The Asylum Mythos: The Peekers

The Asylum Mythos: The Peekers

WorldofHarley

“Have you heard of the Peekers? Mischievous, spiteful little tykes. Once they notice you, they’re always watching. Always. Always. Always. They’re always watching. Peeking around corners, hiding in the closet, sniggering in hushed tones. They’re rather nasty, I tell you! They’re been known to come here to the Asylum occasionally, taking unwary inmates away for some devious purpose. We don’t hear from them again. They haven’t come to me of course, not even the Peekers can outsmart the Hag-Man. I feel no fear.

Nobody knows what they look like. Nobody even knows what they truly are. Demons, monsters or otherwise. They say you just simply feel an unearthly presence. An chill perhaps or maybe a soft wind. A peripheral shadow or the weight of eyes. You just feel them watching. Peeking and peeking and peeking and peeking. You might even hear them if you’re lucky. Chittering and hissing, chuckling and…

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The Asylum Mythos: The Hag-Man

The Asylum Mythos: The Hag-Man

WorldofHarley

“Hello there! You look a little bit lost. I got lost once. How did you find your way here, into the Asylum? They, the voices in the walls, call this place the Asylum. It’s some kind of dimensional plane outside of our own world. You can be strange and kept safe here. It’s a place of oddness, but at the same time, individuality. You can be utterly yourself here. I can be myself here. That gent over there can be himself here. Any man, woman, child, monster, devil or creature can be themselves here. I live here now you know. They call me the Hag-Man. Who knows why. They found me in the desert. I’m something of a scholar you see. I search up and down for all sorts of knowledge. Knowledge of the other side, of magic, of madness, of mystery. I like to know things you see. I’m…

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Highland Freedom

Highland Freedom

WorldofHarley

A choice,
A risk,
Like the heroic charge of the Scots Greys,
The kind of high risk gamble,
That Scotland has both thrived upon and suffered from.

Unity is stability,
But independence is in the Scottish soul,
To rule over the lochs and fens again,
To live once more as Gaels,
To stand tall like Ben Nevis.

United or independent,
Westminster or Salmond,
Neighbours or partners,
Long live the highlands,
Long live the Scottish.

In my defence God me defend…

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The Few

After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.

Who can stave off the sea lions bite?

Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.

They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.

Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.

The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.

One-Way Radio

One-Way Radio

WorldofHarley

This house is like an old radio,
Damaged beyond repair,
Beaten and broken,
Like so many familial bonds,
The parts no longer fit well together,
She re-assembled it all wrong.

Domestic censor,
Domestic tyrant,
Some channels are allowed to play loud,
While others are set to mute,
All goodwill is static,
Treacherous broadcasts play the whole day.

If you happen to tune in,
It’s a one-way radio here.

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I’m Not Atlas

I’m Not Atlas

WorldofHarley

Weights of the world,
All of its horrors,
All of its madness,
All of its problems,
All of its stresses.

It bears down upon me,
Crushing me,
Compressing me,
My muscles inevitable fail me,
I’m not Atlas.

Cracks start to show,
I fear that I’m doomed,
Can I have a ray of sunshine?
I’m far from a titan,
I’m not Atlas.

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Puppet

The puppet sleeps soundly,
He smiles in his sleep,
Dreaming endlessly of a life unfulfilled,
A pointless life,
An empty life.

He dreams of paying obscene taxes,
He has notions of amounting to nothing,
He fantasizes about voting for tyrants,
He dreams of a dead-end job,
His life is not his own.

He has nightmares of a better life,
Nightmares of relaxation,
Nightmares of aspiring for more,
Nightmares of finding romance,
His life is that of a manikin.

His strings wait calmly,
Waiting for a new day,
A new dance,
A new missed chance,
A day closer to the rubbish heap.

And then he awakens,
This puppet is not made of wood,
But of flesh and bone,
His puppeteer is no entertainer,
But a society that doesn’t truly care.

Then the puppet puts on his suit,
And goes to work.

The Wandering Maestro

The Wandering Maestro

WorldofHarley

A new nomad comes to town,
A feathered chapeau,
A ripped coat,
And a silver tongue,
They say he is a wandering maestro.

His guitar is a sight to behold,
Well-used and with prismatic countenance,
It pulses with powers unseen,
A simple coin in his hat,
And you open yourself to untold marvels,
His music will show you the way.

Sit down and have a listen.

Dreams are his gift to you,
Each chord is a promise of hope,
Each strum of the guitar,
Sends dreams of paradise up on wings,
As he continues to play,
Your soul ignites with inspiration.

Why does he do it?
Dreams are his way of seeing the world,
He sees only what the world could be,
He wants you to see it too,
His eyes are cloudy and dead.

He went blind eons ago.

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Absinthe

When life bears down,
I retreat to my old friend,
A tonic they call Absinthe,
A soothing barrier against life,
It dulls the edge of the world.

I slink back to my den,
My haven,
The candles burn softly,
As they waltz to an inaudible beat,
I begin to take my remedy.

That emerald nectar,
With all the qualities of poison,
Each sip instills a viridian shade of inspiration,
Each bubble is a window to worlds unknown,
Each gulp is a shot of escapism.

The room spins violently,
Like a portal to a new land,
The night distorts into flashes of green and black,
The remedy works its magic,
My old life is soon forgotten.

What will the morning bring?
Who knows?
I could be in a new world,
Or beyond the grave,
Absinthe makes it all possible.

The Painted Man

The Painted Man

WorldofHarley

Now they call him the Painted Man,
But once upon a time he had no name,
A true blank slate,
Eyes of grey,
And colourless hair.

Society gave him his colour,
Everyone who met him painted a stroke,
We were all artists,
His body was our canvas,
Our words to him were the brush.

Red of anger and frustration,
Blues of sorrow and disappointment,
Yellows of joy and excitement,
Greens of envy and want,
And myriad other shades of feeling.

He is now the Painted Man,
A creation of society,
A monument and a monster,
Are we really any different?
Were we not all painted?

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