Posts Tagged ‘emotions’

The pillow to my side,
Whereupon caressed a head not my own,
Has quite a special scent,
A scent that mesmerises,

The scent swirls in my mind,
Filling me with calm and zeal,
A menagerie of sweet thoughts,
A roiling euphoria,

A reminder of the day before,
And the darling who graced it,
A sleeping beauty,
And a waking one,

An ally,
All curves and pale skin,
A companion,
All mascara and piercings,
A true friend.

Hello there fellow inmates!

You don’t need to adjust your monitors, your eyes are not deceiving you! It is, in truth, an actual new post from your friendly resident Harlequin. The asylum is not yet dead! I’ve been away from the blogosphere for some time. The reasons for this are myriad, i’m afraid. I’ve neglected my writing, my artwork, the lot. It’s a real shame, if i’m honest.

I’m not going to go into any details about what’s been going. Suffice to say, i’ve not been very well. I’ve been struggling with mental illness, and i feel that is all that needs to be said. We all have endured something similar or know someone who has. I’ve finally started to dig myself out of that hole and getting back to what makes me; me. It’s been a fairly long road, and there is much distance still to be covered. But frankly, i needed something to focus on. The asylum here at WorldofHarley was always supposed to be an escape, a sanctum. A place where i can simply be myself.

After some pushing from friends, it seemed logical to return to that sanctum. WorldofHarley is the best thing for me right now. Something to focus on. To try and return to some kind of routine. Self-therapy, if you like. So here we are!

This is something of an update. The Harlequin and the asylum are back. If anyone remembers me, then thank you so much for your patience. Haha! I’m going to try and be as regular as possible. I’m not quite sure what more to say other than…

Have a very crazy day inmates!

The Land of the Free quakes,
Disaster looms above,
Or so it’s said,
Many believe it to be so,

Neighbours look sideways at one another,
Rights become targets,
For the firing squad that is corruption,
Few tears are shed,
Even fewer protests are uttered,

Division and hatred,
These weapons of mass destruction,
Maybe orchestrated by a court of white,
Filled with a rogues gallery,
In business suits and colourful badges,

Led by something of a jester,
With delusions of grandeur,
Possessing a nationalist baton,
And a dangerous red button,
Poking the bear and dragon,

The time has come,
A red mushroom cloud erupts,
In the shape of a pachyderm,
The Land of the Free is no more,
The world is ending.

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.

I often feel,
I’m surrounded by insects,
Moths specifically,

They flutter in office spaces,
Flitter sullenly about suburbs,
And drift carelessly along sidewalks,

They commune briefly,
Then fly on,
Towards their each own light,

We’re all moths you know,
We flutter about on frail wings,
Fragile aimless things,

We don’t even know we’re doing it,
We all have different wings,
Yet we all strive towards the same thing,

Towards a light,

At least we believe it’s the sun,
But as we draw closer,
The sun is peculiarly crypt-shaped.

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.

Hello inmates.

I haven’t done one of these in a rather long time. Not since 2014! I’m not sure why, I suppose it simply never really came up. Maybe I haven’t been reminiscing as much recently. Anyway, I quite liked the idea of it before, So I’ve decided to make another with some of my older poems in it. It seemed apt with the new year looming in the horizon. Mayhap a little self-indulgent, but I don’t want my older poems to be forgotten. So, I would encourage any newer inmates to take a gander, You might see something you like!

The Clockwork Dragon – A tale of a frightening mechanical nightmare.
Internal Hydra – A poem, or perhaps an introspection, on humanity’s inner monster.
Red Stamp – An experimental poem about the horrors of fascism.
Night Sky – A poem about my adoration of the night.
Shotgun Romance – A twisted poem about love.
Sorcery – A poem about the magic of our own potential.
Beast of Eyes – A story of an otherworldly being.
Dirge of the Jester – One of my few forays into rhyme.

So there we have it. Just my personal picks from my archives. Every piece of writing I create is important to me, so I’d appreciate it immensely if you would let me know what you think. Here’s hoping that you won’t regret having a read.

On a side note, I hope you’ve been enjoying my more recent works! I’ve been getting back into the routine of writing daily, and I’ve been feeling so much better for it. Thanks to every one of you who takes the time to visit the asylum!

Until next time, have a very crazy day inmates!

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?

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.

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.