To be a poet is to walk among past giants, To write is to scamper betwixt their footprints, As they feast in their halls, Subsisting on crumbs dropped from on high, Vermin in their literary Valhalla, A rat amidst their feet,
There is no beanstalk to their heights, Shakespeare and Shelley, Bronte and Poe, Colossal wordsmiths and Einherjar bards, They earned their places here, I have not,
I came to climb to their zeniths, Trying not to get stomped on, Barely a flea in contrast, To their elephantine labours of text, My works are rock paintings, Ink on seashells childishly spent,
In this land of giants, I am but a neophyte, I’ll likely never achieve the apex, But why not keep climbing?
In conversation, I find it rather easy to choke, On words, On phrases, My oesophagus is awash in letters, Chunks of language undigested, Like fat in a drain, Well and truly clogged,
I cough and splutter, Unable to get the locutions out, Talking in tongues, Gurgling in gibberish, Growing more blue with each failed gasp, The paragraphs scratch my throat like nails, I’m destined to be choked by the words, And no friendly Heimlich will help.
Beware my lad, Don’t advance impurely or with lance drawn, You’ll show due respect or else, That woman is manticore, A strzyga, A praying mantis, She is Medusa reborn, Elegant and lethal, Deathly and ravishing, I tell you she holds no evil though,
She is justified in her monstrosity, It was self preservation, She was lashed by sharp tongues and closed fists, Burned at the stake, And betrayed ad nauseum, Don’t you see? She had to bear her own talons, To defeat her past monsters, She had to become one, And no man shall ever hurt her again.
You have to be a madman to get through life, It’s a madhouse after all, An asylum with stuffy wardens, Straitjackets to keep us grey and legion, They try at least, In turn the world needs mad people, Rebellious little freaks, Can’t have a nuthouse without nutters, We bring art and insane cackles, The mad are the only ones to escape, The only ones to be free,
So my friends, Continue to dream in technicolour, Dance your clumsy dance, And greet each day with an unhinged grin, Be mad.
Ahh, a slight cooling in the air this week. It’s still been rather warm on the island, but not exceptionally so. It’s been rendered rather ideal by a noticeable breeze. How are you all finding it in your corners of the world? Pleasant I hope, whichever weather you find yourselves in. On the negative side, my phone is still damaged. However I am betting on getting it fixed (hopefully). My tablet has fortunately been sufficient as a makeshift social media device in the meantime. Haha!
So, on to todays main event eh? You’re all here for the music after all I imagine, not my technological clumsiness. I have been really looking forward to doing this particular musical theme I must confess. Did anybody see the clue I posted? I certainly hope so!
Todays musical theme is a hot one! Oh yes, with the summer being here and the temperatures rising I just had to do this theme. The theme for this week is fire! Flames are a very popular image when it comes to music and I think this is due to the fact it can represent a number of things. Passion, heat or rage to name a few. It can be used as an anecdote for romance, for pain or sometimes for crazy parties, bizarrely. It can be used in reference to biblical things like Hell and suffering as well. As such the musical variation that I have to choose from today is rather extensive, which is definitely a huge plus! No genre is off the table really. It’s rather hot, you could say! Peak comedy! Anyways, let’s get to the music eh?
One thing I will mention before I start. One of these songs today has some themes and depictions of the subject of suicide that may trigger some people. The video itself even has a short intro by the vocalist talking about it. I felt it sensible to prewarn.
Please join me as we delve into the musical minds of torrid artists the world over!
And there we have it! I feel a tad sweaty now after that. Some pretty hot tunes there eh? I tried to show a fair variety with my choices as always, but I feel like I could easily do another list for this theme to be honest. Maybe I will, I don’t know. The voices haven’t told me yet. Anyways, I hope you enjoy all of my choices this week and that you check out all of these artists as well!
Speaking of checking out, would you mind checking out my social media sites? That’s a very clumsy segue. The asylum has a page over on Facebook you know, there’s one on Instagram as well. Hell, there’s even one on Twitter too! Please think about checking them out sometime! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page too! Links are all provided! Thanks for everything my friends!
There is tell of a book, An evil lexicon, A book of dark lore, Wisdom that was hidden for a reason, Foreboding chants heard within its closed spine, Bound with leather a little too familiar,
It seems to throb as if alive, Animated by some foul dogma, Its pages are a parade of atrocities, Chapter after chapter of malice, There are spells and rituals aplenty, Devilry and runes galore,
It calls to the dreams of the mad, It wants to be read, To be liberated, Though gnostics and warlocks are drawn to it, Are they claiming knowledge? Or are they moths to a flame?
Life rarely gives us presents, Or gift baskets, Not without due cost, It prefers to take and chastise, Providing only buckets of sand, The world is a cruel enough place, Let’s not make it worse, Let’s lighten the weight instead,
So leave a hamper of happiness yourself, A little verbal picnic, A kind word on a cracker, A compliment sandwich with ham and lettuce, It need not be lavish, Compassion need not be gaudy champagne, To any soul you come across, A pleasant hamper may be everything.
In a dozy West Virginian town, An urban legend takes flight, Holding dominion over a pleasant night sky, Over highways and young couples, It’s never in true focus, A humanoid shape obscured, Huge crimson lanterns for eyes, And wings shimmering with prophecy, Bird or moth or demon? Nobody shall ever know, Wings simply flutter, And bridges fall.
You must be a cartographer in this life, Despite what some say, You have to find your own way, The years offer no signposts, Nor safe havens to rest, You’ll concoct your own journey through decades, The good and bad, Plot a course to avoid the Bermuda triangles, Those treacherous reefs of liars and hurt, Serpentine sharks and heckling jackals, The need for navigation never ceases, The years want you to be adrift, Will you be lost like Leichhardt? Or will you be Amelia Earhart? A failure or a legend?
I couldn’t say if it were real, Or a dream, But I found myself in a dollhouse, Quaint but very off, I fear no joy had touched this place, The air reeked of uncertainty, And cigarette butts, Like some neglected dive,
The rooms had no essence of childish play, Toy furniture covered in pale cloth, Pink paint flaking off, The floorboards seemed wet from tears, Half-formed mannequins, Cobwebs draped over like veils, An array of barbie heads, A miniature pushchair splattered in red,
Was I alone? I couldn’t say for sure, I felt wild eyes upon me, Small figures dance in my periphery, Skipping off into the aether, A giggle, My veins grow boreal, Never had a child’s laugh chilled me so.
WorldofHarley 