This rain must be acid, For it burns my eyes like salt, Forges my hair grey anew, My painted smile is corroded, Along with the light heart that evoked it, Contentment withered by sulphuric clamour,
Every impact sears a new trauma, Acerbic emotional pollution, Misery by a million raindrops, My skin hissing under their tumult, All hints of joy are contaminated, Yellowed and scalded,
The sky wouldn’t see me happy, Drenching me would not prove cruel enough, So I am subject to this burning at the stake, Flaming torches in each sour drop of dew, I’m eaten away, Degraded to this mournful industrial waste.
In all of humanity’s tenure, Too much weight is given to bloods quality, From the lordly to the lowly, From the scabbiest urchin, To the most dignified earl, Our blood drips all the same, From the same fresh wounds, Financial elitism is not a virtue, Poverty is not a character flaw, In this bleak world though, We are taught very different, That humanity comes in tiers of quality, But it’s a farce, That wines quality is not derived from status, But from the purity of ones actions, That is all that defines us.
Upon that stage perform rock deities, Gods in leather and tattoo forms, Or so they seem to think, These are not humble musicians, But bona fide rockstars, Sex drugs and rigmarole, Feeding off the crowds fervour, Emotionally and financially,
Let the punters admire our bluster, Lyrical talent precludes niceties, The publics love is expected, They are here to cradle our egos, So the stars proclaim, They must adore us, That’s why we turned up, A mere hour late or so,
Despite the honest many, Entertainment breeds egotism, The musical arts co-opted by arrogance, Souls in it for purely monetary gain, Peacocks with guitars and autotune, Trilling manufactured static, Music sheets reduced to commodity, To pretentious product.
I stare at the empty page in defeat, Wracking my brain, Futility in my writing hand, The quill perspires at the scene, The paper spits in my eye, Discontent in its saliva,
It’s a marathon without movement, No characters or worlds shall be wrought, The lines on the paper quiver in mockery, Scribbles in the margin, It is as if language has become alien to me, Something I could never control,
It’s defeating me in single combat, My ambition has become apathy, I’m not wordsmith, I’m a pretender, Foiled by the gravity of this page, This infernal blank page.
From my home of blood and womb, Did I get off on the wrong world? Did I miss my port? This was meant to be a utopia, But its paradise is skin-deep and unhinged, This isn’t the Earth I was taught of, Something is awry, Only a bizarre world I see, Topsy-turvy and deceitful,
It’s built overmuch on vice, Kindness seems to be a supernatural feat here, Tyrants get ahead by virtue of cruelty, Pollution seems to be a form of currency, I was taught of a pure and decent world, But this land ahead of me, It can only be madness, Was I lied to? Or are these evils to be aspired to?
Apologies for the slightly later posting of this edition. I’ve had a reasonably full day attempting to make my room here at the asylum look presentable. How are you all doing? Enjoying the later days of this most chilly of months? I’ll be glad when spring comes and the heat starts to rise I must admit.
I don’t know about you, but I fancy some music. Did anybody see the clue from earlier? I thought it was rather glamourous, you know? Makes me want to grow a glam-rock hairdo, you get me?
So, if my clumsy excuses for secrecy have no doubt revealed, todays musical theme is glam! Whether that be glam-rock, glam-pop or otherwise. I’m quite a fan of dressing up, as any follower of the asylum may be able to deduce. I like facepaint and fancy outfits. I like wacky hair and theatricality. Glam is pretty much all of those things, with rather funky musical beats to go along with it. I find it rather hard to describe when I actually think about it. It’s a pretty varied genre in all honesty, from the earliest opuses of David Bowie and Elton John to more “stereotypical” glam-hair bands like Guns N’ Roses or Kiss. They all have this almost eccentric quality to them, like if the mad hatter had a band. They’re larger than life, flamboyant and are always easy to sing and bop along to. Five of them are also on this page you know. Haha!
So, join me as we delve into the musical minds of glamourous artists the world over!
And there we have it for another edition of the Harlequins writing music! I could have included so many artists in this one really, as Glam has such a broad scope. I could have included Elton John, Slade, T-Rex, among others. But alas, I have this self-imposed rule to include only five, so there’s your lot! Haha! As always, I encourage you all to give these artists a look, they certainly deserve the attention in my eyes.
So, talking about attention and such, how about some social media stuff? The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well. I post clues for my poems a few hours ahead of time, as well as various other mad hot garbage. Check it out sometime, it would mean a lot! Also, if you really enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well. Thanks for everything!
I’m an ordinary British bloke, Just trying to scrape by in my four-bed, Back in my day, I bought a hovel at eighteen, Suffered little debt for my degree, Why should the young have an easier time? They clearly don’t work hard enough, We never used to have mental illness, Why not just cheer up? Go and get some fresh air,
We’re being invaded by the displaced, I see them on their dinghy warships, They’re coming for the jobs we’ve retired from, It’s true because the rag says so, They said it on the front page, It’s my opinion, You can’t criticise me, That would make you a leftie, Full of woke, Hating our country.
In this temple of breweries, Our beermat oasis, The hours have been sanded away, The drinks have been spilled, Beer goggles donned by all, The bell rings the end of our joviality, No more amber will flow here, We’ve made memories tonight its true, We may not wish for the fervour to cease, But if we do not leave, Memories cannot flourish in our grey matter, The present can’t be remembered.
To read is to commune with nature, A very personal ritual, Authors breath life on to these fragments of lumber, Rejuvenation via ink and quill, Your eyes scan across the veins of oak, Hallucinating as you go line by line, Seeing stars and lands never formed, A veritable opera of sundry speakers, Worlds of every ilk imaginable, Fashioned by a writers madness, Literary paths left for you on parchment, The skin of the forest, Books are the trees talking to us, Mother Natures voice, Translated by shamans of the written word.
The king left on a grand crusade, A campaign ‘gainst that dragon or this demon, I’m his regent, His steward, I was to warm this volcanic throne, Until his triumphant return,
Yet the kingdom rots without him, As if its lifeblood has been drained, The peasants grow skeletal and despondent, The very earthen foundations of our nation crumble, Our royal academia lectures only madness now, Our lone remaining knight now rides a pale horse,
Look yonder to the fields under my reign, And see that they are barren, As if a royal magic is dispelled, This charge seems a curse, He bade me this unwanted duty, The crown mocks me from its waiting pedestal.
WorldofHarley 