there's a killer on the road
Have a poem:
They Then Ate the Sailors
It was a little like when your sister played her Christian rock
and you'd drown it out with some Led Zeppelin, both of you
studiously turning upward notch after notch, until someone
yelled, just turn it off. Or perhaps it was most like the car
that pulls alongside at a stoplight, bass hunkered down, shaking fast.
And you'd respond, of course-a song you love enough to open up,
display the fierce teeth of noise. The two of you, continents of sound
that never merge, but simply break apart, eventually,
into separate neighborhoods. It wasn't even all that beguiling,
how they sang-just sweet enough to stir the ear toward home,
to recall the long trips east, to the shore, to the house
with its rough wooden doors. The rolling windows and the night
pitched just a little higher than the voice, your mother eating ice
from a cup, singing Leonard Cohen.
~Hannah Craig
***
Nine hours until new SPN. I am preparing myself for serious heartbreak, though I am not at all spoiled, and plan to stay that way.
I am trying to write and the story I am meant to be working on has been pushed aside for something that is a title and some imagery with no story to hang it on. I hate when I get nothing but flashes of mood and can't figure out what the hell the actual story is supposed to be. Bah. It's a title I've wanted to use for a very long time, though, so maybe that will help.
***
Ask me about my icons! (I'm not sure how the wording goes, but ask me about up to six of my icons/keywords and I will explain! Pretty icons!)
***
They Then Ate the Sailors
It was a little like when your sister played her Christian rock
and you'd drown it out with some Led Zeppelin, both of you
studiously turning upward notch after notch, until someone
yelled, just turn it off. Or perhaps it was most like the car
that pulls alongside at a stoplight, bass hunkered down, shaking fast.
And you'd respond, of course-a song you love enough to open up,
display the fierce teeth of noise. The two of you, continents of sound
that never merge, but simply break apart, eventually,
into separate neighborhoods. It wasn't even all that beguiling,
how they sang-just sweet enough to stir the ear toward home,
to recall the long trips east, to the shore, to the house
with its rough wooden doors. The rolling windows and the night
pitched just a little higher than the voice, your mother eating ice
from a cup, singing Leonard Cohen.
~Hannah Craig
***
Nine hours until new SPN. I am preparing myself for serious heartbreak, though I am not at all spoiled, and plan to stay that way.
I am trying to write and the story I am meant to be working on has been pushed aside for something that is a title and some imagery with no story to hang it on. I hate when I get nothing but flashes of mood and can't figure out what the hell the actual story is supposed to be. Bah. It's a title I've wanted to use for a very long time, though, so maybe that will help.
***
Ask me about my icons! (I'm not sure how the wording goes, but ask me about up to six of my icons/keywords and I will explain! Pretty icons!)
***