(no subject)
here are some things that were written about solarpurpura in ilpromenade
i. straightening out a broken spine.
ii. the song of one egg.
iii. the maggot-brother's daughter.
iv. third of three sisters.
v. the pretty face, the burning eyes.
every planet we reach is dead - gorillaz
Picture I'm a dreamer
I'll take you deeper
Down to the sleepy glow
Time is a low…
Don't you know?
What are we going to do?
There were always dreams. Always hidden plays scattered throughout the mud and staggered between the trees. Her father once told her that he dreamed the harpy’s dreams while locked inside his cage. That he knew the sense of flying, that he knew the great strength of those bronze wings, the snap of that great metallic jaw as it closed around the world below bringing darkness and war in its screeching and its feasting.
He was strong, her father was, had been hunted and haunted by dreams, poisoned by them until he vomited and he bled and he had risen from the shatter and the ashes to stand atop the Hill at Bethlehem’s side and raise his boys and his girls. Perhaps with strength borrowed from his harpy sister in the darkness of their shared entrapment.
Eden had no such dreams, no great flights, no astonishing screams of destruction and stormraising. She walked ethereal, summoned flights of fancy as sheer as glass, as light as paper, dreamt of far off stars that shuddered and faded beneath her gaze.
Of deep pools of mud with surfaces black and shining and perfect.
And she wakes, blinking large eyes (black, shining, perfect) and in her waking she sees the city of Promenade, all its dreaming and all its mighty spires. Perhaps in the market she will find something stronger to lift her up.
hearts of iron - handsome furs
Six eggs will go
And one was iron
That broke them all
And left you lying in bed
In a bed of moss
Very very small
Who thought the sea could make her belly swell?
In a bad dream, you wake and pace the hallway
Spitting golden seeds his iron brothers
When life's a dream, nothing matters at all
Twins as tied by fate, spirits twisted into helpless knots at Mother’s most unquestioned edict. It will be so: Eden who is paradise and Ram who is perfection, amen.
Smallest sister dressed in skirts and sightless eyes, bare feet padding from the Hill and back again, always back again. Dirt-bound, hungry and despairing in the cold unfeeling world, always back again for Mother’s meals to make us fat, for Mother’s songs to sing us down to sleep and wake us screaming again.
Smallest sister, middle son, of one egg and of one song.
(Black dirt beneath the feet, sisters rusting in the cellar, children weeping from the slaughterhouse. Black dirt beneath the feet, muddied red with nutrients for little paradise to drink in deep and to spit it out again.)
how the gods kill - danzig
If you feel alive
In a darkened room
Do you know the name
Of your solitude
She is a nighttime creature, was born a nighttime creature. The Hill’s dark filth has long since filled the family’s veins, eyes dark, smiles monstrous. There is nothing hiding in the shadows which Eden does not call kin, that she would not eat beside, that she would not sacrifice an innocent to. Brothers and sisters walk in the midnight, crawl and scrabble, howl and shriek in the midnight alongside her.
The truth of gods and monsters is so delicate, so simple: they are nearly one and the same beneath the mad moonlight. But there are none to bow down at her feet, here. There is no one to butcher her meat, here. The silence of Promenade’s evenings should make for good hunting, but she abstains, watching those that are different from her with dark, silent eyes.
mystic circles of the young girls - stravinsky
It is a strange thing to do her works alone. She has always been one of coven, weakest and lowest, first to be sacrificed, first to be bled. In this city it is not so, she stands alone, crafts her own rites and her own circles without her sister’s rabid appetite devouring all she holds.
There is more breath when she is not chased by wolves, choked with rust, and in her tiny circle, there are blossoms. Charms that glitter on their golden chains, bones that clatter on their ropes of hair. Visions from beneath the sea and from beneath the palace, voices and shadows which bring word back to her of all the comings and goings.
She reads storms and she reads traitors. She hears power rising from the gutterlands and she sees puppets lurking in the streets.
Her fingers itch to tie the threads, like her mother did before her. Her blood burns to poison this place.
somebody's always getting in the way - sunshine underground
What was the simple remedy?
When you convince yourself you're somewhere else,
You hold your ideas back and go to sleep.
There is sickness bleeding from her heart, lunacy lurking in the deep pitch of her eyes, corrupting all she would love in its hunger to smother and to possess.
She closes her eyes to spare those watching.
And even in the city of dreams, she leaves her tainted skin behind.
i. straightening out a broken spine.
ii. the song of one egg.
iii. the maggot-brother's daughter.
iv. third of three sisters.
v. the pretty face, the burning eyes.
every planet we reach is dead - gorillaz
Picture I'm a dreamer
I'll take you deeper
Down to the sleepy glow
Time is a low…
Don't you know?
What are we going to do?
There were always dreams. Always hidden plays scattered throughout the mud and staggered between the trees. Her father once told her that he dreamed the harpy’s dreams while locked inside his cage. That he knew the sense of flying, that he knew the great strength of those bronze wings, the snap of that great metallic jaw as it closed around the world below bringing darkness and war in its screeching and its feasting.
He was strong, her father was, had been hunted and haunted by dreams, poisoned by them until he vomited and he bled and he had risen from the shatter and the ashes to stand atop the Hill at Bethlehem’s side and raise his boys and his girls. Perhaps with strength borrowed from his harpy sister in the darkness of their shared entrapment.
Eden had no such dreams, no great flights, no astonishing screams of destruction and stormraising. She walked ethereal, summoned flights of fancy as sheer as glass, as light as paper, dreamt of far off stars that shuddered and faded beneath her gaze.
Of deep pools of mud with surfaces black and shining and perfect.
And she wakes, blinking large eyes (black, shining, perfect) and in her waking she sees the city of Promenade, all its dreaming and all its mighty spires. Perhaps in the market she will find something stronger to lift her up.
hearts of iron - handsome furs
Six eggs will go
And one was iron
That broke them all
And left you lying in bed
In a bed of moss
Very very small
Who thought the sea could make her belly swell?
In a bad dream, you wake and pace the hallway
Spitting golden seeds his iron brothers
When life's a dream, nothing matters at all
Twins as tied by fate, spirits twisted into helpless knots at Mother’s most unquestioned edict. It will be so: Eden who is paradise and Ram who is perfection, amen.
Smallest sister dressed in skirts and sightless eyes, bare feet padding from the Hill and back again, always back again. Dirt-bound, hungry and despairing in the cold unfeeling world, always back again for Mother’s meals to make us fat, for Mother’s songs to sing us down to sleep and wake us screaming again.
Smallest sister, middle son, of one egg and of one song.
(Black dirt beneath the feet, sisters rusting in the cellar, children weeping from the slaughterhouse. Black dirt beneath the feet, muddied red with nutrients for little paradise to drink in deep and to spit it out again.)
how the gods kill - danzig
If you feel alive
In a darkened room
Do you know the name
Of your solitude
She is a nighttime creature, was born a nighttime creature. The Hill’s dark filth has long since filled the family’s veins, eyes dark, smiles monstrous. There is nothing hiding in the shadows which Eden does not call kin, that she would not eat beside, that she would not sacrifice an innocent to. Brothers and sisters walk in the midnight, crawl and scrabble, howl and shriek in the midnight alongside her.
The truth of gods and monsters is so delicate, so simple: they are nearly one and the same beneath the mad moonlight. But there are none to bow down at her feet, here. There is no one to butcher her meat, here. The silence of Promenade’s evenings should make for good hunting, but she abstains, watching those that are different from her with dark, silent eyes.
mystic circles of the young girls - stravinsky
It is a strange thing to do her works alone. She has always been one of coven, weakest and lowest, first to be sacrificed, first to be bled. In this city it is not so, she stands alone, crafts her own rites and her own circles without her sister’s rabid appetite devouring all she holds.
There is more breath when she is not chased by wolves, choked with rust, and in her tiny circle, there are blossoms. Charms that glitter on their golden chains, bones that clatter on their ropes of hair. Visions from beneath the sea and from beneath the palace, voices and shadows which bring word back to her of all the comings and goings.
She reads storms and she reads traitors. She hears power rising from the gutterlands and she sees puppets lurking in the streets.
Her fingers itch to tie the threads, like her mother did before her. Her blood burns to poison this place.
somebody's always getting in the way - sunshine underground
What was the simple remedy?
When you convince yourself you're somewhere else,
You hold your ideas back and go to sleep.
There is sickness bleeding from her heart, lunacy lurking in the deep pitch of her eyes, corrupting all she would love in its hunger to smother and to possess.
She closes her eyes to spare those watching.
And even in the city of dreams, she leaves her tainted skin behind.