Wherefore art though, Tsu?
Aug. 21st, 2016 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edwardsSince Tsu has gone, I lost some things I wrote in March and earlier.
Here they are.
Red & Orange
It sped past me
“Organ Donor”
And I wondered if the heart on board
Would fit mine
Long ago smashed
To repeating beats
Like the mindless impact
Of another brick, in the hands of a child
Onto another toy car
Just to see
If it would break in a different way this time
Foot creeps unbidden
Firm to the floor
As I give chase
And I hope that the heart on board
Is still alive
As the white lines flash
As repeating beats
Towards the blurring impact
Of another fast car, in the hands of a child
Onto another brick wall
Just to see
If it would break in a different way this time.
BiPolar Day.
Today is apparently BiPolar Day
I do not suffer from BiPolar Disorder
I enjoy Manic Depression
And everyone close to me suffers instead.
However.
When you met me
My hair was light and dark
Grey and silver and white
And framed blue eyes
With ice and a snarl
We’d howl in the night
And everything
Everything
Was the thrill of the chase
Blood-scent tang at the back of the throat
Frozen and burning at the same time
Reckless and alive, we’d fight
And it was exhausting
When you left me
My hair turned red, and brown
Heavy and dense, a duvet
Framing leaden eyes
And ears covered
Barely listening to you I’d forage in the night
Eat everything
Everything
Was the end of the race
Snuffle-nosed searching for comfort
Warm, and cooling at the same time
Cautious, almost sleeping, we’d hide
And it was exhausting.
I can feel it again
The muzzle, changing
Eyes cooling, freezing blue
Teeth sharp, eager to bite
And becoming so, so reckless
With a pack on the horizon I will not fight
Or give flight
Bear’s strength
Becoming a wolf
Without bidding or call
And it will be exhausting.
Ship
Dogger, Fisher, German Bight
Far off places, in the night
I dream of squalls, fog on the tyne
The days are yours, the nights are mine
From Portland, Plymouth, Dover, Wight
And midnight's mist fades my sight
All places that I'll never roam
When I've found you, my love, my home
To Irish Sea, and Finisterre
If you sail, I'll follow there
No matter what the forecast says
The gales, winds or steady seas
Unsure waters, too dramatic
Becoming silly, automatic
So close those eyes, and rest your soul
And dream of Lundy, Fastnet, Sole.
One of those things that has been done so often I can't even tell if this, that popped into my head, is "mine" or half-remembered outside of the obvious remembering (and re-ordering, I know) of places.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFdas-kMF74
Classic BBC Radio Theme ~ Shipping Forecast (Sailing By)
https://cdn-2.tsu.co/posts/pictures/118/113/421/original/resize.jpg
Work and life can get truly intense, and time for creativity doesn't get swamped, it just gets diversified. Right now life is interesting, and there's a backlog of writing and thoughts which is getting pushed aside because "going places" and "doing things" with real people. Normal service will probably resume at some point though.
And some more...
Untitled
When you watch and the leaf flickers, it takes such a little effort before that joyous dance, swirling in nothing, lifted and brought to life with invisible force. Captured and funnelled, leaf becomes leaves, leaves become ancient trees shaken, still by nothing visible. Clouds pushed, worlds pushed, until everything outside the termite mounds and anthills we scrape into our landscape seems temporary. Unseen this rushes across the hills and plains, tumbling into valleys, circling and pushing, pulling at the earth with such passion it can change the seasons themselves, tearing away Autumns golden cloak, discarding it in a pile and leaving Winter stripped bare and shivering in the cold. So if nothing can make all this, invisible, insubstantial nothing, then what can these hands do? Glancing down, and considering the extensions of touch, the refinements in precision from technology and nature alike, they should hold back the wind as easily as holding that first leaf still. Even controlled by such a distracted machine, these hands seem useful. With such little force, they can bring images to life, structure in chaos. In darkness, they can swirl and scurry across your landscape, creating forests, smoothing the tide's disrupted beaches. With little more than wood and string, they can create music, ultimately controlling even the electrons themselves, ordering, filtering, shaping until a voice far beyond that which can be expressed with the mouth alone, and yet, nothing, nothing compared to what can be expressed with your lips. So wheels turn. At my disposal, these hands, to battle the headwinds and stray gusts to divert course. I can tell a machine to make a fantasy real, but fate has always been broadcast only, instinct an uncontrolled reaction to shadows and light, jumping at reflections and echoes. As the idea forms, the hands turn to the modelled dimensions of flattened space, the wind speaks again, as if to remind me how powerless I am. Light and technology stripped away, heat gone, to shiver in Winter's cold. With it all gone, it is clearer still, and one thing can be heard over the storm, but until then, these hands will shape what they can, a tiny universe that can be destroyed with just the flick of a leaf.
Refuge(e)
You know what? We heard you.
We heard you the first time, and nothing changed.
We heard you in 2001.
We heard you in 1991.
We heard you at the 1970s.
We heard you in 1946. We heard you.
Oh yes. We heard you. We didn't fucking listen, but we heard you. And we responded by closing the shutters, by putting up taller fences, by laying lines of cut class in concrete so you couldn't play in our gardens.
And when we thought we'd got peace, a sound carried on the wind, and we heard you again, and once again we didn't listen but rallied around to make neighbourhood watch, and Keep Out signs.
So you had time to think, and life turned, and you found that other people weren't listened to, even though they were told they were heard. So we turned up the volume, turned on the floodlights, pointed, screamed, and no-one heard, but they listened and pointed and screamed themselves.
And they clutched their purses tight, and bought bigger fences, and guard dogs, and twee little signs that said "Bless this Mess" and "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here", and fuck me, it turned out they didn't need to because by the time they even contemplated entering here, they'd abandoned it long ago. A fucking redundant little finger wag from someone staring through triple-glazed TVs in judgement.
So let's say this time, we listen. Not to your voices, for your voices are foul and distorted and ugly. To your stories. We should shut down the bulldozers in the camps. Cut off the assassins in the hospitals, the butchers in the banks. We should remember that without the fences, without the money sunk into cameras and triple-glazed palaces, into guns and guard dogs, we had nothing to lose and nothing to fear.
If we turn off the TVs, silence the sirens, we might remember.
We are all human.
Nous sommes tous humains.
Todos somos humanos.
Hepimiz insanız.
Við erum öll mannleg.
Mēs visi esam cilvēki.
Wszyscy jesteśmy ludźmi.
Мы все человеческое.
كلنا بشر.
私たちはすべての人間です。
And we can all speak the same language, if we just listen.
Dave
Have you noticed
That haunted, hunted look in his eyes?
As if he hears the horns
The stampeding feet
As he pants, staring, and says "Not me! Not in my back yard!"
Maybe you caught
As he stood in remembrance
That bayonet stare
At the greatest threat
To his authority to launch Poseidon's Trident at ghosts, demons.
That telltale twitch
At the corner of his lips
Like a dock leaf
When you press it to your stings
Clinging to the belief that this will salve those minor irritations.
Oh the hounds are coming
With red coats flying
And blue ties, tying
That noose around anyone
That threatens their armoured existence and distance.
But this urbane Fox
Will find no friends here
And my advice, my friend
Is to step back
Stop calling this sport, this cruel lash in defense
Against a threat that of your own making.
Here they are.
Red & Orange
It sped past me
“Organ Donor”
And I wondered if the heart on board
Would fit mine
Long ago smashed
To repeating beats
Like the mindless impact
Of another brick, in the hands of a child
Onto another toy car
Just to see
If it would break in a different way this time
Foot creeps unbidden
Firm to the floor
As I give chase
And I hope that the heart on board
Is still alive
As the white lines flash
As repeating beats
Towards the blurring impact
Of another fast car, in the hands of a child
Onto another brick wall
Just to see
If it would break in a different way this time.
BiPolar Day.
Today is apparently BiPolar Day
I do not suffer from BiPolar Disorder
I enjoy Manic Depression
And everyone close to me suffers instead.
However.
When you met me
My hair was light and dark
Grey and silver and white
And framed blue eyes
With ice and a snarl
We’d howl in the night
And everything
Everything
Was the thrill of the chase
Blood-scent tang at the back of the throat
Frozen and burning at the same time
Reckless and alive, we’d fight
And it was exhausting
When you left me
My hair turned red, and brown
Heavy and dense, a duvet
Framing leaden eyes
And ears covered
Barely listening to you I’d forage in the night
Eat everything
Everything
Was the end of the race
Snuffle-nosed searching for comfort
Warm, and cooling at the same time
Cautious, almost sleeping, we’d hide
And it was exhausting.
I can feel it again
The muzzle, changing
Eyes cooling, freezing blue
Teeth sharp, eager to bite
And becoming so, so reckless
With a pack on the horizon I will not fight
Or give flight
Bear’s strength
Becoming a wolf
Without bidding or call
And it will be exhausting.
Ship
Dogger, Fisher, German Bight
Far off places, in the night
I dream of squalls, fog on the tyne
The days are yours, the nights are mine
From Portland, Plymouth, Dover, Wight
And midnight's mist fades my sight
All places that I'll never roam
When I've found you, my love, my home
To Irish Sea, and Finisterre
If you sail, I'll follow there
No matter what the forecast says
The gales, winds or steady seas
Unsure waters, too dramatic
Becoming silly, automatic
So close those eyes, and rest your soul
And dream of Lundy, Fastnet, Sole.
One of those things that has been done so often I can't even tell if this, that popped into my head, is "mine" or half-remembered outside of the obvious remembering (and re-ordering, I know) of places.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFdas-kMF74
Classic BBC Radio Theme ~ Shipping Forecast (Sailing By)
https://cdn-2.tsu.co/posts/pictures/118/113/421/original/resize.jpg
Work and life can get truly intense, and time for creativity doesn't get swamped, it just gets diversified. Right now life is interesting, and there's a backlog of writing and thoughts which is getting pushed aside because "going places" and "doing things" with real people. Normal service will probably resume at some point though.
And some more...
Untitled
When you watch and the leaf flickers, it takes such a little effort before that joyous dance, swirling in nothing, lifted and brought to life with invisible force. Captured and funnelled, leaf becomes leaves, leaves become ancient trees shaken, still by nothing visible. Clouds pushed, worlds pushed, until everything outside the termite mounds and anthills we scrape into our landscape seems temporary. Unseen this rushes across the hills and plains, tumbling into valleys, circling and pushing, pulling at the earth with such passion it can change the seasons themselves, tearing away Autumns golden cloak, discarding it in a pile and leaving Winter stripped bare and shivering in the cold. So if nothing can make all this, invisible, insubstantial nothing, then what can these hands do? Glancing down, and considering the extensions of touch, the refinements in precision from technology and nature alike, they should hold back the wind as easily as holding that first leaf still. Even controlled by such a distracted machine, these hands seem useful. With such little force, they can bring images to life, structure in chaos. In darkness, they can swirl and scurry across your landscape, creating forests, smoothing the tide's disrupted beaches. With little more than wood and string, they can create music, ultimately controlling even the electrons themselves, ordering, filtering, shaping until a voice far beyond that which can be expressed with the mouth alone, and yet, nothing, nothing compared to what can be expressed with your lips. So wheels turn. At my disposal, these hands, to battle the headwinds and stray gusts to divert course. I can tell a machine to make a fantasy real, but fate has always been broadcast only, instinct an uncontrolled reaction to shadows and light, jumping at reflections and echoes. As the idea forms, the hands turn to the modelled dimensions of flattened space, the wind speaks again, as if to remind me how powerless I am. Light and technology stripped away, heat gone, to shiver in Winter's cold. With it all gone, it is clearer still, and one thing can be heard over the storm, but until then, these hands will shape what they can, a tiny universe that can be destroyed with just the flick of a leaf.
Refuge(e)
You know what? We heard you.
We heard you the first time, and nothing changed.
We heard you in 2001.
We heard you in 1991.
We heard you at the 1970s.
We heard you in 1946. We heard you.
Oh yes. We heard you. We didn't fucking listen, but we heard you. And we responded by closing the shutters, by putting up taller fences, by laying lines of cut class in concrete so you couldn't play in our gardens.
And when we thought we'd got peace, a sound carried on the wind, and we heard you again, and once again we didn't listen but rallied around to make neighbourhood watch, and Keep Out signs.
So you had time to think, and life turned, and you found that other people weren't listened to, even though they were told they were heard. So we turned up the volume, turned on the floodlights, pointed, screamed, and no-one heard, but they listened and pointed and screamed themselves.
And they clutched their purses tight, and bought bigger fences, and guard dogs, and twee little signs that said "Bless this Mess" and "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here", and fuck me, it turned out they didn't need to because by the time they even contemplated entering here, they'd abandoned it long ago. A fucking redundant little finger wag from someone staring through triple-glazed TVs in judgement.
So let's say this time, we listen. Not to your voices, for your voices are foul and distorted and ugly. To your stories. We should shut down the bulldozers in the camps. Cut off the assassins in the hospitals, the butchers in the banks. We should remember that without the fences, without the money sunk into cameras and triple-glazed palaces, into guns and guard dogs, we had nothing to lose and nothing to fear.
If we turn off the TVs, silence the sirens, we might remember.
We are all human.
Nous sommes tous humains.
Todos somos humanos.
Hepimiz insanız.
Við erum öll mannleg.
Mēs visi esam cilvēki.
Wszyscy jesteśmy ludźmi.
Мы все человеческое.
كلنا بشر.
私たちはすべての人間です。
And we can all speak the same language, if we just listen.
Dave
Have you noticed
That haunted, hunted look in his eyes?
As if he hears the horns
The stampeding feet
As he pants, staring, and says "Not me! Not in my back yard!"
Maybe you caught
As he stood in remembrance
That bayonet stare
At the greatest threat
To his authority to launch Poseidon's Trident at ghosts, demons.
That telltale twitch
At the corner of his lips
Like a dock leaf
When you press it to your stings
Clinging to the belief that this will salve those minor irritations.
Oh the hounds are coming
With red coats flying
And blue ties, tying
That noose around anyone
That threatens their armoured existence and distance.
But this urbane Fox
Will find no friends here
And my advice, my friend
Is to step back
Stop calling this sport, this cruel lash in defense
Against a threat that of your own making.
