My head is a menagerie of story ideas,
I lay and I feel it,
A flurry of beasts in flux,
Roiling flashes of fur and scale,
A flipbook without continuity,
Alligators built of angst nipping at the walls,
Wolves and bears enacting throes of action,
Swans of romance,
Nosferatu of horror,
And pudgy felines of political discourse,
These ideas scratch at my corneas,
Striving to fly free of this enclosure,
I have the keys at hand,
To release them one at a time,
Put in transit in swathes of ink.
A rather foul pall has fallen,
On my mind and mood,
A fog over every facet of my life,
Something just feels wrong,
Like everything out of focus,
An insidious change of perception,
With no explanation,
The skies seem ever more grey,
Even as they glow blue,
Ambrosia and champagne in my mouth,
Tastes as bland as dust,
Social plans are as hounds,
Pursuing me as frightened prey,
The best things in life going somehow incorrect,
In the lukewarm winds of time,
I hope this pall shall blow away,
For it’s no way to exist,
To feel innately wrong.
There was a paltry man,
A common fixture of our alehouse,
Who was a garden variety coward,
Yellow eyes and yellower in heart,
Skeletal in build and gall,
Perpetually shaking even in the summer heat,
Quaking at every clang or cheer,
An embarrassment to his house,
But as the lager piles up,
Something would shift,
He grew larger and exuded assertiveness,
Adonis blended with Hercules,
Like Popeye with his spinach,
Hulk with his rage,
Gutsily if an iota dizzily,
Standing up to those pub bully boys,
Until the next morning,
He would remain a drunken silverback,
When once again his reflection would strike fear,
To none but himself.
After an arduous quest,
She finally returned,
With nary a parade or fanfare,
Not an inkling of celebration,
Quietly gracing our fair township,
Armour sundered and blade shattered,
She had slain the minotaur,
Its labyrinth and reign of bloodshed,
She took no trophy though,
The deed was reward enough,
Exhausted she meandered the streets,
An unknown,
No citizen paid her any mind,
No accolades graced her hands,
Not a single coin as reparation,
No recognition for the gift she’d imparted,
The blood she’d spent,
But alas,
That’s what being a true hero is,
Altruism in plate armour.
I fear that masses are being castigated,
For the vices of a single man,
A fine line lies betwixt leaders and despots,
Power can be reaped dishonestly,
And often is,
Then wielded against citizenry and neighbour alike,
The people are not their nations sins,
Nor its aggression,
The people do not crave bloodshed,
Even soldiers rarely wish to kill,
They too cry as bombs drop over borders,
Not a KGB smile to be seen,
So before labelling them marauders,
Devils in human guise,
Just remember,
We the people,
They the people,
All are people.
Hello there inmates!
March is indeed marching on isn’t it? Quite a lot faster than I would have preferred I must admit. How are you all finding it? Good I hope. I’m doing quite well myself. It’s been an uneventful week so far to be honest. I’ve been pretty happy with the responses I’ve been getting to the recent poems. You beautiful people are far too kind! I’m humbled as ever.
So, did anybody get todays musical theme clue? I posted it a bit later than intended today. I may or may not have napped for longer than I ought to have. I thought it was a clever clue, though I’m clearly biased. Haha!
Todays musical theme is kind of a strange one. It’s Playstation. In particular, the “vintage” games of the PSone. As some of you may be aware, I’m an avid gamer and nerd. It’s my primary form of relaxation and escapism. It’s also inspired some of the poems and drawings I’ve created in the past. Though the original Playstation wasn’t my introduction to gaming (the Sega Megadrive can claim that honour), it is probably the console I played the absolute most. It influenced the genres of video game that I fell in love with in years to come and still has some of my favourite games of all time in its catalogue.
So, I figure that some of you may sigh at this theme. “Not videogames Harley! Why u do dis!?”. But I would argue that the musical talent involved in many of these games, particularly ones from Japan, are really quite profound. They had to be, they didn’t necessarily have the graphical fidelity to hold the game up on that merit. I’d not be embarrassed to listen to many of this music in public, same as any band I enjoy. I can’t quite settle on a particular musical genre in the music today, as it depends heavily on the atmosphere and setting of the games it features in. So, let’s see what I can come up with eh? I’m going to display today five of my most memorable tunes from the original era of the Playstation.
Please join me as we delve into the musical minds of Playstation artists the world over!
Nathan McCree – Tomb Raider Main Theme
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nathan_McCree
Nobuo Uematsu – Tifas Theme
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nobuo_Uematsu
Remi Gazel – Harmony
https://www.imdb.com/name/nm10723250/
Tappi Iwase – Metal Gear Solid Main Theme
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tappi_Iwase
Hiroki Kikuta – Incantation
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiroki_Kikuta
And there we have it! Some serious nostalgia there, at least for me! Particular mention goes to Nobuo Uematsu, the composer of the majority of Final Fantasy titles (like the one above). He is my absolute favourite composer of all time and his musical output over the years has been superb in my eyes. I would seriously say it would be worth checking out these soundtracks even if you’re not into gaming. They really will surprise you I think.
As for surprises, this next bit isn’t one. I have some social media pages for the blog that would be greatly improved by your attention! The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and a page over on Twitter as well! Also, if you really enjoy the nonsense here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well. Thank you for everything!
Until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!
This world is split into petty fiefdoms,
Swathes of land divided haphazardly,
Lines painted in blood and oil,
An unnatural barrier with great sway,
With the common folk cut betwixt masters,
Made unwilling foes,
A race split into us and them,
Fighting wars over borders pencilled in by dead men,
As they laugh in their coffins,
Already bedded with their winnings,
These lines,
Their artistic carving of dirt,
Impels us to be unwitting conscripts,
Speaking in munitions rather than parlance,
Trading antagonisms as readily as grain,
Dividing us ever further.
In this cerebral prison cell,
I often languish in rueful silence,
Sentenced to the darkness,
For the crime of chronic heartbeats,
And I’m not alone,
There is another thing in here,
And at times I’m afraid of this cellmate,
This accomplice of grey matter,
It shares this concrete box,
For the crimes it puts to paper,
Carving trials and tribulations,
Armageddons and colossi,
With its ink-stained shank,
Manuscripts hidden in the mattress,
Wielding my hands as its own,
Equal parts artist and offensive weapon.
I heard tell of a cult,
They awoke from an awful dream,
Induced by some story book,
And built a priest out of pig iron,
A facsimile of an orderly man,
Fuelled by a furnace of white-hot delusion,
This automaton follows that same book,
On repeat he recites litany from his speaker mouth,
And baptises babes with his steel fingers,
This righteous robot,
An ivory robe stitched to his metal skeleton,
Cheap clanging between pews,
He was made from fear and thrifty deposit,
But mineral has no heart,
Iron holds no soul,
With no understanding of that book of myths,
Dare not look under his frock,
That’s where they put the plot holes.
From this lethargic window,
I often look up at the sky,
Tracing dreams in the clouds,
And I see those birds,
Vibrant flocks eloping to freedom,
They leave little pinions of colour,
Like love letters with no recipient,
A rain of sentiment in myriad pigment,
Each feather tells a story,
Of grief and bliss and love,
Recited as I run my finger across,
Silent but clear as day,
The birds fly on lighter,
I’m left behind in the grey,
With this plumage of fables cast off,
A mottle they needed to disperse to reach paradise.
WorldofHarley 