Posts Tagged ‘literature’

Humans are golems,
Not of stone and clay,
Sculpted by artisan hands,
But a patchwork of ordeals,
An amalgam of experiences,
Lessons and trials knitting flesh,
We are rendered sentient by our stories,
Line and verse within each vein,

They make us who we are,
Gearing our natures,
Augmenting how we interact with the world,
No tale is ever the same after all,
And stories are fireproof,
Even at the point of death,
Our narratives continue on,
Blended with those of our loved ones.

We are atheneae,
A collection of tales and tomes,
And we decide how that knowledge is circulated,
And to whom,
Not all deserve your stories,
The lore of your ways,
That is earned,

Let your mind be apocrypha,
Esoteric to the outside world,
A library for the few,
Only the steadfast should know,
Let others guess and conjecture,
They are just priests of control,
Inquisitors and book-burners,

You know what you know,
You are your stories,
Your canon is yours alone,
It is written upon your bones,
Protect it as you would a child,
Let it survive,
Let it be apocrypha.

Writers are like blacksmiths,
Craftsmen of tools and symbols,
An understated vocation of creation,
Fashioning words into blades of warfare,
Moulding beauty in the form of iron,
Coffin nails for a corrupt world,

The bourbon essence of a writers desk,
Just like the charcoal stink of a forge,
It’s a place of sweat and heat,
Thoughts smelted into priceless ore,
Material is wrought into cutting art,
A trial by fire upon the page,

In place of a furnace,
Your work is shaped with a different heat,
The zeal of your message,
The ardour behind your stanzas,
Just as torrid as any flame,
Equally as divine,

Poetry is a steel all its own,
Keen-edged and unbreakable.

Hello there inmates!

Oh lawd the blues have come! I may have been wrong last week about feeling blue after the Halloween season was over because it seems to be lingering even now. I’ve not been feeling very enthusiastic about anything recently, with the exception of sleep. It’s really frustrating as I know I’m doing it and how backwards it is. I’m better than this. I’m not exactly sure why I’m lamenting about this publicly but I felt it was worth mentioning to y’all after some more forlorn poems in recent days. It appears the weather has been of the same mind as we’ve been hit with some very significant rains over the last week. We’ve been struggling with some flooding in some areas on the island. The Isle of Wight and its infrastructure never seems to cope well with such things. Alas…

So, on to more positive things eh? Did anybody see the clue for todays writing music theme? I think it may have been a rather difficult one to deduce if you didn’t recognise the individuals in the photo. You see todays musical theme is, in fact, not strictly a theme at all but rather will be focussing once again on a specific artist!

Would you like me to introduce you to them? Todays musical ‘guests’ will be the Tiger Lillies! In my opinion they are a band that defies logical explanation. They are a cult musical trio from the UK who describe themselves as “Brechtian Punk Cabaret” and I think it’s fair to say they are one of the originals in the area; inspiring such acts as the Dresden Dolls. They’re a rather avant-garde group that has a rather unique sound. I picture them as a drunken and downcast mime with an accordion in post-war Berlin. I should mention that the subject matter of many of their songs can be rather offensive and dark, to say the least. They were brought together by the vocalist and accordionist Martyn Jacques. Oh, what can I say about Mr. Jacques? He possibly has one of the most unique vocal styles that I’m personally aware of. It just has to be heard to be believed. So rather than impotently rambling about this singular music artist, perhaps it would be better if I got on with the actual music eh? Let’s get on with it!

Please join me as we delve into the musical minds of the Tiger Lillies!

The Tiger Lillies – Bully Boys

The Tiger Lillies – Thousand Violins

The Tiger Lillies – Jack

The Tiger Lillies – Gin

The Tiger Lillies – Is That All There Is?

And there we have it! What do you think eh? You understand why I said they’re impossible to describe in a succinct manner. I tried to get a good mix of their music as their style and subject matter has shifted numerous times over the years. I do hope that you enjoy this artist as I feel they don’t get the attention that they deserve. I will be including their website link below for all of you to check out as well.

The Tiger Lillies website:

Speaking of websites, I have some pages on some social media ones as well! The asylum attempts to get some attention on my Facebook page, I also have a page over on Instagram and last but not kind of least a page on Twitter as well! Please think about following and liking me over on those sites as well. It would mean the world to me. Also, if you really enjoy what I do here at the asylum, please consider supporting me over on the Ko-Fi page as well. Thank you all for everything!

So, until next week, please have a very crazy day inmates!

Once in the caves of time,
I wrote a tear strewn letter,
To a beau of yesteryear,
To reveal the garden of my heart,
My intentions were that of scented flowers,
Though the reception was likely stainless steel,

To put pen to paper was an ordeal,
My quill was a frigate in a storm,
A typhoon falling upon the parchment,
This water would not propagate a flowerbed,
The etchings persisted through my rain,
Though every second word was tainted by aqua,

When the torture was finished,
When the roses were cast atop the casket,
I signed with a trembling flourish,
A terminal gift,
Fastened to it as a final kiss,
A peony held with a paperclip.

Normal conversation is a main course,
One that rarely tantalises me,
And rarer still is it served with skill,
I find it an unappealing slop,
An insipid entrée,
The texture of the words grows unpalatable,
Rough and unforgiving,
Undercooked and shallow,

These dull strings of words,
They are not the juicy flesh of wagyu beef,
Nor the silky glide of spaghetti bolognese,
Not even the warming quaff of soup,
They do not entice,
Or enkindle,
Nor entertain,
I am not sated by that drivel,

Increasingly so,
The texture of normality is grist to me,
Absent of taste,
Mediocre chat bound for the toilet bowl,
But then again,
It has to be stated,
Perhaps it is my taste,
Such as it is.

In conversation,
I find it rather easy to choke,
On words,
On phrases,
My oesophagus is awash in letters,
Chunks of language undigested,
Like fat in a drain,
Well and truly clogged,

I cough and splutter,
Unable to get the locutions out,
Talking in tongues,
Gurgling in gibberish,
Growing more blue with each failed gasp,
The paragraphs scratch my throat like nails,
I’m destined to be choked by the words,
And no friendly Heimlich will help.

To write is to draw claret,
To exsanguinate the quill,
Ink is the blood of literature,
A proxy of the authors own,
In lieu of slicing ones truth into the wrist,
It gives audible voice to internal monologue,
In written idiom,
Thoughts given allegorical form,

Administering this black blood,
It’s a primal form of ministration,
Lyrical runes etched into a body of work,
Cruor to smear across its skin,
Symbols composed in profound scripts,
Contexts affected by the beholder,
It’s the magic of that substance,
The ink.

I attempt to scribble each day,
Ever since I met Shakespeare I wanted to write,
Since I broke bread with Lovecraft,
Was lectured by Nietzsche,
Sipped fresh tea across from Austen,
I longed to put my soul to paper,
Their work is a literary blueprint,
One that I follow poorly,
My pen is a crayon in comparison,
Macaroni art to their opuses,
Put on the fridge by an indifferent clientele,
Stood beside those greats,
Those mavens,
I am a wannabe,
Playing at authorship,
Faking it and not making it,
A nobody.

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.