I see you, Flawed masonry, Quibbling over pebbles, Pushing life’s boulders uphill, A sorry little Sisyphus, Eroded and marred,
But I truly see you, Unlike those with sand in their eyes, There is yet seismic activity within you, You are a tectonic force, Wiping the smirks from cliff faces, Making molehills of mountains,
There are alpine ranges in your path, It’s true, We all have our peaks to climb, But keep true to yourself, Be the tumult beneath the Earth, And you’ll sweep them aside like so much dust.
Do you see what I see? Upon our local tides, Like the odour of seaweed, A flotilla of elites, A horde of second home owners, Bleach-blonde and windswept, Boat shoes and red chinos, Onboard their carbon fibre trophies, Spinnakers like noble house crests,
Do you see what I see? For the summer they buy the waves, A fashion show on the blue, A lavish display for the plebeians, A laugh in the face of living costs, And when they deign to make port, To mix with the chattel, They just look down their noses, Whilst sipping their IPAs.
You must know, So you shake the ball, Hoping for some foresight, Some validation, But that little porthole offers little, Only half-truths and vagueries,
There is noise within, It emanates from the internals of the orb, Malignant laughter, Padlocks and chains, Sloshing with answers unsaid, Mockery in every movement,
It knows all, Everything kept in those inky waters, But it’ll never elaborate, It enjoys the secrecy, Many say the ball is a plaything, But it easily toys with us.
It is the mourning period of the last night, The early hours of the morn, When foxes cry and frost descends,
I’m cloaked in the velvet breeze, Lapping softly against my cheek, This witching hour, This twilight, It is a meditative time, When the sky burns its many candles,
Even as lethargy rears its head, It is pleasant, But it’s the calm before the storm,
Something appears on the horizon, That eerie blue glow, It is as beautiful as it is foreboding, For I know what follows, That which burns the eyes, And wearies the soul.
Were we meant to be this way? Chrome and lipstick golems, Matrices of issues and fallacies, Or are we full of glitches? Bugs in every interaction, Error reports aplenty,
We twitch and palpitate, Walking like static, Our bodies morphing and shifting, Streaks of colour arcing off our forms, As if on an old television, As if made of pixels,
Were we meant to be so technological? Without the means of recoding ourselves, Error icons and sheared cables, Blue screens and melted solder, I think some programs are superfluous, So call the task manager.
Another week, another meandering post by yours truly! It’s getting much warmer now and that can only be a good thing. Except for one point. It’s a bank holiday this weekend coming up and, while that is great news for anybody that deserves a 3-day weekend, it means I have some rather long and stressful shifts on the way. As some of you may have noticed already, my posting schedule has been a little on the sporadic side for a week or two. This is simply me taking longer than usual to adjust to a new set of challenges I suppose. This weekend is just an example of that really. I’ll get there though my friends, I’ll get there! On the plus side: sun and money!
So anyways, you’re not here to listen to me rant about life are you? You’re here for the ‘CHOONS!’ right? Well, did you see the clue for our theme earlier today? It was one of my more obvious ones, in my opinion.
The theme for our Harlequins writing music today is really quite cool I think. It’s a breezy and often multicoloured thing that we all experience every day in some form or other. Ok, I’ll stop beating around the mulberry bush! The musical theme for today is the sky! Like I said, the clue was a little more apparent than previous ones. So, the sky then. You see what I mean about cool (or hot) and breezy and everywhere? It’s the firmament. It’s the aerial landscape. It is just as much as symbol of freedom as the open ocean, at least in my eyes. It’s something that can be blue or grey or orange or even black. So, as you’d imagine, musically songs about the sky can be pretty much just as varied. I’m not going to try and describe how the literal atmosphere can inspire art to you, I’m going to show you how five artists whom were inspired such.
So yes, please join me as we delve into the musical minds of airy artist the world over!
And there we have it once again! I actually tried to go for some more “out there” examples of my theme this week. Less traditional views of the sky, if that makes sense to any of you. Even if it doesn’t, I hope that you enjoy the musical choices this week regardless. My intention is to entertain first and foremost of course. Please go and check out these artists anyways, they all deserve the attention as ever!
Speaking of attention, mind if I request some of yours? In the social media sense you understand. It’s a hard time being a poetic clown on the internet you know! Would you consider supporting me on my other sites as well? I’ll include the links here in the text as ever! The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well. Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well! Thanks for everything!
The world is far more bizarre, More populated with oddities, Than we tend to believe, There may yet be things out there, Creatures unknown to science,
Things in the mountains, Beasts leaving fur in pine trunks, Things in the woods, Hiding in plain sight within blurry photos, Things under the waves, Prehistory in Celtic lochs, Perhaps even in the sewers, Cold-blooded jaws laying amidst the grime,
These things were myths, Figments of frightened minds, Mere pareidolia, But who knows? Man is not omniscient.
With glassy eyes you ask me, What I am, I am you, All of you,
I am that hunger in your breast, The puppeteer holding your strings, I am the primordial ooze from whence you came, I am that voice in your head, That which raises your fist to another, I am the dark shapes in your periphery, Those whom make your pulse race,
I am each butterfly wing removed, I am no theory, I am intrinsic human nature, Call me chaos.
She was truly dazzling, It cannot be denied, But a fiasco nonetheless, A car crash with mascara, A shark-tailed siren, A fiend with perfectly painted talons, An armada of red flags, A beautiful disaster,
For you see, Beauty is not worth in itself, A person needs more than that, Her most of all,
What of kindness? Or wisdom? Are they not worthy of pedestals? Does superficiality supersede all? Looks rot away, Souls do not, Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, But an eye can’t see within.
It’s all a performance, All of it, Each breath wears a top hat and cape, Shuffling onto a stage, There are no volunteers here, Only a captive audience, But the tricks are played regardless, Global sleight of hand, Slicing maidens in twain, Pulling the heads of rabbits from hats, Smoke and ash and mirrors,
And at the end, No applause is heard, A grim reaper is drawn, Is that your card?
WorldofHarley 