Posts Tagged ‘history’

I admire the philosophers,
The thinkers,
Those followers of wisdom,
Those Platos and Nietzches,
Those who deign to study reality and existence,
Thankless profession as it is,

Unlike the astronomers,
Who look outward,
To that more tangible mystery,
These souls look deep inside,
Into that primordial mass that is humanity,
The wiles of our nature,

They ask questions,
Is there meaning in life?
What is consciousness?
Are there deities?
Fate or free will?
Positing enigmas ad infinitum,

Yet they shout into the void,
No concrete answers will echo back,
And for that,
I admire these personages,
Because they understand that basic tenet,
Philosophy is to know that you know nothing.

Hello there inmates!

I didn’t see you lurking there! How are you all doing? Having a nice week so far? That’s wonderful to hear! It’s been a rather eventful one for me too. I actually started a new job this week, which has given me the opportunity to get out and about a bit more. Hopefully make some new friends too eh? The weather has been absolutely bizarre. Thunderstorm after hot sun after rainstorm. It simply can’t make its mind up. It’s quite frustrating when you’ve got to travel by bike. Haha!

Anyway, let’s get on to the meat of todays post. The reason that you’re all here, theoretically. The Harlequins writing music! I always find it breaks up the week quite nicely, between my poems. A reprieve, if you will. Did anybody see todays theme clue? It’s a slightly harder one to explain if I’m honest. And potentially something of a red herring.

Todays musical theme is… high school! Or rather “high school never ends”. The clue I used today was from the music video of the Bowling For Soup song by the same name. Clever eh? But what do I mean by this one? Songs based around school wouldn’t be all that interesting after all. Well, no. Todays musical theme is more centred around showing you all a few of the songs/artists that I “started with” back in the day. The favourite songs and bands of my formative years. The music that has contributed to shaping my tastes these days. Angsty teenage Harley was a bit of a plonker, but present Harley has a lot to thank him for on the musical front. Want to hear some of the music that I listened to in my bedroom on my PC or iPod? Let’s try it eh?

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

Coheed and Cambria – Welcome Home
https://www.coheedandcambria.com/

She Wants Revenge – True Romance
https://www.shewantsrevenge.com/

My Chemical Romance – Helena
https://www.mychemicalromance.com/

Linkin Park – Numb
https://www.linkinpark.com/

The Shanklin Freak Show – The Light Fantastic
https://www.facebook.com/theshanklinfreakshow/

And there we have it! What did you think of those eh? There were so many others that I could have included on this one, but I’d be here for eons. I may even ending up doing this theme again some time. So, from listening to these, you may be able to see how they have influenced my own writing style, creative endeavours and indeed this asylum as well. I really suggest listening to all of these, they definitely deserve the attention. It’s nice to look back and see how far I’ve come.

Speaking of nice, would you be to me? Maybe follow me on social media? The asylum has a page over on Facebook, an account over on Instagram and even a page on Twitter. Please consider following on those as well, it really helps me out. Also, if you really enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well. Thanks for everything!

Until next week, have a very crazy day inmates!

After an arduous quest,
She finally returned,
With nary a parade or fanfare,
Not an inkling of celebration,
Quietly gracing our fair township,
Armour sundered and blade shattered,
She had slain the minotaur,
Its labyrinth and reign of bloodshed,
She took no trophy though,
The deed was reward enough,

Exhausted she meandered the streets,
An unknown,
No citizen paid her any mind,
No accolades graced her hands,
Not a single coin as reparation,
No recognition for the gift she’d imparted,
The blood she’d spent,
But alas,
That’s what being a true hero is,
Altruism in plate armour.

This world is split into petty fiefdoms,
Swathes of land divided haphazardly,
Lines painted in blood and oil,
An unnatural barrier with great sway,
With the common folk cut betwixt masters,
Made unwilling foes,
A race split into us and them,
Fighting wars over borders pencilled in by dead men,

As they laugh in their coffins,
Already bedded with their winnings,
These lines,
Their artistic carving of dirt,
Impels us to be unwitting conscripts,
Speaking in munitions rather than parlance,
Trading antagonisms as readily as grain,
Dividing us ever further.

To those of us about to die,
To each patriot and scallywag among our number,
To the men sailing for King and country,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those lads about to be run through,
The bodies soon to be broken and burned,
The men butchered by shrapnel and cannon,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those mothers and widows-to-be,
The saints left on home soil,
Those with newly cold beds,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those who’ll survive though mangled,
Cursed with phantom limbs and shellshock,
To the victims whose minds are now ravaged,
Fair winds and following seas,

To those names laid in granite before me,
To those lads who have earned a final rest,
Now upon clouds or burning in flames,
Fair winds and following seas.

Part of the same ‘universe’ as “Hedge Knight“.

During that war betwixt would-be monarchs,
There was one knight who stood monolithic,
The blackguard,
A ghastly terror on and off the hills of battle,
They say he was in love with death herself,

Where his sabatons fell,
All hope finds itself stifled,
A pall of dark smog coats the sky,
Flowers wilt and grass withers,
Game flees out of sight,

And he approached our hamlet,
Decay walking into our agora in full plate,
Zweihander in clenched fist,
Already caked in the wine of loyalist bodies,
His courser slavering and exhaling grave dust,

We could only flee our homes,
Displaced by this effigy of doom,
This horror,
The reapers husband in the flesh,
If he were flesh at all.

From the poppy,
To a brown dose of liquid,
To the tongue in distress,
In agony,

Prescribed from the cabinet of a backstreet quack,
To a tincture of proto-morphine,
To a mind in need of rest,
Of sleep,

From a stolen concoction of opium,
To the hidden stash of liquor and heroin,
To the den of an addict poisoned,
Passed away.

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.

A relic was rent from the Earth,
Petrified and earnest within,
Once contains life,
But now a coiled tombstone,
A vision of the past in each radial segment,
Oracular sights in each fossilised tinge,
Mounts and continents long eroded,
Behemoths lost to the dirt,

This ammonite,
This serpentstone,
Left stopped in time during a prehistoric dance,
Dull turquoise in a waltz with emerald and violet,
It’s a spiral reminder,
To a time long gone,
A time before the modern plague descended,
Industrial ages stealing the Earths future years.

Among those fearsome boreal raiders,
When a warrior falls,
Respects must be paid,
For a warrior to rest easy,
Like a toll to the reaper,
A gift to the hereafter,
Like any legendary fighter has a moniker,
A warriors sword too has a name,
A hero in its own right,
And like any partner would hope for,
It was interred beside him,
The warriors sword was bent double,
Granted a warriors death itself,
And covered in the same graveyard dirt,
To lay still in the same valhalla.