Archive for September, 2020

We speak in different fonts,
Even without our knowledge,
You and I,
Him and her,
They highlight myriad elements of our words,
And translate the meanings behind them,
We speak documents to one another,

Typeface to face,
Times new roman to stores and syndicates,
Calibri in your social circles,
Wingdings after a few sherbets,
Your interests pointedly underlined,
Capitals for ones agitation,
Honeyed words handily italicized,

The human mind is a word processor,
And can handle any font,
So be certain to utilize it wisely,
Train your tongue to push the correct keys,
As you type out your speech,
Lest you never speak,
And never be understood.

Each morning brings an uneasiness,
A longing fear of peering into that mirror,
And seeing that misshapen carcass,
Like a portal to a world of monsters,
A bogeyman on CCTV,

I see myself,
But is that miscreation truly me?
This is no abstract,
But a very real abomination,
A brown haired accident,

Each glimpse at the mirror,
Is fingernails on chalk,
The portal remains open,
Blue eyes like the abyss scowl back,
A hide blemished and spotty,

That foul visage still watches from the glass,
The other me,
The me I wish I wasn’t,
And I avert my eyes,
Dreading the next time I see that mirror,

The reflection smirks.

So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,

This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,

We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?

Daily life is a cruel overlord,
And the world is a sycophantic thrall to it,
Pointed heels and crimson banners,
On a petty crusade against mans stability,
A grinder on our heads,

There is no absolute escape,
But we can always take the rear exit,
Take our hands off the wheel for a jot,
Clinch on to lunacy and escapist methods,
Rotes of digital and chemical evasion,

Play air guitars and perform in personal talent shows,
Vanish into virtual reality made by men in basements,
Sleep the suns and moons away,
Sedate your mind with bottles and needles and nicotine,
Excess by design of course,

Who needs real life?
Let that grinder have your wreck of a body,
While your mind escapes into detachment,
Fit on your spacesuit and take your umbrella,
And off into that make-believe universe of quiet.

Hello there inmates!

I hope that you’re all having a wonderful day and week! Things are going ultra well at the asylum. I’ve honestly got nothing to complain about right now. I can’t even think of anything. This is something that I’m not used to, to be honest. I hope that you’re all getting an equally good time in your lives too. It’s important to smile in these dark times.

It’s finally time! We’ve made it to part 50 of the Harlequins writing music! I never believed that I’d make this many of these. Last week, I said that I’d do something special for this edition, but to be honest I couldn’t really think of anything. So, I thought I’d just write a little bit about myself, as dull as that may be. I will also invite any of you inmates reading to ask me anything you’d like to know about me in the comments. Sounds fun, no?

So, for anyone who is a more recent inmate. The Oldschool Harlequins real name is Jack. I’m a twenty-something oddling from the United Kingdom. I’m rather big on video games (such as Final Fantasy, Dead By Daylight, Nioh, Starcraft, among others) and music, as I tend to display here in these writing music posts. My favourite bands are probably Ghost and Poets of the Fall. I first got into writing when I was in my early school years. Starting with some very simple poems about various inane subjects. I was a big fan of fantasy stories like Tolkiens works or the Shannara series. However, I’m also a big fan of horror. Mostly because of Bram Stoker. Wink wink!

I’m a big fan of Lovecrafts work, as well Edgar Allen Poe and Tolkien. I don’t get to read as much as I’d like these days, but I’m known to have a try when I get the opportunity. I also like hiking, motorcycling and I’d be lying if I didn’t like a good beer every now and then too.

So, that’s all about that for now. I’d be very interested to see some of your questions. So, how about some music now eh? Let’s get right to it!

Join me as we delve into the musical minds of splendorous artists the world over!

Sum 41 – Fatlip

Richard Cheese – Down With The Sickness (Disturbed Cover)

Ladytron – Destroy Everything You Touch

A Day To Remember – All I Want

Alan Walker – Alone

So, there we have it for another tome of the Harlequins writing music!

Here’s hoping that you all give these artists a gander as usual. Spreading music is another passion of mine, it has to be said. I’ve rambled more than enough in this post already I fear.

I’ve got to include this shilling bit though of course! The asylum virus is alive on social media. I have a Facebook page, a Twitter account and an Instagram page. Also, if you like what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page. Thanks for everything!

Until next week, have a very crazy day my dear inmates!

Life is a long dusty road,
We all know it in our being,
It is a foregone conclusion,
Built to test and vex,
Winding and windswept,
But it’s a road of jagged nails,
Bent and mismatched by travelers before you,
Karmic spiderwebs and societal roadblocks,

We walk it in agony,
Our boots split and feet skewered,
Each step forcing out more moans of pain,
Yet we march on,
With a pace set by our heartbeats,
Ashen-faced yet galvanized,
This serrated path cannot stop us though,
Nothing can stop us,

The end of this road is a cruel joke to some,
Our reward for our torment,
I fear there is naught but a red sun,
And a doting incinerator at the end,
Yet we march on,
Life trundles on,
Nails cannot break our spirits.

Folks always extol the worth of certain souls,
Sportsmen and craftsmen and merchants,
Politicians and drivers and hairdressers,
They glorify the benefits these have upon their lives,
Overt blessings upon their lives,
But do think they think of the artists?
A true unifying force of human nature,

Less important?

Less palpable in their perks perhaps?
Sculpture to break up the monotony of construction,
Literature to open the mind,
Music to bring an emotive bounce to your being,
Paintings to lay bare invisible elements of the human condition,
Theatre to bring to life stories of eons,
Dancing to exhibit human beauty in mobile styles,

Less important?

Imagine your day without television or busker melodies,
Your living space without beautifying icons,
Without the great paintings of historical genius,
These may not keep your body alive,
But they breath life into your soul,
We need the arts to be human,
And not mere machines.

There will come a dark day,
As the candles grow delicate,
And your body finally feels lifes gravity,
When you must solemnly discuss,
With your kin and comrades,
About which kind of death you wish,
Ordained is the schedule,
But not so the modus operandi,

Do you run and yell impotently?
And be torn from the mortal coil by scythes force?
Do you have your time stolen by plague or happenstance?
And need to be carried beyond the styx by lifeless hands?
Or do you meet him calmly at your windowpane,
Take his cold hand and expire to the night?
These things must be prepared for,
Death is always approaching,

But will it be as a nightmare or old friend?
An ordeal or a release?

I do wonder to myself,
Is being nice such a strain?
All humans struggle with it,
Even this wretched clown,
Humanity is programmed to choose himself,
Niceness and generosity are akin to naivete,

But why not be a strangers sun?
Even during a stormy day,
Be a reason for someone to smile,
Give your loose change to a vagrant,
Hold the door for anybody,
Donate that stray dog a blanket,

Being nice is not a sign of weakness,
It is the strength to overlook mankind’s faults,
It could be a tiny gesture of in-consequence,
But maybe the only light someone will see,
Be the sun,
Be kind.

Every day I seem to witness,
With drawn eyes,
News stories that make me seethe,
Built-in inequality,
Bankers in the slaughterhouses of Wall Street,
Political duplicity,

Impotent old men upon the beaches of society,
Building sandcastles in imperial styles,
Houses of cards,
With sands of ground-up people,
Little voters at the bottom of the ladder,
Each spadeful shrieks in dissent,

The sands mount tall,
Kept strong on designs of grim architects,
The castles are patted down with manifesto lies,
The old men cheer as they rise,
When will the tide come,
And tear these foul empires down?