For our graft to bear fruit,
We throw ourselves wholly into our art,
We seek no reward,
That’s not the point,
We don’t want medals,
But perhaps a verbal salve to the heart,
We all want that pat on the back,
A show of hands from family and colleagues,
Acclaim and recognition,
Perhaps even grand fame,
To be acknowledged,
It’s only human nature,
But I say all of that be secondary,
The best accolades come from within,
The warmth of ones own creative furnace,
The feeling of a job well done,
It’s true that we are our own most vicious critic,
But we ought to be our most fervent devotee.
That tenuous line between cognizance and sleep,
It’s a dangerous time for me,
When the sun no longer has my back,
And no valiant comrade can aid me,
The ghouls in my head stir,
Buried there by my own hand,
Silence is the loudest sound,
When the skeletons start to rise,
Dead hopes,
Spectral memories,
Wailing for my attention,
My skull becomes an echo chamber of a cemetery,
It becomes a deafening clarion call,
A deathknell for my peace,
A choir of revenants begin their concert,
Every historical ill laid bare at bellowing audacity,
Clawing at this mausoleum of my head,
Prelude to the nightmares to come.
Gravity feels reversed,
Like an invisible magnetism to the blue,
I may be a helium balloon,
The sky is pulling on my feet,
I grip on to this wasteland by fingernails,
Barely snagging on to this loathsome wild west,
A sudden gasp,
And I’m off,
Falling away from reality,
Off in to the stratosphere I go,
Past an ovation of psychedelic clouds,
My ears pop at the sound of their symphony,
The sky becomess a spirited aurora borealis,
My senses stewed by the prismatic heavens,
Warping around me as I fall upward,
I watch real life fade on the horizon,
I don’t want my feet to fall on reality again,
I prefer this intoxicating madness.
Isn’t life just the worst?
I’ve noticed an abominable pattern,
The brain weaves tales of hyperbole,
Exaggerations you take at face value,
Negative truths in inverted commas,
Detractors to your mood,
That inner voice speaks thus,
You look like a troll without a bridge,
Your intelligence quotient is microscopic,
Not a single soul wants to abide you,
This depressive ache weighs a ton,
You’re the only human to experience this,
These embellishments sound like realities in your glum mood,
It would be easy to let them reduce you to a husk,
But only one truth should be central,
One to be taken to heart,
You’re the best you the world has ever seen,
That is no hyperbole,
I hope that the day finds you all well and making the most of every hour! It’s been a rather mundane week, but its allowed me to find some curious subjects for poems. I was particularly happy with ‘Hood’ which comes from my interest in military history and ‘Bloodied Asphalt’ which was inspired by a news story here on the island this week. A little different from my recent stuff I feel! Hope it’s been enjoyable!
So, here’s another edition of the Harlequins writing music! It’s going to be another smorgasbord of musical artists for you people to get down and arty with! It’ll be five artists again this week. Let’s see what I came up with this time eh? I can barely contain the anticipation of what past-me came with!
So, join me as we delve into the musical minds of wonderful artists the world over!
And there we have it for another outburst of the Harlequins writing music!
Some curious choices there no? There was one in particular that was a slight nuisance to find the information for and that was the Initial D one. You see, Initial D is actually a manga/anime/movie that quite a few eurodance tracks are attributed to, including this one. However the actual artist is the Italian man I have linked to. Just to clear up any confusion.
So, I’m going to move on to my social media nonsense now. The asylum has a page on Facebook, and account over on Instagram and even a page on Twitter. It would help me a lot if you glorious people could come follow/like me if you enjoy my work. 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, much gratitude to you fine folks and until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!
Amongst these brick and mortar cattle runs,
Ofttimes there are cries,
At increasing intervals,
Blood and missing teeth have become currency,
Knives no longer endangered beasts,
As violence takes the asphalt stage,
Under grey weeping skies,
There are hooded souls cooped up too long,
Compelled towards a kind of gang lunacy,
Closed fists encouraged by closed doors,
Frustration morphed into crime,
Assault piled atop assault,
It wasn’t always this way,
These sidewalks were once humble and pristine,
A virus has begotten further illness,
Sickness of the mind,
And the asphalt bears the evidence,
Red and running outward.
On one fateful day,
On the straits of Denmark,
An iron knight was laid low,
Clad in atlantic fleet grey,
The Mighty Hood,
Pride of a kingdom,
Reduced to scuttled wreck,
Pierced by HE crows from enemy ordnance,
Sent afly by a chancellors namesake,
Explosions cry out,
And the valour of the Royal Navy is frayed,
Rended and sent below the waves,
To be a monument to a fallen chivalrous age,
Now in cold waters does she finally rest,
Life is a story,
A play,
Directed and starred in by you,
It’s a monumental undertaking,
For which tickets are not sold but found,
So how your saga plays out,
To which heroes you draw upon,
The friends and allies you choose,
The pikes and standards that shall comprise your battle line,
It’s purely up to you,
Which villains you face,
Everests scaled and agonies weathered,
The trials you come to contend with,
The high octane action scenes you orchestrate,
It’s down to your personal plot,
All tales end,
That is the directive of chronology after all,
But rare is the yarn that is remembered,
So make it memorable,
Make it a saga for the ages.
To be normal is such a sad affair,
To attire oneself in grey boilers,
To toe the social line,
To be a drone,
Humdrum,
Uniqueness is a defect they claim,
We are expected to be numbers,
Cogs in a cold machine,
You must be this way,
Or else you are a mistake,
Normality is a guillotine,
A sharpened edge galvanised by off glances,
To live and die amongst a critical crowd,
Without your soul unleashing its colour and zeal,
Without your personal art being displayed to the world,
So I say dance without music,
Paint with your hands,
Think how you want to think,
Don’t lose that element of individuality,
Your mad grin.
There’s something under my bad,
A shadowy ghoul,
I hear it,
As I bang my head against the wall of sleep,
My duvet a cushy restraint,
Complicit in this uneasy atmosphere,
The thing slinks from one end of the bed to the other,
With the mad grace of a fish out of water,
I’ve never seen it,
But it smells of dust and sulphur,
I hear it every night,
It clicks unknowable limbs in revolting movements,
Scuffling about and giggling to itself,
Speaking in ornery tongues,
Alien fangs gnawing on fingernails,
Rustling against the bedframe with oily hair or scales,
I do wonder if it ever peeks out,
I dare not look,
But when I close my eyes finally,
I feel palpable vision upon me.
