the cavity where applause dons a grin

stage makeup set and thin we let parnassus conspire
the truest high’s the one you chase through pills disguised as squires
i am the chaos you hired the script handed you a button and a name
now the role’s a clown of barbed wire chewing remains
mob of peasants for the kings chaucer weeps the debt
a jester’s autopsy determines the people on the boat did it

bettany’s bard peels back gilded pages tiny rafts
whan that aprille’s fame brings fools to tears smaller baths
he whispers through the gutting laughter rowing past
indicting every bridegroom in the aisle not a laugh

oh knight oh liar
your crown’s a role you can’t retire
the oscars are just lances swung at ghosts
method is satire squire to what you hate the most

i carved her name in every shield i’ve split
but her is the sight and sound staring now cold rabid infinite
her eyes were my tiltyard swipe right incident
my heart the fool’s prize her unused riddled bookmark
to win her is to lose the war you wagered with god

beneath the helm the sweat’s a cocktail of ritalin and shame
your chivalry’s a press kit burn the money drink champagne
they’ll sing my lies in keys i can’t sustain
a peasant’s son plays saint ennis joker dan
choked on the honeyed scripts of who i am
method’s just a needle threading skin to screen
all blood is rust when your oscar’s a grenade pinned to the dream

ich hän mich also verwenet daz ich iemer trûren muoz
mîn herze ist ungenenet sît daz ich verlôs den gruoz

oh knight oh liar
your crown’s a role you can’t retire
i just want to sit with you a while
a killing joke is a turn of phrase
i try to remember instead
just ten things

Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein

3.14AM in Salem
A Hauntcore anthem for the burned, the blamed, the unburied.

Named for pi—3.14, the loop that never ends—this is witching-hour recursion: persecution becomes ritual, trial becomes hex.
The Goat King rises. The Malleus breaks.
Black Phillip crowns himself and calls the coven home.

They called us wicked.
We learned to laugh while it burned.

Wouldst thou like to burn deliciously?

🕯️
#Hauntcore #Witchcore #FolkHorror #DarkTrap #BlackPhillip #HeirMonty #3AMRitual

3.14AM in Salem

Neverland

Doppel is glitch-hauntcore spoken word—part dirge, part indictment—delivered in dry-boned cadence over fractured ambience.

It confronts originality as myth, samples as scripture, and authenticity as a ghost story we keep retelling in the age of prompts and plugins. The voice stutters through copyright and cadence, asking what, if anything, was ever truly ours.

For the DAW and the dead.
For anyone haunted by the sound of their own reflection.

As the ship sinks, will you keep singing?

Lyrics (excerpt):

Better the sound
Of still water
For the DAW and the dead
When the ship’s sinking
Lower than the band?

Where do you put
Your little and your big?
Clock that as neither here
Nor there
Hand in hand, the timing scares

Doppel

“The Vacui” is a haunted monologue delivered from the threshold of breath and breakdown. 

Drawing inspiration from The Ring, Hereditary, and Possession, the song’s thematic core explores voice as parasite, an inner guest that writes through you. Each phrase fractures under its own weight, invoking a ritual of shame, recursive memory, and poetic dread.

For fans of... 
Unspoken rules, cursed syntax, and the silence just before a name is called.


You will find yourself a leech.
Swamp-feet, shuffle shoes—dare the door.
Greet, retreat.
Grieve the meet, then feast with the speed of mouthful speech.
Thank. Nod. Speak over the host.
Insist they pass the roach.
Nod off on their coach.
Fill the room until it’s full—
Be sure no more can fit. 
Be well read. 
Gorged, leashed but leech. 
Grim crim con pleat now complete.  

Now needs come in ink—
Summoned by a magistrate.
“I make monsters make magic.”
Hang your dread where the coats go.
Try the kitchen.
Think. Moat rack black aquarium drink. 
Stay and stare there a while. 
Let your reflection creep. 
Tap the filter. Scream. Sink.
Flint the flinch. Gulp the wrench.
Turn the faucet.
Speak of fellowship.
Turn the corner.
Wring their precious fits.

This will eventually break your teeth.
Shattered glass—rows of seeds.
Spoiled gruel: far too yours to serve with wine.
You are that cruel.
You will choke, gag, and swallow on why.
Some things break and don’t rewind.
Like tattering, telling, toeing the line.
Like a far-too-good mime—
The kind that stops time.
Stuck in the back.
The very deepest parts of your—
Like stepping on a mine.
To hear it click.
To feel it ant beneath your boot.
Anxiety pulling a tooth.
Caught in the memory.
A personal locker of hurt.
Just for you.

I was happy to answer the door.
Now I just want it shut.
Same goes for the drawers—
We have ghosts.
No shit, Dolores.
We have a demon of the month. 
I know, yes, I too am sorry. 
Sorry it will be so abrupt. 
Yes, I’m sure it was the Ouija board.
Not the liquor.
Not the affair.
Not the other one.
I’m sure it’s the toy’s fault—
Pinocchio lies so much
His nose goes straight into the sun.
Like an ancient ritual
Given away with hands,
Ankles,
Mouth bound.
Nowhere to run.
Shame. 
Just when it was getting fun. 

Forgive me
That buzzing
Oh no that's not the doorman 
He's still on his way 
No that's my carrion tongue 
Forgive the flies 
Candyman likes to come over for dates 
I found the blanket 
It may help if you can look past the stains 
It may help if you can look past the stains
Well, 7UCKY me.
Seems I finally found my key.
It was on the ring—
Somewhere full of voice.
Mailroom on holiday.
Phone doth sing.
Now my fingers leak.
Messy frequency.
Frequently called: “Bring them to me.”
Bring around the lonely.
Fill them with hope, slowly.
Mattress, crashes—
We all love the sound.

Name? No—
It doesn’t answer. 
Certainly not to a certain so below sure thing something so mundane would be curtains. 
Call it what takes breaks when bitten:
Click. Twitch. False-start fiction.
Call it what stains the page before the pen hits.
Before you have time to turn on safety. 
What the throat thinks before the thought clicks send.
You thought this was writing?
You thought this was ours?

This is dictation.
Possession via punctuation.
It fed while you fed.
It watched while you wrote.
While you smoke.  
You opened your mouth and let it take notes.
Backwards.
Inwards. 
Inner inert innards of dirt. 
Carcass of dirt.  
It lives in the little breaths. 
It hums in the moment between almost and death.  
It signs with your name—
But spells it with the eye dotted and hung on a cross of blame. 

Read this again.
Aloud.
Be found. 

The Vacui

“Jester” is a sly indictment dressed in funk—a satirical sound trial where every groove cross-examines the performance itself.
But the real trick is in the tone: a hauntcore-funk hybrid that laughs in the face of order.
Vocal ad libs echo like objections in a hollow chamber.
Everything is tight, but nothing is safe.
It plays like satire—groove weaponized as cross-examination, where the jester gets the last word and the jury can’t find the beat.

Think: musical theatre for the accused, scored by skater funk ghosts, narrated by a falsetto unreliable witness.
The verdict? Guilty of vibe with intent to disrupt.
Definitely intent to disrupt.

Jester

A toast to the chaos.
Barstool sermons, neon hauntings, and one too many confessions in.
For anyone who’s ever cried on the freeway, drunk off memory,
bumping 21 and staring down fate in a losing hand.
Hit me. 

Fireball

Hip hop is in the air today. When it rains it pours. 
It's about platform immunity, stream-sold silence, and whose tone gets punished.

Attention is the currency Adin built his empire on.
I'm just flipping the script.

Monty Petty Prince,
how do you do.

Goofy Touch Grass

Hauntcore Bard. Triptych Lich. Actual idiot. 
✍️ Sonics, visuals & sync
http://heirmonty.com

Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein

Heir Monty

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