England

England

WorldofHarley

Three lions weep,
An English rose wilts,
Saint George hangs his head low,

Have we lost our way?
A lethargic populace and uncaring elite,
A blight of bigotry,

England is drunk upon past glories,
Like wines taken from distant lands,
At sabre point,

Empire is dead,
We are the ashes,
Soon to be scattered,

Our brothers of the Hills,
The Lochs,
The Isles,
And across the sea,
All creeds and ways of life,
All forsaken,

We are part of this world,
We do not hold thrones above it,
Humanity is our real flag,
Hubris has painted a sorry picture,
Something akin to a red cross.

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The Industrialist

The Industrialist

WorldofHarley

Atop my throne,
Flanked by steadfast smokestacks,
I often look to the skies,
The heavens,
Just visible through the neon pollution,
I admit I see only dollar signs,

I’m something of an industrialist,
Not exactly human,
The furnace within my ribs can only consume,
I auctioned off that old beating thing,
Ages ago,
Didn’t even get a good deal,

These iron hands may be cold,
But they work fast,
Because time is money,
Progress for it’s own sake,
All the green notes in my claws,
Create only more green in my eyes,

Humanity’s future lies on the profit margin,
Flight is wasted on the birds,
Beauty wasted upon angels,
Strength pointless in beasts,
These things should be ours,
Or mine,

Where’s the profit?
Where’s the progress?
The world can go down in flames,
Go under,
I’ll never notice,
I’ll be bathing in bullion.

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Comic Book Hero

Comic Book Hero

WorldofHarley

These streets feed on the powerless,
The innocent girl needs saving,
She needs a hero,
A miscreant sought to mug her,
A comic book hero steps in,

He was a simple soul,
He liked comic books,
The release they obliged,
He was anemic yet kind,
He had known the role of the victim too long,

His room is a cathedral,
Albeit a messy one,
A monument to heroes and villains,
Of other worlds,
Legends in ink and colour,

Countless bibles to caped gods,
Titans in vivid costumes,
A host of impossible powers,
Strength unrivalled,
Paragons of virtue.

His idols,

Did he save her?
As it turns out,
The mugger did not fear his costume,
Two shots ring out,
A comic scrap fluttered away.

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Manhunter

Manhunter

WorldofHarley

Death is my lord,
I am his reaper,
And his scythe,
My blade is his,
I am the Manhunter,

This long coat hides a herald of death,
He pays in cold coin,
And I pay in cold dead eyes,
Those whose time has come,
Those whom have his icy hand upon their shoulder,

My life was already taken,
Eons ago,
A bloody wedding gown and an empty crib,
Death made a joke that day,
I couldn’t help but chuckle,

I am the Manhunter,
Nothing personal,
Just business,
The cycle of life,
Even monsters must eat,

Do you feel his gelid breath?

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Fortress

Fortress

WorldofHarley

Welcome to my home stranger,
Wipe your coats and hang up your shoes,
Make yourself at home please,
It is my fortress,
My sanctum,
My workshop,

Within its walls lies wonder,
And a hint of madness,
Here manifests my literary alchemy,
My lyrical experimentation,
It is a realm of perpetual loneliness,
But also true clarity,

I write every colour under the sun,
Angels in freefall playing violins,
Ballet with stars,
Dragons saving damsels,
Ghosts in pitched food-fights,
And heroes with villainous grins,

Stories and sonnets,
Poems and poesy,
This playground has all of these,
And so much more,
This is my castle,
This is my fortress,

Safe from the siege of outside rationality,
Safe from the slings and arrows of the world,
Safe from sanity.

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The Procession

The Procession

WorldofHarley

There’s trouble ahead,
There’s hellfire on the horizon,
The drumbeat continues,
Humanity marches unabated,
Craters and mushroom clouds ahead,

Out of tune,
Ragged drums and dilapidated regalia,
Painted-on smiles,
Out of step,
Unwashed humanity parading ever onward,

Cracked lips and grazed knees,
The drumbeat continues,
Complaining of weary eyes,
Insanity personified,
Driven on regardless by the beat of life,

The state of this world,
The state of this procession,
Mired in misery and dissention,
Enough for a thousand dirges,
There’s trouble ahead,

The drumbeat continues.

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Butchery

Butchery

WorldofHarley

To most who look,
Poetry looks a glorious act,
A noble act,
But it’s a lie,
It is butchery,

I hack and cleave,
Words into prime cuts,
Punctuation into mince,
It is a foul process,
The table glistens with grease and crimson,

Exsanguinate the prose,
And remove narrative viscera,
Carve a strip of exposition there,
And rend from it superfluous fat,
My pen thirsts for more,

Boiling bones of expression,
Reducing them to grist for future ventures,
Everything is red,
The grisly work is done,
For the punters to love and hate,

Caked in blood and gore,
Of projects discarded,
I am no writer,
No poet,
I am a butcher.

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Nonsensical

Nonsensical

WorldofHarley

Feeling a touch nonsensical today,
Feeling a dash ridiculous,
My mind is scarlet jelly,
These thoughts are hundreds and thousands,

Once lost which way does a page turn?

Can a cookie become a chef?

Does winter prevail in many competitions?

Can a merchant learn to sale a ship?

Does my coffee need some medicine?

Can a mansion ever be a lady?

Random thoughts dart about,
I know I’m not making any sense,
But did I ever?

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Wild rose

Wild Rose

WorldofHarley

She is my wild rose,
Crimson like passion,
Beautiful beyond compare,
An angel in all but name,
The kind that stands out effortlessly,
Crimson like rage.

I am tangled in her thorns,
But also her petals,
Crimson like warmth,
Soothing and scathing in equal measure,
Loving and wrathful in duality,
Crimson like blood.

Her lips can wound,
They open burning scars,
But they can heal those same scars,
As if by some magic,
Vibrant and soothing,
Radiant and humbling.

She caresses my weary and cracked lips,
While weathering a tempest,
Standing tall like a bastion,
But holding me like a seraph,
Wise and dependable,
Crimson like love.

I love her,
She is my wild rose.

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Blocked Mind

Blocked Mind

WorldofHarley

The mind is a prison,
Shackles and all,
All your ideas are kept there,
All your machinations are bound there,
Your minds eye is temporarily blindfolded,

Upon request these treasures are released,
Creations given wing,
On to page and stage,
To captivate and terrify,
To enlighten and appall,

But something has designs on these gems,

Writers block,
The plague of the author and artist,
A malady so harrowing,
So abominable,
So soul-crushing,

Now my mind is blocked,
The affliction comes for me,
It’s an unwanted guard to my prison,
Authorizing no creative release,
Me and my psyche are in solitary,

Will we ever be released?

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