He never said when it would happen.
Only that it would.
You couldn’t have predicted the day. The minute.
How the moonlight would fall, ice-blue,
on your one hundred millionth heartbeat—
that fierce mud-muscle still rap-tap-tapping
on ribs carved with
someone else’s name.
You couldn’t have known that
the pump would fail the body first.
How this flesh, once galvanized from
dust and worms and the lowest of matter
would exhaust itself and sag, sick and weary,
toward the familiarity of hell.
You couldn’t have seen it coming,
because you never believed
you had a heart to vulcanize.
But nightmares never lie.
When the man with black eyes said
this is what you’re going to become
you should’ve known you’d follow his lead.
But you didn’t have to do it
heart first.
quick notes:
Screencap’s from “Repo Man”, right after Jeffrey says “Love of my life, actually”
Falling is instinct. Any fool chickadee
knows how to surrender
to gravity. It’s not some triumph.
Even your planet falls
endlessly toward its sun.
Nothing to admire here, or lament.
Just the way it is.
Empires. Angels. Who cares?
The earth still tugs our bones
homeward, arrogance eroded
by mud and man and bumblebee jazz.
That we remain aloft as long as we do—
well. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a parable.
Just fools like us denying better natures
for the transient thrill of wind
ruffling our feathers.
Keep it together, man.
Keep your mysterious ways.
I’m not superstitious. I know basic physics:
entropy, forces, the states of matter.
The universe craves its own destruction;
we all fall apart
no matter how we fight it.
In the end, our atoms release one another
and become something, someone else
until there’s no one left to become.
So why not reform as lightning?
Why fight the phase transition
when I had it in me all along?
For there’s only so long you can pick and pick and pick at a scab
until the pink skin peeks back at you
like an abyss.
Today I release these old hurts,
let them float away
in a broke-down EM field—
or not—I don’t care—
for I have become what matter always was meant to.
I lied. I do care. And
you can make whatever promises you like
but I remember basic physics and
heat death is just scientist-speak for
peace everlasting.
Alona Tal as Jo.
(via)
hard talking gunslinger girl
hardly time to grow up except
that she’s always been
older than she should’ve been, alwaysknew the things her momma would rather
she didn’t - like how to break
down a rifle in under a minute and how not to break
when the taste of grave dust is in her mouth and
she’s less than a minute from death and
how to smile nice and fight dirty and break
hearts and walk away friends and never let it shownever let it show
she knows other things too, such as
never trust anyone, not fully, never believe
that they will come back
never believe that anyone will save you
if you can’t save yourselfshe loved her daddy and she loves her mom
and all she’s ever wanted is to be free
she’s going to die hard, her guts held in
by an ace bandage and her blood thick
in her mouth and she knows
she’s dying young but, hell,
she knew the score and she still
picked up that gun
Damn that’s good. Makes me almost like her. :)
“i’ll tell you, life is funny.”
tessa the reaper appreciation - 4.15 (death takes a holiday)
all appreciation posts
“The Winchester Gospels”, Book 7.23: The Three Loves of the Righteous Man
Three Great Loves hath The Righteous Man:
The Steed, the only woman he never broke
who hath purred for his touch and his touch alone;The Fallen Angel, who saved and was saved in return
he who hath taught a faithless man belief;And the Greatest of all: the Reaper, she who waits
At the crossroads, where the long road ends.
(via jimmynovaks)
The desert, I think, doesn’t hide its secrets
but clothe them, like a priestess exalted,
shrugging on her byssus robe,
and dabbing flecks of mica on kohl-lined eyes,
as if to say here I am,
world, look upon
what terrors and wonders I’ve wrought
in the hearts of men.
The asps and ished leaves were her
promise to live forever, underscored
by root tangles, like eye sockets or cracked bones:
the perfect human story
written in empty domes beneath the dirt.
Yes, it’s a faulty metaphor,
but only you and I will know
since we’re the last remaining believers
in the lie of undiscovered country,
the sole scribes left
to marvel at her dust-hieratic
and perceive the poetry
of shadows and wind.
(thanks to mishasminions for the gif! go check ‘em out!)
***
When you
crush my mouth close
I hear
the river sing
siren
whispers I should
block my ears
rejoice,
it commands, but
the song
is only blood
drowning
from inside out
i’m going under
this breath—
my first, my last—
is shared
your palm on lung,
willing
out an exhale
i can’t—no—won’t
give in
just tread water
falling
feels like floating
if you
can’t see the sun
i slip underneath
and you
flare so proudly
my own
armageddon
so hot
and so bright on
these incoming tides
Dean, what are you doing here?
Some loves were never meant to be
taken off the wall, the canvas inspected
for discolorations and lumps—
the sins of the painter
hastily covered up
with valiant tans and blues.
you were always my favorite first draft
if it’s any consolation; I must have painted over you
a thousand times.
eventually I got it right
eventually
though first I had to peel back all the layers
covering you up. so I
scoured you head to toe with sandpaper;
washed your hair with turpentine;
melted away your clothes
with a hairdryer as hot as hellfire
until all that was left
was your bold mouth, and
charcoal curves
so primal and ferocious.
the original of Lisa
wasn’t as clear as I’d remembered
its anatomy all wrong, like a dream interrupted—
how I ended up so far afield from the concept
I’m still not sure
so forgive me, goddess
for doing your beauty such injustice;
forgive me, goddess
I should have sculpted you instead.
my hands then could have translated
what the mind could not
and I could fix you and fix you and fix you
until I finally got it right
but of course we both know
some things are
better left
untouched.
(via prisseusjackson)
I went to church
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Tambourines sang of
grace and praise and hellfire
as sweat slid down my temple.
Fine silks and poplin rustled,
metronomes for my hitching breath.
I clapped, palms cupping empty air, and
uttered a low and choked amen,
no louder than the whisper of feathers.
I went to a hospital
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Beeping and whirring and chirping—
such a jolly psalm for hearts dismantled;
and in between
a susurrated prayer
against cracked lips, the twitch
of green, bloated fingers against over-starched linens,
the laugh of a dying woman as she dreamt.
I did not add my voice to hers. Some songs
are meant to be solos.
I went to a graveyard
and listened for the sound of angels:
I heard life instead.
Frogs and crickets chirruped a zydeco
as the wet and hungry earth
slurped at my shoes. Creaking branches
gossiped about this new arrival,
how handsome he was, how strong
and eager, even if
he was just passing through.
I stayed for hours. But no heavenly chorus,
no revelation was here to be found.
I looked in the mirror
and listened to my own heartbeat:
violent, ferocious
a cataclysm that shuddered my whole body
with each strike. And
finally I heard
the flapping of wings.
the first entry for my 30 Days of Dragon Age Poetry. super special thanks to Charlotte (iheartapostates), for letting me use her Aveline Napkin as my inspiration for this poem.
Why wake to witness the day when waking’s joy is dull?
It is only a yellow scratch, laid beside a dozen more.
Let the dream creak and sway, I’ll not hear the crying gull
On sour winds, harried from a pitiless shore.
Why dress, why breathe, why mourn?
It is only a habit of the flesh that was; Steel in plate,
And gold in circled bands. A sea of blood, grimly borne
For a man, for a duty, for a blackening state.
Why speak to the pain where silence will suffice?
No atrophy steals the purpose of the blade
Even at rest. A dream does not weaken the device,
Though dreaming makes the colors fade.
Wake, because we must, where towers grind white against the sky.
Where we go on; Tall and firm and clear of eye.
“dreaming makes the colors fade./Wake, because we must”
I just really, really, really love that bit, and the idea that Aveline of all people would be the one to tell herself that… *sigh* So gorgeous, girl.
Also… did you fucking iamb up in this house? WAY TO SET THE BAR HIGH FOR THE REST OF US NADIA.
Supernatural—
Some things only last
a mayfly’s lifespan. Bare hours
upon the earth and then
ash and memory is all that’s left
Almost a family, if
anyone had thought to say it.
Later, he regretted burning the
only proof that they had stood
together, once, but at the time all he
could see was their folly. At least
we weren’t smiling.
It is later still that the angel stirs the cooling fireplace
with two fingers and draws the photo, whole,
from the embers.
He touches each face with ashy fingertips
and wonders at his grief.
This part about how “the angel stirs the cooling fireplace/with two fingers and draws the photo, whole/from the embers” hit me right in the feels. What a fantastic image.
And the “ashy fingertips” calling back to “ash and memory is all that’s left”, because we know that Cas will one day outlive them all… AUGH.
Fuck, girl. Just magnificent.
She doesn’t speak Italian, but she loves this ruin:
How the broken, tenacious travertine
Palms the sky
And awaits its libations.
“So old and ugly,” she praises,
Brushing the stone like an infant’s forehead
With scarred fingers
That should’ve been a pianist’s.
Age, erosion, evolution—
It’s all a great con,
A lie the privileged told themselves so often
They came to believe it.
Four million last month for Mercury’s caduceus.
When she pried it from the Coliseum,
She almost kept it
Out of spite, she lied.
But what use is a psychopomp’s staff
To a Vestal Virgin
Destined to feed the sacred fire
Upon which Heaven so dearly depends?
Transience is what matters
As the hourglass sands trickle down.
Of course she speaks Italian.
Of course she is afraid.
A crack in the wall fans out like crow’s feet
And she worships the wrinkle with her hands
Until it vanishes into a thousand tributaries.
She swallows back her envy—
And turns away.
(via jimmynovaks)
Restless Korra
Location: Air Temple Island, Yue Bay, The United Republic
With apologies to flutirebear: you filled my dash with amazing poetry, and it has taken over my brain a bit! The idea of melding fandom and poetry is a new one to me, and you do it so well! So here’s my tribute, three kind of shaky haiku. Sorry flutie:
Snow comes to the city,
Gently, wipes out buildings
The black lines of streets
Perhaps the moon has seen
The tumult of the water
And weeps to make it calm
Perhaps the snow just falls
And the crash you hear is nothing more
Than the sea returning
“…and the crash you hear is nothing more/than the sea returning”
GOD FUCKING DAMN.
Ten miles out of Albuquerque her engine surrenders.
So much for noble steeds. Even my car knows better.
Covered in road dust and cowboy grace, I shrug my way into the nearest bar,
Where a man smiles approvingly
And buys me an El Sol. “I drink it for the taste,” he says,
Lips lingering on the rim like a prayer.
I laugh.
He does not.
I ask where he’s headed, one soldier to another.
Bar like this, I figure, is a junction of sorts, and
Nobody ever called the crossroads home.
But his smile is a firefly I can’t quite catch.
“Doesn’t matter,” he breathes against the bottle.
“Nobody’s home anyway.”
His leviathan gaze speaks every language
And I want to hide my crucifix under my shirt.
He asks “So then. Who are you looking for?”
Nobody, I lie.
The man laughs.
I do not.
“Bullshit,” he sighs. “They’re always looking for someone.
I think they don’t have the equipment
To settle, to be satisfied.
Whenever they try
It just breaks them apart.”
His lips worship the rim of
His mostly empty beer bottle.
I tell him that I’m looking for God in all the wrong places
Because, well, he looks like he could use the joke.
“Ain’t that somethin’,” he sighs.
In the mirror hanging above the liquor bar, the man meets his own eyes.
The firefly winks out. “So what if God doesn’t want to be found?”
I offer then that I guess that makes two of us,
And I wouldn’t blame him,
And hey, at least I have enough music for the road.
Neither of us laugh.
But he touches the bottle to his cheek,
A lover’s caress.
“Wrong or right, I can’t tell any more,” he confesses.
“But here’s some advice:
Look in all the wrong places.
If it were me, I’d
Start with the flatbread.”
I clap him on the back and head back to my car
To hold vigil in the good night, as if this ditch were her bedside.
But when I get there, she’s purring sweetly
Like she had been looking for me all this time.
And in the smoky headlight glow
Fireflies dance.
again, sorry for uploading a bit early, but as said i’m leaving for france in a bit so i hope it’s ok !
castiel + dean from supernatural
06.11.12
“Up is relative,”
Whispered the needle to the compass point
Like an idle gossip.
“It’s a lie we tell ourselves
To get through someone else’s journey. It’s not real.”
“But,” added the compass point, “it is useful.”
Direction is meaningless,
Sighed the west wind to the east,
Like a petulant child.
What need have we for maps, or coordinates?
Currents alone will carry us where we’re needed.
But, replied the east wind, what about what we seek?
I INVENTED MAPS
Proclaimed one father to another,
Like he even knew.
I PATTERNED THE CHART IN MY OWN IMAGE
WHICH I SAW REFLECTED IN THE STARS.
IT MUST OBEY MY COMMAND.
BUT, countered the Father, FREE WILL INVENTS ITSELF.
(Or so they say,
You offer with a wink.)
I say
Perspective is a telescope viewed the wrong way around,
And I never cared much for the abstract.
So how about this instead—
You reach up,
And I’ll reach up,
And then our hands will brush,
Yearning toward our common center of gravity
As we fall toward one another
Endlessly
Together.
(via jimmynovaks)
