Sort of wonder why
No one said a word
Don't you like it on the sly?
Don't you like it till it hurts?
Have I been on your mind?
What's a voice without a song?
Something in your head
You've been fighting all the long...
I don't want to say it
The news is not so good
We'll never get away
And even if we could
We'd just play the tambourine
Around an open flame
Oversleep and burn
To be back in the game
'Cause summer never comes
Nowhere near high noon
And winter never comes
Nor the harvest moon
Raw sugar
I don't want to die living in a high rise GRAVE
I'LL PRAY to call home
Save that date
High rise GRAVE
No I'm not complaining
Yes it could be worse
Ferment on the wish bone
Match the lips to the purse
Neighborhood's a runway
Fry the ass and thighs
Dirty diamond dealers
Pushed behind the eyes
Cause summer never comes
Nowhere near high noon
And winter never comes
Nor the harvest moon
Raw sugar
I don't want to die living in a high rise GRAVE
I'LL PRAY to call home
Save that date
High rise GRAVE
Still I wear the red dress
Paint my toes and twirl
Take it back to old times
Back when I was still a girl
'Cause now I'm all baboon boys
Coochie Coochie Coo
Sortof wonder why
I missed a kiss for you
'Cause summer never comes (save that date)
Winter never comes (high rise rate)
-Metric, "Raw Sugar"
---
This was part of the Samurai Champloo FST I downloaded recently; it's on FST if you're interested. I think it's awesome since it does a wonderful job of capturing the characters. This song is from Jin's soundtrack, and it fits him and Shino rather well. I'll write about why I love SC fairly soon, I suppose, because I really do love it. I also love this song, hence the post.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
RAGE
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write:
A poet must work to find words that flow.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Your knuckles around your pen may be white,
And it may seem your skill has reached its plateau--
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
You may reach a point when meter does not excite,
And you must, to prove that you are still a pro,
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
You may be suffering from total creative blight,
But let this not stop your writing! And so,
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
Some poems are long and tell of the plight
Of ancient gods and heroes from long ago,
And they rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Like those heroes, you must strive and fight
To produce a poem that makes readers cry, "Whoa!"
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
A poet must work to find words that flow.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Your knuckles around your pen may be white,
And it may seem your skill has reached its plateau--
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
You may reach a point when meter does not excite,
And you must, to prove that you are still a pro,
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
You may be suffering from total creative blight,
But let this not stop your writing! And so,
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
Some poems are long and tell of the plight
Of ancient gods and heroes from long ago,
And they rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Like those heroes, you must strive and fight
To produce a poem that makes readers cry, "Whoa!"
Poet, be not daunted by the poems you cannot write.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
The BURNING
Do not give in to poems that won't write:
A poet must find words that flow.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Your knuckles around your pen may be white,
And it may seem your skill has reached its plateau--
But do not give in to poems that won't write.
You may reach a point when meter does not excite,
And you must, to prove that you are still a pro,
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
You may be suffering from total creative blight,
But let this not daunt you, oh writer! And so,
Do not give in to the poem that won't write.
Some poems are long and tell of the plight
Of ancient gods and heroes from long ago,
And they rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Like those heroes, you must strive and fight
To produce a poem that makes readers go, "Whoa!"
Do not give in to poems that won't write.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
--
Villanelles are amazingly annoying- you need to have something profound to say in them, otherwise they're just ridiculous.
A poet must find words that flow.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Your knuckles around your pen may be white,
And it may seem your skill has reached its plateau--
But do not give in to poems that won't write.
You may reach a point when meter does not excite,
And you must, to prove that you are still a pro,
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
You may be suffering from total creative blight,
But let this not daunt you, oh writer! And so,
Do not give in to the poem that won't write.
Some poems are long and tell of the plight
Of ancient gods and heroes from long ago,
And they rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
Like those heroes, you must strive and fight
To produce a poem that makes readers go, "Whoa!"
Do not give in to poems that won't write.
Rage, rage against the rhyming that is trite.
--
Villanelles are amazingly annoying- you need to have something profound to say in them, otherwise they're just ridiculous.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Childhood with my Father
In summer we spent our days by the canal
-\--\--\--With buckets full of fish
-\-\-just big enough to throw back in
-\-\-\-While dreaming of sweet lemonade in the shade
In autumn we rode our bikes up past the school
-\--\--\--And talked about the world
-\-\-While laughing loudly at ourselves,
-\-\-\-To make up for missing my birthday each year.
-\--\--\--
In spring we played softball, flew kites in the park
-\--\--\--And tended roses while
-\-\-Impatients managed to escape
-\-\-\-The boundaries set by
In winter we walked through Colonial Park
- \| - - \ | - - \|-- \
where dying roses pressed
- \| - \| - \
their thorny fingers to the sky
- \| - \ | - \| - And cross country ski tracks made scars in the snow
- \ | - - \ | - - \ | - -
And bike rides with Dad down impossible hills
- \ | - - \ | - - \| - - Discussing Galileo's learned attempt
- \ - - - \- \ - - \
To take the dimensions of the damned.
- \ - - \ - \ - (Pedalling furiously, it was all a matter
Of mass ratios; dad always reached the bottom first.)
Winter reminds me of days with my dad:
\--\--\--Spent outdoors in the cold.
\-\--My father and I liked to walk through the park
- \ | - - \ | - - \ | - - In summer, spring, and fall
- \ - \ - But memories call to
-\--\--\--With buckets full of fish
-\-\-just big enough to throw back in
-\-\-\-While dreaming of sweet lemonade in the shade
In autumn we rode our bikes up past the school
-\--\--\--And talked about the world
-\-\-While laughing loudly at ourselves,
-\-\-\-To make up for missing my birthday each year.
-\--\--\--
In spring we played softball, flew kites in the park
-\--\--\--And tended roses while
-\-\-Impatients managed to escape
-\-\-\-The boundaries set by
In winter we walked through Colonial Park
- \| - - \ | - - \|-- \
where dying roses pressed
- \| - \| - \
their thorny fingers to the sky
- \| - \ | - \| - And cross country ski tracks made scars in the snow
- \ | - - \ | - - \ | - -
And bike rides with Dad down impossible hills
- \ | - - \ | - - \| - - Discussing Galileo's learned attempt
- \ - - - \- \ - - \
To take the dimensions of the damned.
- \ - - \ - \ - (Pedalling furiously, it was all a matter
Of mass ratios; dad always reached the bottom first.)
Winter reminds me of days with my dad:
\--\--\--Spent outdoors in the cold.
\-\--My father and I liked to walk through the park
- \ | - - \ | - - \ | - - In summer, spring, and fall
- \ - \ - But memories call to
Monday, November 22, 2004
The sea is calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
On a dark new year's night
on the west coast of Clare
I heard your voice singing.
Your eyes danced the song,
your hands played the tune.
T'was a vision before me.
We left the music behind and the dance carried on
as we stole away to the seashore
and smelt the brine, felt the wind in our hair
and with sadness you paused.
Suddenly, I knew that you'd have to go.
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so.
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time
and I wondered why.
As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea,
a vision came o'er me,
of thundering hooves and beating wings
in the clouds above.
As you turned to go, I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
wings to fly.
'The old ways are lost', you sang as you flew
and I wondered why.
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The pounding waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The pounding waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
-Loreena McKennit, "The Old Ways"
Theme song for Seventh Hour, and just an all around pretty song. It pleases me, because it suggests so much while saying so little. This may or may not be the first in a series of music posts; I've been neglecting the blog again, snippets of random fanfic notwithstanding.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
On a dark new year's night
on the west coast of Clare
I heard your voice singing.
Your eyes danced the song,
your hands played the tune.
T'was a vision before me.
We left the music behind and the dance carried on
as we stole away to the seashore
and smelt the brine, felt the wind in our hair
and with sadness you paused.
Suddenly, I knew that you'd have to go.
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so.
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time
and I wondered why.
As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea,
a vision came o'er me,
of thundering hooves and beating wings
in the clouds above.
As you turned to go, I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
wings to fly.
'The old ways are lost', you sang as you flew
and I wondered why.
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The pounding waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The pounding waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
-Loreena McKennit, "The Old Ways"
Theme song for Seventh Hour, and just an all around pretty song. It pleases me, because it suggests so much while saying so little. This may or may not be the first in a series of music posts; I've been neglecting the blog again, snippets of random fanfic notwithstanding.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
and now to introduce our heroine
a girl so lovely, tried and true
They say it happened on a quiet night
in April, after a thunderstorm came through,
Past the train tracks where the children played,
In the grave yard where the hippies lay.
The ground was soft and wet; the moon was full
And bright upon those groovy graves, where hands
Were sprouting from the mud to claw their way
to freedom. Daisy-like, they popped up and
They shambled slowly towards the sleeping town.
Complacency has such a ..... price.
The zombies came upon the sleeping town
And struck with groaning
A friend and I were walking when we saw
Him Fall; he started as a speck of dust
On the horizon but he grew into
A screaming meteor and tore the earth
To shreds. She ran back home to find the priest,
the mayor, and the coroner- no man
alive or dead could have survived a fall
Like that. I stayed to watch and wonder at
The cruelty of Heaven, to eject a man
So forcefully. What little I could see
Of him was beautiful. My friend returned
with all The town in tow; they cried out "God
Protect us!" when they saw the crater in
The broken ground. "Stay back!" a voice commanded
from beneath the rubble and debris.
The others fled and I alone stood firm
As inky wings unfurled to blot the sun.
He lived, despite his fall, and he was great
and terrible but I was unafraid-
For I had heard the music of the spheres
within my dreams: the sweet and perfect tones
Of angels who have yet to fear the Fall.
Robert Browning Andrea Del Sart Called The Faultless Painter p934
Wordsworth, THe Ruined Cottage p703
Two girls diverged in a yellow room
Really, Really Unfinished Ballad of the Zombies, Written Almost for Halloween, But Really a Few Weeks Late, But Who's Counting, Anyway, Since Zombies Are Cool?
They say it happened on a quiet night
in April, after a thunderstorm came through,
Past the train tracks where the children played,
In the grave yard where the hippies lay.
The ground was soft and wet; the moon was full
And bright upon those groovy graves, where hands
Were sprouting from the mud to claw their way
to freedom. Daisy-like, they popped up and
They shambled slowly towards the sleeping town.
The full moon through her window woke our sleep
-ing heroine; immediately she knew
That something was not right-
[insert end of poem here]
a girl so lovely, tried and true
They say it happened on a quiet night
in April, after a thunderstorm came through,
Past the train tracks where the children played,
In the grave yard where the hippies lay.
The ground was soft and wet; the moon was full
And bright upon those groovy graves, where hands
Were sprouting from the mud to claw their way
to freedom. Daisy-like, they popped up and
They shambled slowly towards the sleeping town.
Complacency has such a ..... price.
The zombies came upon the sleeping town
And struck with groaning
A friend and I were walking when we saw
Him Fall; he started as a speck of dust
On the horizon but he grew into
A screaming meteor and tore the earth
To shreds. She ran back home to find the priest,
the mayor, and the coroner- no man
alive or dead could have survived a fall
Like that. I stayed to watch and wonder at
The cruelty of Heaven, to eject a man
So forcefully. What little I could see
Of him was beautiful. My friend returned
with all The town in tow; they cried out "God
Protect us!" when they saw the crater in
The broken ground. "Stay back!" a voice commanded
from beneath the rubble and debris.
The others fled and I alone stood firm
As inky wings unfurled to blot the sun.
He lived, despite his fall, and he was great
and terrible but I was unafraid-
For I had heard the music of the spheres
within my dreams: the sweet and perfect tones
Of angels who have yet to fear the Fall.
Robert Browning Andrea Del Sart Called The Faultless Painter p934
Wordsworth, THe Ruined Cottage p703
Two girls diverged in a yellow room
Really, Really Unfinished Ballad of the Zombies, Written Almost for Halloween, But Really a Few Weeks Late, But Who's Counting, Anyway, Since Zombies Are Cool?
They say it happened on a quiet night
in April, after a thunderstorm came through,
Past the train tracks where the children played,
In the grave yard where the hippies lay.
The ground was soft and wet; the moon was full
And bright upon those groovy graves, where hands
Were sprouting from the mud to claw their way
to freedom. Daisy-like, they popped up and
They shambled slowly towards the sleeping town.
The full moon through her window woke our sleep
-ing heroine; immediately she knew
That something was not right-
[insert end of poem here]
fucking meters
Pentameter is a fucking shitty meter. Five stresses is at the very edge of what we can grasp in our heads at one time, and tetrameter just sounds so much more rhythmic and so much less of the suck.
Blech.
Blech.
Monday, November 15, 2004
TRIUMPH
HA! YES! I WIN!
Finally, after months and months of error messages, Blogger has republished my entire blog! YES! Oh, God, YES!
Sex isn't as good as this, ooh, baby.
*does the happy dance*
Finally, after months and months of error messages, Blogger has republished my entire blog! YES! Oh, God, YES!
Sex isn't as good as this, ooh, baby.
*does the happy dance*
Ache
All we do is ache for the chance
Of one last embrace in the falling starlight
One last eternity in the neverending
circle of your arms
One last chance to trace
with lips and tongue the scars
where tears once fell
and to look through the stained
glass windows of your soul out onto
the lush mystery they conceal
if our desire is not enough
to rekindle the spark of life
in your frail and broken body
then take our own lives as your own
take our dreams to color your cheeks
take our breath to bring dew to your mouth
take our hearts to give rythym to your dancing
take our souls to give life to your song
all we ask is one last embrace
and one more starry kiss
and to once again feel the warmth
of your skin.
----
I wrote this a long, long time ago...it sort sounds like Theron, but it's a little too sentimental. I'm losing my grip on his character, which is annoying; he can't be completely evil if Brenon loves him as much as he does.
The thing about Brenon is that he doesn't feel anything sexual for Theron- and Theron assumes otherwise because of his mother. (Oh, his mother.) What Brenon feels for Theron is just an intense desire to be as close to him as possible- it's the desire to slip inside someone else's skin and stay there, wrapped around them. It's a desire to be someone else, to an extent, but it's also a need to protect and nurture. Brenon would sooner chew his own arm off than let anything happen to Theron, which is why he snaps a little when Theron leaves...
Why is he so obsessed with the bastard? Damned if I know- it was something like love at first sight. Only it's not love in the conventional sense- it's one of those ideal sort of loves that the Greeks pratted on about.
It's a little creepy, yes. (Not that I know anything about what that actually feels like... *coughingfit*)
Those three iambic lines in the center- "last chance to trace.... the scars...where tears once fell" spent a very long time walking around in my head, waiting very impatiently to be written down. They still show up from time to time; it's one of my favorite quasi-erotic images. I can't remember if I'd posted this before, you see, so if I have, then I'm just posting it again.
It pleases me, despite the fact that it's old and has no particular meter. (Verse writing has spoiled me for writing random stream of consciousness things.)
Of one last embrace in the falling starlight
One last eternity in the neverending
circle of your arms
One last chance to trace
with lips and tongue the scars
where tears once fell
and to look through the stained
glass windows of your soul out onto
the lush mystery they conceal
if our desire is not enough
to rekindle the spark of life
in your frail and broken body
then take our own lives as your own
take our dreams to color your cheeks
take our breath to bring dew to your mouth
take our hearts to give rythym to your dancing
take our souls to give life to your song
all we ask is one last embrace
and one more starry kiss
and to once again feel the warmth
of your skin.
----
I wrote this a long, long time ago...it sort sounds like Theron, but it's a little too sentimental. I'm losing my grip on his character, which is annoying; he can't be completely evil if Brenon loves him as much as he does.
The thing about Brenon is that he doesn't feel anything sexual for Theron- and Theron assumes otherwise because of his mother. (Oh, his mother.) What Brenon feels for Theron is just an intense desire to be as close to him as possible- it's the desire to slip inside someone else's skin and stay there, wrapped around them. It's a desire to be someone else, to an extent, but it's also a need to protect and nurture. Brenon would sooner chew his own arm off than let anything happen to Theron, which is why he snaps a little when Theron leaves...
Why is he so obsessed with the bastard? Damned if I know- it was something like love at first sight. Only it's not love in the conventional sense- it's one of those ideal sort of loves that the Greeks pratted on about.
It's a little creepy, yes. (Not that I know anything about what that actually feels like... *coughingfit*)
Those three iambic lines in the center- "last chance to trace.... the scars...where tears once fell" spent a very long time walking around in my head, waiting very impatiently to be written down. They still show up from time to time; it's one of my favorite quasi-erotic images. I can't remember if I'd posted this before, you see, so if I have, then I'm just posting it again.
It pleases me, despite the fact that it's old and has no particular meter. (Verse writing has spoiled me for writing random stream of consciousness things.)
Friday, November 12, 2004
FFVII Redux
"Space aliens! Why the god damn fucking hell did it have to be space aliens! Fuckers!" Cid glared at Nanaki as though it were the big cat's fault.
Cosmo Canyon's guardian shrugged, the human motion looking odd on his inhuman frame. "We won't know what their intentions are until they come closer to the planet, but we can still see them from here. Take a look through the telescope yourself, and tell me what you think."
Cid's palms were itching for the haft of the Venus Gospel, so he settled for lighting another cigarette, despite Nanaki's impatient and disapproving stare. "Whatcha want me to do?"
"Just look through the view piece."
He could hear Nanaki fiddling with the controls as he leaned over the periscope-looking thing attached to the telescope. The starry sky spread out before his eyes in larger-than-life detail.
"Please wait a moment while I set the proper coordinates."
Cid repressed a snort; the damn cat was always so fuckin' polite. He waited while the image in the view piece swam in and out of focus before settling on one spot in the sky.
Cid's jaw dropped, along with his cigarette. "Holy fuckin' shit!" And he'd thought the Shinra no.26 was beautiful when they'd first launched her- half a dozen elegant, silvery, birdlike shapes hung in the sky like Yuletide ornaments. They glowed faintly against the backdrop of space, reflecting all the colors of the stars around them in a soft, multihued corona.
They were the sexiest fucking thigs he'd ever seen.
Nanaki's voice was slightly drier than usual. "I figured you would appreciate the telescope."
Cid hadn't even heard him. "D'you think they'd let me borrow one of 'em for a while?"
Cosmo Canyon's guardian shrugged, the human motion looking odd on his inhuman frame. "We won't know what their intentions are until they come closer to the planet, but we can still see them from here. Take a look through the telescope yourself, and tell me what you think."
Cid's palms were itching for the haft of the Venus Gospel, so he settled for lighting another cigarette, despite Nanaki's impatient and disapproving stare. "Whatcha want me to do?"
"Just look through the view piece."
He could hear Nanaki fiddling with the controls as he leaned over the periscope-looking thing attached to the telescope. The starry sky spread out before his eyes in larger-than-life detail.
"Please wait a moment while I set the proper coordinates."
Cid repressed a snort; the damn cat was always so fuckin' polite. He waited while the image in the view piece swam in and out of focus before settling on one spot in the sky.
Cid's jaw dropped, along with his cigarette. "Holy fuckin' shit!" And he'd thought the Shinra no.26 was beautiful when they'd first launched her- half a dozen elegant, silvery, birdlike shapes hung in the sky like Yuletide ornaments. They glowed faintly against the backdrop of space, reflecting all the colors of the stars around them in a soft, multihued corona.
They were the sexiest fucking thigs he'd ever seen.
Nanaki's voice was slightly drier than usual. "I figured you would appreciate the telescope."
Cid hadn't even heard him. "D'you think they'd let me borrow one of 'em for a while?"
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
November
November smells like blood.
The cold numbs the senses, but the stench is there, underlying the smell of snow and leaves. Blood colors everything even as the world grows sterile in the chill.
November smells like blood.
It leaks out of every pore and orifice, and then it hangs in the air until December, when it gets buried beneath a layer of frost. Until then, it's everywhere, from the tip of your tongue to the tip of your fingers.
It sits heavy in the pit of your stomach, churning into sickness and bile.
November smells like blood- November, the ninth month displaced to the penultimate syllable in a long, long year. All Saint's month, heralded by Halloween- blood sacrifices stick around longer than we'd like.
I fucking hate November. I can't stand the smell of blood.
The cold numbs the senses, but the stench is there, underlying the smell of snow and leaves. Blood colors everything even as the world grows sterile in the chill.
November smells like blood.
It leaks out of every pore and orifice, and then it hangs in the air until December, when it gets buried beneath a layer of frost. Until then, it's everywhere, from the tip of your tongue to the tip of your fingers.
It sits heavy in the pit of your stomach, churning into sickness and bile.
November smells like blood- November, the ninth month displaced to the penultimate syllable in a long, long year. All Saint's month, heralded by Halloween- blood sacrifices stick around longer than we'd like.
I fucking hate November. I can't stand the smell of blood.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
six years too late, and now we're lost in the silence.
Fuck, I don't think I can breathe. This isn't fair, not fair at all but life isn't fucking fair and I hate this so much it hurts and it's hard to breathe.
November is worse than February, so much worse.
Christ. It still hurts to breathe.
November is worse than February, so much worse.
Christ. It still hurts to breathe.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Music
We watch as green-filmed lamps illuminate
Each dark musician's stand and well-marked page
Below the dimming lights upon the stage.
There's silence as we hold our breaths and wait.
A deadly tuning chord strikes true and straight
While instruments prepare to wail and rage:
A grand orchestral army sent to wage
A war against the apathy of fate.
Some others might have wavered, been unsure
In sounding Allegretto-angry, and
Some symphonies might shy and be demure.
But this is something shocking, wild and pure;
So even though we hear the music end
This transcendental energy endures.
Each dark musician's stand and well-marked page
Below the dimming lights upon the stage.
There's silence as we hold our breaths and wait.
A deadly tuning chord strikes true and straight
While instruments prepare to wail and rage:
A grand orchestral army sent to wage
A war against the apathy of fate.
Some others might have wavered, been unsure
In sounding Allegretto-angry, and
Some symphonies might shy and be demure.
But this is something shocking, wild and pure;
So even though we hear the music end
This transcendental energy endures.