Archive for Jan, 2021

She was a patchwork of vivid emotions,
A doll beaten to strands by life,
A sally of myriad textile and colour,
An amalgamation of fashions both cultured and wild,
Frayed fabrics and split hairs,
A beautiful belle of an empty ball,

Her parts didn’t quite match up,
Squares of ruby silk and red flax,
Her soft pains and rough frustrations made manifest,
A leather hide covered some of her nape,
A hard exterior for some to cope with,
These sections were sewn loosely and with fickle method,

Blue velvet were her tears,
Her hands were bloody overworked gingham,
She had a fragile heart of cashmere,
Strewn atop a frail human mannequin,
She was not born as a clean slate,
But a patchwork soul of the cruel world she found herself in.

As this first breath of the year comes to a close,
The reverie of the years change is history,
Pangs of brainwork nip my flanks,
A delayed desire for self-improvement,
A new years resolution a touch too late,

This is a winterborn ache,
The chill of january has abated my verve,
The sleet and rain washed away my impetus,
An unwanted frozen barrier to change,
Leading me to hibernate rather than live,

January doesn’t feel new,
Just more of the same,
More winter to languish in.

In a realm birthed by crystals,
A world beyond the fantastic,
Governed by magick and beings of eld,
Where life is threatened oftentimes by demon and beast alike,
And the cruel darkness thirsts for souls,

Here fight warriors of no martial proclivity,
No axes or blades in hand,
But command respect nevertheless,
For they wield an ancient power,
A magic of primal energy,

A gesture of arcane will,
And a seized fragment of godly power,
These summoners can call down the very fires of hell,
Raise up the fury of the earth you walk,
And rend asunder foes with gales blades,

These forces come from elemental ire,
Passions from gods of fire and storm,
Restrained and wielded by these magi in green regalia,
Heroes who bring the elements to bear against darkness,
For the good of Eorzea.

I have a torture chamber of my own making,
It rests within a cranial centre,
Containing all manner of devious racks and thumb screws,
My skull is the iron maiden it rests within,
Rusted spikes implied by self-esteem,
Nicking and piercing at cruel intervals,

I cannot escape this chamber,
It’s in my head,
I am tied soundly upon this breaking wheel,
Cracking my own limbs and jaw,
I can only scream internally though,
This torture is for me only,

In their masochistic inquisition,
My thoughts crank up the restriction upon this rack,
Foul ichor oozing from my gullet,
In the form of “I’m okay!”,
Lies brought forth through torture,
Cries for help in vile pools on the floor.

Hello there inmates!

One hopes that you’re all having an excellent time at the moment. It’s been a fairly average week for us here at the asylum. Not really a great deal to report if I’m honest. Unfortunately I fear that is going to be the general theme of 2021. Call me negative, but all evidence is pointing thusly so far. It does mean getting writing done has been rather easy. When you have nothing going on, it is rather easy to find time. I’ve actually been especially proud of some of the recent poems I’ve summoned from the dark beyond.

Well, you know what day it is! Wednesday! So, that means it’s time for the next visitation of the Harlequins writing music. For anyone who is unaware of these posts, I’ll be sharing five music artists that I enjoy listening to and drawing inspiration from. Ill be including links so you can all explore these artists yourself, and who knows, maybe disover a new favourite. You never know eh?

So, without further delay, join me as we delve into the musical minds of excellent artists the world over!

Fist Of Five – Washed It Away

Yellowcard – Gifts And Curses

Battles – Atlas

Alter Bridge – Metalingus

Haddaway – What Is Love

And there we have it for another edition of the Harlequins writing music!

So how about that eh? Some curious choices there, don’t you think? I hope that you all check out these artists and give them some love. As alway, I feel that they all deserve it. I’ve tried to vary it as much as possible to hopefully interest as many of you lovely people as possible.

So, how about some social media links eh? I have a prescence on Facebook, an account over on Instagram and an account on Twitter. Show me some love over there eh? I post all sorts of random stuff on there, as well as clues for my poems a few hours before they’re posted. As always, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page! Cheers for everything!

Until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!

As you close the heavy tavern door,
I see your eyes widen in anxiety,
To see a motley band with steins held high,
In this beer-soaked spectacle,
Lives a bond of camaraderie,
Hardened by bruises and lost limbs,
Tempered in heist after scuffle after ruckus,

Personages of every fantastical race,
Thieves with honour,
Elves and orcs and men,
Dwarves and goblins,
Sharing pains,
Sharing scars,
Sharing losses,

This guild of grizzled veterans,
Decades in the making,
With myriad feats under each of their belts,
Feathers in caps and coins in pouches,
Not above the law but circumventing its eyes,
You bash down a bag of platinum and gold upon the bar,
You remember why you came to this den of reputed scum,

To steal from the rich,
And have some final breathes taken.

Let me tell you a cautionary tale,
Of a man short-lived yet fulfilled,
Born anew each time the sun rears its head,
Grown grey and spent as the dusk whispers,
He lives for a day,
An instant,
A singular moment,

Full of life in the morn,
He lives that day to its extent,
Full of passion as the sun sits highest,
Enjoying every brush of the cheek and every fruit,
Though still aches for more as the sun sets,
Full of qualms come the eve,
As the days coffin cracks open,

Like winged insects we buzz momentarily across the world,
Only to die shortly thereafter,
We don’t exist for long,
You see my friends,
The mayfly man is all of us,
Spend each day like the humble mayfly,
Fly free and celebrate the day as your last,

After all it could be.

A young man took a trail through nature,
To purge the city from his veins,
Grown weary of the smog,
He sits reclined upon this fae meadow,
Amidst fields of crimson and violet,
Like a therapists couch in the sticks,

Here be butterflies,
Like chitinous pixies,
Dancing upon stained-glass wings,
Ballet upon the soft gales of the valley,
Playing gaily betwixt this floral procession,
Wining and dining with the nectar of tulips,

One lands upon his finger,
Its wings gently flitting in the sun,
Embodying a sorcery of veldt,
Casting a spell of placidity upon his soul,
The young man finally exhales,
There is so much magic in nature.

In a land beyond consciousness,
Where the clouds and birds are frozen in time,
A soft brass tone echoing in the static air,
You find yourself fixated upon an empty coffin,
When you look at this vacant pine box,
What do you see?

A simple final destination?
An inescapable truth of being,
Perhaps a predator after your lifes blood,
Something to be afraid of,
An agitator for the hairs on your neck,

Maybe a cautionary icon?
A reason to look after oneself,
A reason to be thankful for the time you’re allotted,
Something to show respect to,
An apologia to strive for sublimity,

Maybe it’s a grim stimulant,
Galvanising your desire to overindulge,
Playing at gluttony and lust,
The coffin acting as a morbid objective,
Something to aim the crashing car at,

Only you yourself know your outlook on death,
So I ask you again,
What do you see when you gaze at an empty casket?

We are well off the map right now,
Far beyond the vigil of the compass,
The epitome of inhospitability,
Stalked by blizzards and hungry things,
There is no day and night,
Only biting ivory,
Torrential cold thorns from an empty sky,

Upon the alpine fields of snow,
Hemming us in like trapped seals,
Lay countless bones of victims both human and livestock,
Fodder for maws that know no sating,
And footprints of collosal proportion,
We still hear the quakes,
Though that too could be our throes of fear,

There are horrid things here,
Primeval beings of feral glamour,
Walking titans of dank fur and sinew,
Possessed of hunger no natural thing should,
Unabated by the encroaching white tempest,
Weathering it forlornly in their hunt,
Their hunt for us,

And as the roof of our shelter is ripped skyward,
We know the trolls have found us,
The next moment will be all screams and teeth.