?

Log in

10 September 2014 @ 09:58 am
Ok so the day before yesterday I posted this poem thingy, which seemed to go down quite well (thanks everyone!). But ash48 said it should have art, so I thought about it, and had a few ideas… Then I found a picture in the Science Photo Library of a heart and lungs, and this happened.
So now there is a poem with a picture.
Click on the teaser to read and view at my journal:
breathing in bleeding out full crop
 
 
09 June 2014 @ 03:31 pm
This was written for the Bi-Bro Challenge over  at spn_bunker, promoting harmony and understanding between SamGirls and DeanGirls during the difficult events of S9. Beta'd by the wonderful fannishliss.
More info on my journal post



The Grave

They need to remember: remember words spoken
before the grave, once heartfelt, now forgotten . . .

He was raised twice. But not all the way.Collapse )
 
 
01 March 2014 @ 06:23 pm
I don't know if this has been posted before but it's pretty awesome.
Union Lines by Ponderosa - a freeform poem.
 
 
11 February 2014 @ 09:24 pm
Much love and hugs to meesasometimes and fannishliss who held my hand and helped me whip this into shape. You guys rock x


Eternal

...night air cool around them,
bonds to endless black above

void leaching warmth out from
the very blood running dark

beneath exposed skin at wrists and throats
but the black below them was warm

hard and gleaming under sheen of dust
fuelled by running, everywhere and nowhere

perpetual running, moving hard and fast and far,
for ever and ever, world without end

running deeper than the dark in their hearts.

one shivers, the other feels it and
shrugs brown leather from his shoulders

to the other's shoulders (they're his too after all)
bloodied, ingrained with his tears and pain

salt-etched deep with hate and love
that rub and ignite and burn

twin suns in the void, snagged
in a gravity of their own making,

light with nothing more to do
than keep moving, keep burning,

until they consume themselves and each other
'til all that remains is the hard dark of their hearts

the burden trapped eternal in the event horizon's storm
for ever and ever, world without end

but that's okay. Here, now, under the void,
in the cool night air, they still burn.
 
 
10 February 2014 @ 02:44 pm
Litter on the Breeze
***********
E/O Drabble Challenge: word count 100
Challenge word: trash
Warnings: Misuse of song lyrics.
Summary:  A song for the Winchesters (Trash by Suede)
***********
Maybe, maybe it’s the scars we bear
The fierce looks and the blood in our hair
Maybe it’s our weariness
Or maybe it’s all the tumbleweed towns
The nothing places and empty sounds
Maybe it’s our loneliness

But we’re trash, you and me
We’re litter on the breeze
We’re brothers on the street
Just trash, me and you
It’s in everything we do

Maybe, maybe it’s the things we’ve done
The dying and living, the battles lost and won
Maybe it’s our blindness
Or maybe, maybe it’s the sacrifices made
The people we’ve lost, the being afraid
It’s our weakness.


***********
To keep it to the 100 you have to do the repeats of lines and the chorus in your head!


 
 
 
Sam or Dean, without the other

Imagine You Are Driving

Imagine you are driving
nowhere, with no one beside you;
with the empty road unravelling and ravelling
in sympathy as the wheel turns in your hands.

On either side the wheatfields go shimmering
past in an absence of birdsong, and the sky
decants the shadows of the weather from itself.
So you drive on, hopeful of a time

when the ocean will rise up before you like dusk
and you will make landfall at last --
some ancient, long-forgotten mooring,
which both of you, of course, will recognise;

though as I said before, there is no one beside you
and neither of you has anywhere to go.

- John Glenday
 
 
you probably just saw this at exceptindreams like I did. No shame. I'm reading Winchesters up the wazoo.



"While Writing an Ode to my Lover's Hands, He Tells Me about the Revolver"
Jeanann Verlee

for Ian John Basdeo Khadan

He dreams of revolvers. How they become
too hot to aim, pin-cock. How they melt
before he can release their dying. I cannot
see inside him. Don't know what lives there.
Most days I think I might. If I stare
hard enough into the beaded black.

His hands are always unfolded before me.
Always full of gifts. Coins, milk, rose petals,
keys, answers, books, wine, praise.
He fills his mouth with impossible delusions.
Says I am large. Of the heavens, stars.
Words like brilliant and unbreakable.

His hands deserve odes written to their
every brick and nimble doing. I want
to tell you he'd take down a building
for me with these hands, he'd empty
a man of his blood, empty a revolver,
but he'd hesitate in my telling because

you would think him a brute. And he's right,
isn't he? You'd think him cinder-block
and pit bull. You'd picture his youth,
boys every shade of brown and bullet.
You'd guess of a ramshackle home, wonder
of his parents, if any. You'd picture clay

dust streets. Or asphalt and sirens. You'd
say, where is Guyana on a map, anyway? Or
you'd mishear Ghana because we Americans
always do, as I did once, and while you might
picture it beautiful, it won't be his beautiful
and he cannot help but scorn over the mistaking

so I don't tell you the story. I don't tell you
he still dreams of his dogs, and coconut meat.
Don't tell of his caterpillar letters or his prayers
over the seawall. I don't tell you how he moves
graceful in the dreams, his boxer trunk dancing,
eased as ballet or Michael and his feet, how

they drape from his calves – this part is real,
though he'll never show you – angle like pointe
shoes and he buries them in Timbs and shredded
hems on his jeans. He is six worlds in one man.
I will tell you he dreams it is me who provides
the revolver. Always. Recurring, he says.

My face turns to a barrel of stones but he calls it
freedom. Says the revolver frees him from captors
in the dreams, but I see a woman made of gun powder,
always ticking. Always seconds away from a struck
match. How I give him something to kill every day.
How he blesses his hands, their able.
 
 
I love your railroad teeth,
       your picket fence smile.
             I love how you hold a gun
                 as surely you do a newborn child.
I love you so much
that it makes me ill;      
your height, your grace,         
your beaten in face.                     
because boys            
 don't love boys               
                          like brothers
                        like lovers
boys only like
boys when they've 
                              lost their mothers
boys only like
boys when they're
                              father wasn't one
boys who like
boys find they'll
                              end by the gun
                                like brothers
                               like lovers 
                                                     like something stronger
                                                    something other
      I love
 my finger prints
  on your throat
the gasping pleas
    you spoke
I love                           
        my blood in your veins,         
        your breath in my lungs.        
                                                                                     I love you more than      
                                                                         the earth loves the sun
--

 
 
09 June 2012 @ 10:26 pm
It's all about how he feels in your veins-- fireworks in an empty field and you're children again
                             kissing for the first time.  There are no lies here,
  No hidden addictions or soul-stripping actions.
                                                                        You're kissing and kissing and kissing and
it's all about how he feels against your skin--
                                                                                  a knife, a grazing bullet, a pair of lips.
(Continued on my journal)

A/N:  I'm not exactly sure about posting rules, and if I can do the "Continue on my journal"...but I guess I'll find out!
 
 
Current Mood: anxiousanxious
 
 
02 April 2012 @ 10:23 pm
Dean, S7

Bring Me The Head of A Northern Saint

A dead man whose hands
crane up for the sun
like the twigs of some broken tree:
that is my lot, now. These
are the still-moving feet of
an exhumed corpse, incorrupt, gut-
rotten. These are his hands, my
hands, God's hands. I am
the hammer gone bust
on the anvil. They once thought me
diamond, till rock ran me through.

Feet, and the earth beneath them.
Simple things, these. Not
for the dead does the planet revolve:
not for the dead risen out of their
graves for a rattlesnake's rapture.

Whiskey is wasted like gold
in a dead man's stomach, but hurt
cannot touch what is only a wound.

Rot and the Dead Man: a song
for lovers. Send me
my maggots, till only
the clean air remains
where I stood -- putrefaction's
last judgment.