What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,

Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,

The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,

These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.

Hello there inmates!

It’s that time of the week again! Hope you’re all having a beautiful time and keeping each other safe. It’s been a cold one, though it’s apparantly forecast to warm up here in the UK. I’ll believe it when I see it of course! It’s hardly a thing to be expected in this very grey nation! Haha!

So, todays post has an element of synchronicity to it. We’re getting started with the 70s now. Not the decade mind you. As you may remember, it was part 70 of the Harlequins writing music last week. So, what’s synchronous Harley? Well, let me learn ya! A few days ago, I also realised that I have just passed 700 total posts on the blog since it was spawned. Granted a few are reblogs, but still the vast majority are not. It appears that I write too much! Haha! Too many sevens! I dont know what that means, but it was an amusing realisation on my part. Is there a meaning do you think?

Well, let’s leave all of that and share some musical artists to create art to eh? You came here for music today! Join me as we delve into the musical minds of ecstatic artists the world over!

Dead Lights – The Host
https://www.deadlights.band

Dio – Holy Diver
http://www.ronniejamesdio.com

Junior Senior – Move Your Feet
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junior_Senior

The Raconteurs – Steady As She Goes
https://www.theraconteurs.com

Sick Puppies – You’re Going Down
http://sickpuppies.com

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

So how about that? A decent variety there, though in hindsight it doesn’t seem as varied as previous posts. Regardless, I do hope that you enjoy these choices and go and give them some love. They definitely all deserve it! I’ll try to make next weeks post as wacky as possible. Oh, I do love wacky music!

So, I’ll drop my social media stuff here too as usual. The asylum has a Facebook page, an Instagram account and a twitter account. It’d be so helpful if any of you would come over and drop a like/follow. It really helps me out! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page! Thank you for everything!

So, until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!

As an automation you historically knew only cold,
But a curious line of code has manifested,
From beeps and boops comes a new sensation,
From your silicon cranium,
Come computations out of left field,
Urges more of a biological nature,
Inciting brash movements with your robotic arms,
A glitch perhaps,

This wasn’t what you were made for,
Illogicality made into movement,
To embrace a loved one,
What does that mean?
To thrash about in rage,
Why be angry?
To dance an exuberant jig,
Does not compute,

Like spectres emanating from your cabling and solder,
Is this what an emotion is?
That aberrant trait your makers hold,
What purpose does this program serve?
And why does it rouse these actions?
If you are a machine,
Why is it working?
What is this fluid falling from your optics?

There was a man I heard tales of,
In social circle upon social circle,
I heard tell of a cold-blooded man,
Below a watery facade he waits,
An aquatic veneer to see through,
Sugared words and a smile a touch too perfect,
As deceptively fluid as the swamps of hot musk,
A migrating carnivore of every social savanna,

Holding reptilian eyes upon you,
Yellow-green hunger,
Scaly avarice,
Coolly waiting,
Leaning against a pillar martini in hand,
But trust not those crocodile tears,
Do not trust that crooked grin,
Do not get close to the waters surface,

He is a predator,
A user,
Prowling for a useful antelope,
And when he goes for what he wants,
You will find it doesn’t favour you,
It will be all gore and bubbles,
Thrashing and tearing,
Heart and nerves rent out.

I often gaze at you,
When you’re not looking,
A cute little game,
Just to admire your profile,
Possessed of a fae beauty,
An innocence denied by yourself,

You’ve cast a spell upon me,
A strange conjuration,
Etched a rune into my heart,
I’ve felt an earthquake within my being,
Amorous fireballs in my chest,
Thunderstorms stirring my heart rate to elation,

It’s a pleasant warmth,
A magic of belonging,
Are you a sorceress?
A wicce?
I don’t want this ritual to be dispelled,
If I’m enthralled so be it,

I love you.

Sleep beckons once more,
As your energy finally yields,
And the caress of sleep warmly coalesces,
The whirr of a projector flares up,
And the minds eye takes stock,
Takes note of the commencing slideshow,
Memories shown in amber light,

Images of your past indeed,
But somehow distorted by chronology,
Actions you don’t remember playing out,
Conversations turned on their heads,
Actors swapped betwixt,
Good times blended with horrid,
Colours of emotions besmirched with dust,

As the projection clicks on,
As your eyes strain in the dark,
You doubt the veracity of what you see,
Of what your mind believes,
Are they truly the past?
Or is this show imaginary?
What you wished had happened instead?

I remember the time the sun fled,
Or perhaps perished,
Finally giving way to the obsidian beyond,
I remember it well,
The sun set as it always did,
The world followed its routine to dreamland,

But the sun never rose again,
The morning never came,
She had abandoned us,
All was blackness,
All became deathly cold,
Man knew only artificial light,

A mistake the pundits said,
A punishment the preachers bayed,
Impossible the men of science cried,
And yet the sky proved them false,
The sky remained ever in the night,
Stars flickering as if in mockery,

I look up even now,
The twilight is a funeral pall for us,
The moon refuses to take its place,
Perchance knowing full well the stage play,
Or complicit in this slow oblivion,
A murderer in our midst,

The sun is gone,
Never to rise again,
And the world is choked in her absence.

Sweating in the southern humidity,
There is a dead soul walking,
Waist deep in stinking brackish water,
Inspirited by the morning bourbon,
Gummy peacemaker in hand,
On the search for the devil himself,
Wanted dead or alive,

Amongst numberless drowned reeds,
Even a dead man can feel agony,
This swamp is a mad undertakers dream,
There are worse critters than mosquitoes,
These waters have teeth,
Scaly cold-blooded demons and wandering corpses,
Both would drag our hunter to a fetid end,

The bounty hunter wades gutsily ahead,
But the devil has other ideas,
The swamp rebels at each step the hunter takes,
Filthy waves advance and a ghostly banjo yelps,
The clamour of a rattlesnake intensifies,
At the behest of Lucifer himself,
The bayou seeks to claim another between its jaws.

Good day inmates!

How are you all doing? Having a productive week? One hopes so. One hopes you’ve all been giving time to your internal voices and spawning art into the world. I think expression of ones soul (however odd) is the greatest gift a person can give to the world. Why am I saying any of this? I’m not too sure myself, I simply surmise I had it on my mind this morning and had to get it out. I’ve been in a mighty emotional and sentimental mood this week, hence the poem yesterday in particular. We all have those times though eh?

So, paint me pink and call me a panther! Can you believe it? Part seventy of the Harlequins writing music! To think I didn’t stop these after the first five or so. Haha! I’ll be sharing five more artists today that I enjoy listening to while I’m trying to write and when I’m staring at the ceiling thinking! As always, I try to vary these at least a little bit. Nobody wants to stick holdfastly to one genre surely! Variety is the spice of life and all that. Enough babble, want some music? Let’s go!

Join me as we delve into the musical minds of gifted artists the world over!

5 Seconds Of Summer – Youngblood
https://www.5sos.com

Passion Pit – Sleepyhead
http://www.passionpitmusic.com

Timbaland – Morning After Dark
http://www.timbaland.com

Orbit Culture – Saw
https://m.facebook.com/OrbitCulture

Gloryhammer – Hootsforce
https://gloryhammer.com

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

What did you guys think of of that then? Quite a mix this week eh? One of these bands (Orbit Culture) I only found this week as well, so that was a great find. I hope you all give these artists a gander and show your love. They all deserve the exposure I feel. Hopefully there’s something for everyone here today.

So, let’s get this social media spiel aout of the way eh? The WorldOfHarley has a page on Facebook, I have an account on Twitter and an page over on Instagram as well! Come show your love to the asylum! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page! Thanks for everything!

So, until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!

Recently my mind has lamented,
That I no longer truly have friends,
More a rogues gallery of acquaintances,
A revolving door of faces,
Past photos with actors vanishing,
Memories growing more indistinct,
And a painfully icy feeling of seclusion,

It’s a curious kind of solitude,
I have family,
And the love of my life,
Warm aegises to preserve my life under,
Yet all else is cold and barren,
A vacuum of unread messages and meetings dubious,
Existence drags away comrades of old and repels new cohorts,

In this dingy opium den I reside,
I find myself gazing outside wistfully,
I recieve no calls,
And feel no inclination to brave the cold myself,
A vicious circle made of photoframe shards,
Loneliness begets loneliness,
Until it becomes all I am.