Upon a lonely cliff,
At the limits of our aged city,
There lies a slaughterhouse-cum-laboratory,
Haunted by a man who cured sanity,
A professor of touched genius,
An unhinged heretic of science,
An ireful storm engulfs the old building,
As if nature itself fulminates at the reality of the doctors toil,
An experiment is in progress,
A rital of scientific blasphemy,
His zeal is absolute,

This haven of heinous vision,
A tinkerers paradise,
Lightbulbs and tesla coils,
Tools of all ghastly shades,
Slabs that may or may not have laid cadavers,
Unfinished projects,
Some inanimate and others scream for attention,
But he is focused upon todays business now,
A scheme the bad doctor has wrought for decades,
A plot the entire world shall witness,
The science of revenge,

An ember of a bunsen there,
And a dash of periodic table salts here,
Wide-eyed he gazes at the vials,
The sickly serums within pulse energetically,
Signalling their readiness,
These shall be his magnum opus,
The vapours from these hell-mouthed vials,
They shall cleanse this city that demonised him so cruelly,
The city shall choke,
No longer able to disparage his mind,
Next the rest of the world.

The moon is bowing out,
The sky begins to turn blue,
The sun peaks out in anxiousness,
When the lager has fulfilled its vexing purpose,
My cell walls become a blur,
A certain grim loneliness falls over me,
I miss days and people of the past,
Diseases I’d thought vanquished,

A time I was a prisoner,
Without chains physical,
But mental bindings in the thousands,
I was thrall to a foul spell,
An infatuation I called love,
Or what I wrongly believed to be love,
A servitude I still bear scars of,
A malady I even thought to exalt,

It nearly killed me to be sure,
A dagger running its way into my chest,
But at times I miss the misery,
And pine for the pain,
But I ought never go back,
My days as a flagellant are over,
I have transcended the convict I once was,
Never again.

Here I tell you a tale quite grim,
On this gelid autumn eve,
Of a vessel taken by the great blue,
A languid ship dubbed the Dead Jester,
Of no particular valour nor deed was this ship known,
Save for the incompetence of its circus of a crew,
Captained by a blind clown of advanced years,
A lookout unable to discern port from star,
And helmed by a mute convicted maniac,
The locker had only to wait for its prize,
The waves have all the time in the world after all,

This abomination of a crew,
They were destined for the abyss,
They had no care for this fate though,
There were nightly mutinies over scraps,
Every malm travelled was stricken with insane discontent,
Clowns wrestled with jugglers over imaginary lifeboats,
One man carved a hole in the hull looking for god,
The ship obliged yet in the wrong direction,
As the terminal aspect of the vessel descended,
No souls of worth were lost,
None shall be missed or mourned.

I kneel here out of the rain,
Beneath this temple canopy,
The walls wretch with the stink of an aramitama,
A structure corrupted in purpose,
The only soft light from rascal wisps amongst the bamboo,
Even the moon has forsaken this place,

The kami rise in angst,
They shriek to me in warning,
I hear it coming,
Heavy feet upon damp wood,
Demonic growls between drops of ichor,
The malevolent prescence of a yokai,

The dark sound is directionless,
A shroud approaching from all around,
Spiritual energy turned awry and malignant,
A hulk materialises,
An imposing figure with rage in its eyes three,
A dread oni,

My resolve is shattered at once,
I consider fleeing in to the rain,
Its stout feet impose closer,
The yokais horns shall feast well this night.

Hello there inmates!

I hope that you’re all having a wonderfully splendiferous day today! I hope you’ve all been keeping safe as well, dont make me get the cattle prod! Jokes aside, its been a reasonably busy week. Spent a great deal of time demolishing a conservatory with my dad. Its hard work, but awfully fun. Not to mention cathartic! I’ve been feeling a little disconcerted that my recent work has been a tad overly political. I was wondering if you immates felt that it was a positive or would prefer I stick to my usual bizarre lane.

I’ve finally realised just how close we are to halloween now. Ive managed to find some stuff to begin painting my face again so I can’t wait to bring the Oldschool Harlequin back to life again. Not just for halloween either! Hehe!

So its time for our next edition of the Harlequins writing music today! I must confess it is beginning to become quite a strain to drag new bands out of my head this week. Its possible I may have repeated at least one of these bands, though the importance of said songs will be no less illustrious. Just a word of warning there! Haha!

So, join me as we delve into the musical minds of seminal artists the world over!

Dorp – London Out There
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorp_(band)

Grendel – Timewave Zero
https://www.grendel-hq.com

King Diamond – Masquerade Of Madness
https://www.kingdiamondcoven.com

Lady Gaga – Alejandro
https://m.facebook.com/ladygaga/

Miracle Of Sound – Liquid Nights And Disco Lights
https://www.miracleofsound.rocks

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

Again, apologies if I have repeated a couple artists. I’m fairly certain that even if I have, Ive chosen different songs so that helps a bit. As always I hope you check out all of these artists and give them some love!

So, now for the social media bit. I have a prescence on multiple platforms by now. I have a Facebook page, a twitter account and an Instagram page. Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over at the Ko-fi page. Thanks for all of your support!

Until next time, have a very crazy day inmates!

The politicos must be ambidextrous,
Full control of robotic limbs,
Both starboard and port,
Built of steel comprised of voter ballots,
These men are performers to be sure,
Paragons of dexterity,
Through rarely of intent,

They take the stage,

These cold iron jugglers,
Able to aptly spin so many plates,
Receptacles holding human welfares,
The lives of constituents,
Or underlings,
Depending on whom you ask,
Critic or sycophant,

Some plates will be laid low,

These robots wear human suits,
Manufactured for one purpose,
Powerful hands of stately cunning,
Only one plate is truly a priority though,
Both hands indeed focus on that,
That plate that holds their own fortunes and positions,
No chance of that plate slipping,

It is the reason for this show to begin with.

Do you think the year sobs?
As the terminal days come to pass,
As its tears grow frigid upon its clock face,
Dreary icicles upon its cheeks,
A funeral script upon a calendar,
Events of holly and fireplaces,
Does it fear its demise?
Or the unease of inflicting the hell on a new turn of the sun,

Or does it drool in anticipation?
A cackle heard in ticks of time,
The watch hands forming a brass grin,
The hysteria of going out with a bang,
Spectacles of flammable fetish and fireworks,
Keeping its clock face warm with a wintry tango,
A party invite upon the daybook,
Does the year long for death?

It’s finally supper time,
Our nightly ritual,
The victims are already at the trough,
But I’m missing a vital component,
The broth is incomplete,
This little mandrake,
It’s just the ticket,

This earthy fruit of foulness,
It will sent them careening into fantasy,
A final dream for the little souls,
Hallucinogens to cleanse the pallette,
Before the poison does its deed,
This heathenry,
It shall be akin to sorcery,

Into the soup you go,
Keep it quiet now,
My little botanical homunculus,
Dont reveal yourself to them,
You may appear infantile,
A parody of a child,
But you’re a monster tonight.

This world is indeed a carousel out of control,
Run on chemical disasters and hominid mistakes,
Fuels of chaos,
Colours and shapes that don’t fit,
A turmoil our minds were not designed for,
Dulling and stress-testing our mental blades,

But on this day of mental health aid,
I proclaim to you that you are alone,
Let my words built of granite support you,
Bolster your barricades and direct your first footfall,
A whetstone to sharpen your confidence,
Enabling you to cut down your demons,

Whichever torment has assailed you,
Many others shall be whetstones for you as well,
It is a global blight,
You need only reach out,
Scores of angelic blacksmiths ready to assist,
There is no need to suffer in silence,

Please.

The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,

Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,

What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?