What is dark poetry? It’s art from the other side of life, The undercroft, It is the pens true misgivings with the world, Poetry without the veneer of hope, Without naivete,
It’s verse unconcerned with the daisies, Or the wonders global, It’s poetry with the mask off, Of black eyes and cracked teeth, Of track marks and hangovers, Grief and crime and the reapers art,
Don’t misconstrue my words though, Flowery prose has its place, Ink of faith and family, Denial helps with the pain after all, But all ideals require an obverse, And that’s poetry from the dark.
I was a foul caterpillar of ineptitude, The time came to become better, So I coat myself in stone and feathers, Material for the renaissance, But something is amiss, This is not the cocoon I was promised, But a sarcophagus, A cell for my bodily stagnation, An incarceration for each magpie I didn’t count,
Now more sludge than butterfly, I am instead stifled by this cage, Why does metamorphosis elude me? I just wanted to finally be better, Nothing more than to emerge, To evolve, To be superior to the me of yesterday, Yet it feels as if it isn’t to be, Like a moth plucked of its wings,
That time at the lake, As the mist looked on expectedly, When I cried sad crystals, And they flew skyward, Joining hands with constellations, It was then that I knew, As my eyes still spilled celestial ink, That the night sky was built on hurt lovers, Cosmic beauty derived from pain, The night was an anthology of romantic tragedies, A sky of stories, A landscape painting of bloodily cut diamonds, Bled on to the firmament by the brush of our tears.
So another week is here eh? How’s it been for you? 2022 thrown any spanners at you yet? I certainly hope not, that would be rather rude. I’m really not enjoying the winter, I’ll admit. I’ve had a stinking cold yet again. It’s more annoying than debilitating at this point. It also seems like almost everyone I know is getting similar things. It’s not the great plague either, just the time of year I suppose. Still, it’s not stopped me writing at least.
So, it’s time for part 118 of the Harlequins writing music. I wonder if one day I’ll get to a thousand parts of this series. That’s quite an insane thought, even for me. Did anybody see my clue earlier today? I revealed that I’m showing off a single band in todays edition. Did anybody work out who the band was?
Yes, that’s right! It was Paddy and the Rats! Now, they are a band I’ve listened to for a couple years after finding them purely by accident on the great tube. They are a rather distinctive band from Hungary that take a lot of inspiration from the likes of Celtic and folk music. At times they can sound like a fairly standard punk rock band, but then throw in an accordion, electronica and a variety of instruments I don’t even know the names of. They have their fair share of upbeat jigs, but then are quite capable of slower, more sombre melodies. I’m going to try and show you guys just how broad their music chops can go. Let’s go, shall we?
Join me as we delve into the musical minds of Paddy and the Rats!
Paddy and the Rats – That’s My Nature
Paddy and the Rats – Join The Riot
Paddy and the Rats – My Sharona
Paddy and the Rats – Dark After The Night
Paddy and the Rats – Ghost From The Barrow
And there we go! Quite a varied array of songs eh? I could listen to these guys all day to be honest with you. It wasn’t actually too easy to narrow down my choices to only five songs, but I could hardly put the bands entire discography on here. They even did their own version of the song ‘Drunken Sailor’! It’s really good! As always, I’ll include a link to their website here for your perusal. I hope you check them out, they really deserve the love!
Speaking of links, I ought to include my own eh? The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account on Instagram and even a Twitter page! Please consider following me over on those as well, it really helps! Also, if you enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well! Cheers for everything!
Let me tell you a story, A yarn of spies and the spied upon, Of a world under our own, A world of shadow and masks, A world we are not privy to, For the better,
She is a woman, But also an agent, A clandestine weapon with fake lashes, All false wigs and suppressors, A dame of deception, She had slain tyrants while wearing unfamiliar faces, She once had a lover, But the flag stole him under its yolk,
He is a man, But also a tool, An extension of his nations left hand, All handguns and sabotage, An artist of wetwork, No foreign dossier is safe from his gloves, He longed for a normal life once, But the flag kept drawing him back,
It’s a tale of two nations, A love story spelled out in gunshots and dead drops, Of two souls under opposing masters, Once brought together by their humanity, But rent asunder by the flags inhumanity, Forced in future to kiss via crosshairs.
Stashed in this dark cubicle, Like a vintage speaker inoperable, I languish in pained silence, No more does poetry and music escape these lips, No longer do I monologue,
I am alone, No incoming voices, No mechanics come to fix me, Just perpetual let down after sore event, Spurring me to depressive inaction,
With each crank of the dial, I am less myself, Turned down in volume, A muted soul, No longer to produce a syllable nor tune,
Atop a statue once depicting liberty, Perches a foul creature, An avian actor, Decaying piece by ruinous piece, A scavenger feigning regality, A vulture wearing the feathers of an eagle, Mould and droppings falling upon a flag,
Nonetheless this animal is loved and reviled both, Regarded in both sycophantic and tyrannical aviaries, It wants not for fodder, The carcass of a republic lies below, So it rends at putrid meat no longer protected, Picking at the scraps of the citizenry, The flesh of a populace with potential,
Each wing of this beast is dyed an opposing shade, One crimson, The other a dull blue, Battling over which part to gnaw at, Even as they rot and fester, But make no mistake, Both factions are wings of the same rotten vulture.
Do you feel that bass? That tone in the atmosphere, A low hum in sequence, Pounding like artillery, You begin to sway at the sound, Intoxicating as it is, It’s a legal high, A sonic assault upon your composure, A hysteria of the limbs, It threatens to shatter your shell, Make you move against your judgement,
It’s only a matter of time, The beat continues unabated, You’ll dance to this bassline, With a grin that’d make the joker blush.
The waves are the embodiment of mystery, An oblivion of crushing weight and shadow, More unknown than the dark side of the moon, Though its wane and wax has a rhythmic aria to it, The abyss has a song all its own, A dread tune, Like tentacles licking at your eardrums, Distorted static of whalesong, The crunch of crabshell underfoot, Its lyrics manifest as thalassophobia, A warning in the mind, Sharks teeth and squid beaks upon your nape, Salt and brine on your tongue, The knowledge that man is not welcome.
I know that monitor is not just a device, I know what it means to you, It’s your social safe space, The real world was always too bitter, You met these souls without seeing their faces, Side by side exploring myriad galaxies, Across battlefields rendered in digital space, Amicable rivalries upon podiums that never were, They were and are real, They are not mere pixels and handles, They are friends, Past and present, And perhaps future also, People not profiles, Place a hand upon the screen, You can feel their palms against yours.
WorldofHarley 