Ghost Of A Clown
Dead clown cries faintly
Even as friends raise a toast
One day they will know
Every night he stares
His friends innocent children
Balloon sculpture blade
Guiltless blood all shed
Lonely ghost has new public
Deathlike crowd applaud
Dead clown seeks more friends
Balloon cutter hunts more broods
All fear the dead clown
Bodybag
I never saw what killed me.
Never saw what turned me into a specter.
It may have been a bullet to the brain,
Scattering my skull.
It may have been a blade to the gut,
Spilling my insides.
It even may have been a garotte to my throat,
Silencing my breath.
Personal or otherwise,
It doesn’t really matter now,
I’m dead.
Plainly and categorically dead.
I end up in the same place.
The bodybag,
My very own ferry over the Styx.
My very own ferryman too,
A handsome oarsman in a high visibility robe.
Followed by an orchestra of sirens,
And a ultramarine light show.
It’s a dramatic journey.
I bled out hours ago.
The bodybag fulfills its purpose.
It has taken my safely over the Styx.
It has protected me from the burning rapids.
We reach our destination,
Together.
The morgue,
Also known as the underworld.
Operation Gravewalker: The Convict
So much for me posting this the other night eh? Sorry about that, i sort of fell asleep and forgot i was writing it up. I seem to keep doing that recently. My bad! This is simply a short monologue by a convict who was made to go through the aetherisation process that was mentioned in the previous Gravewalker post.
“Heroes they called us. What a load of bull! Then again, how could they have known any different? The government never told the populace what the operation was about. They had no idea what the State was gonna do to us. I call us human sacrifices! We aren’t all volunteers after all. It’s not like we’re human anymore. We’re Spirits now. We are the real ghosts in the machine.
Operation Gravewalker it was called. The idea was to turn us into walking tanks, the ultimate war machines. I’m guessing it’s…
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Lighthouses
Do you think that lighthouses cry a lot?
Always illuminating,
Always helping,
Always selfless.
Never thanked,
Never celebrated,
Never lauded.
Do you think that lighthouses cry a lot?
Good day inmates!
This is truly a joyous day for me! I don’t think I ever expected to be writing a post like this. Or rather, a post about this. It’s extremely good news and i feel rather proud to announce it.
WorldofHarley has finally passed 1000 followers!!
Huzzah! The big one triple zero! I could scarcely believe it. It’s possible that you already knew about this if you’re one of our Twitter followers but still, I felt it necessary to make a short post (are they ever short?) on this wonderful milestone. I never expected it to get this far at all. I know I say that quite a lot but it’s true, I simply find myself dumbfounded each day! Each and every like, follow or comment is a reason to celebrate here at the asylum.
So basically, I’d like to thank each and every one of you that check the blog out, follower or not. You’re all amazing and you simply must be mad! Thank you, thank you and thank you! We simply must try to keep the madness going, no?
So, until next time, have an extra crazy day inmates!
The Harlequin: Passage Two
Continuation of ‘The Harlequin: Passage one’.
It is the 30th of October, 2014. It is a Thursday. The week has has begun and is beginning to come to an end, but many people are still unable to truly relax as they can at their most beloved weekends. I woke up as normal, with a heavy head. The night before had been laden with nightmare and voices. Used to it i may be, but it is regrettably no less terrifying. Ahh yes, my nightmares. I think they have blighted my mind the majority of the time since my parents split from one another.
The dreams always consist of myself sitting in a dark, dank room with grey concrete walls. I am always sitting on an old, yet ornate wooden chair. A paupers throne i suppose. Opposite me, near the wall, there are my parents committing awful, repugnant acts of homicide…
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The Harlequin: Passage One
I killed him. I think you should know. My knife was Excalibur and his gut was a scabbard. The knife wanted a home, who am i to ignore it? A monster? Of course not! However it wasn’t as simple as that, ’twas not an act of mere ire. Much is involved in this drama, myself and him merely held centre stage. And quite a show it was! Much of the script was followed as i intended and the blood effects were highly convincing. Above all, as many plays intend, i enjoyed myself. The same cannot be said for him, dare i mention. I do trust that you wish to know the story yes? In that case, i predict an introduction is in order.
You can call me the Harlequin. In fact, call me Harley. Such a name is uncommon, i daresay. However i do not call myself as such just…
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Society
Society can be many things, like a hydra has many heads.
Society can be the most extensive family tree.
Society can be the most extravagant party.
Society can be the most fearsome of beasts.
Society can be the most compassionate Samaritan.
Society can be a grotesque monster.
Society can be a truly destructive army.
Society can be a virus.
Society is the ultimate torture device.
An iron maiden, rack and a brazen bull all in one.
For me.
The Wickerman
I once built a wickerman.
It was on the advice of a friend.
Or perhaps a foe.
I built it with blood and sweat,
Wood and charcoal,
Hopes and dreams.
A twisted focal point for my humanity.
I threw my whole self into it.
My hopes for the future.
My confidence.
My wanderlust.
My compassion.
My faith in humanity.
All laden with wood and rope,
Awaiting the hellfire,
Of my wickerman.
I unleashed the flames.
My hopes went up first,
Burning into melancholy.
My confidence followed suit,
I became an ember of my former self.
My wanderlust became smoke,
As if wishing to escape.
My compassion melted to slag,
Turning my heart to hatred.
My faith in humanity erupted last,
Turning to ash,
Like the world around me.
My wickerman burns furiously,
And my soul with it.
My humanity seeps away,
Like clouds of smoke.
I am human no more.
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As gunfire erupts,
And bulletproof angels squabble overhead,
And tracers flitter here and there,
A lord of war takes to the field,
A knight of the brine approaches,
Even the mighty sea herself quakes at its coming.
A cascading tempest of fire and brimstone,
A man-made tidal wave,
A force of human nature,
Even as brothers of the fleet rot and burn all around,
The knight of brine surges forth,
Bellowing hellfire and smoke.
Ahead full!
Onward!
To victory!
WorldofHarley 