Drabble: Abide (Alias; Sark)
It all started with sarkastic's idea.
ETA: The 'verse is continued in 'Creatura' and 'Glance Off Paradise'.
Sark as a fallen angel. No, for real. PG. As above, so below. (Vague Sark/Sydney.)
I see, I seek;
I'm near.
Be true,
Skin.
- Theodore Roethke, 'O, Thou Opening, O'
Abide
A son hated his father so much he hacked his own wings at the joints. Clawing at quill and cartilage alchemised to a brilliant pearl white -- the only colour allowed in heaven. Declared emancipation.
Rebel with a gun, ever since. He'll not follow his brothers' well-trodden path.
Did that happened?
(It's the truth serum talking.)
This son -- not the mightiest, or the most favoured -- chooses to be an atheist. That's quite a pretzel of logic. You have to admire the mental obstinacy.
A connoisseur of the profane, he savours vintage wines, picturing worms in the orchard and offal on the ground.
Bullshit.
(Give it time, Sydney.)
He's fucking with us.
This son says to Eve, Take me, make me your instrument. I'm yours.
He is. That is, until he isn't. As above, so below; he has no sovereign, no master.
But when a mouthful of broken teeth is immanent he had better pretend to believe in things like consequences -- like fear. Lie down like lions. Bite the bullet; face the music. He likes such graphic turns of phrase.
Now you listen to me, you sonovabitch.
His eyes, lighthouses searching for fellow castaways with ironic laughter, are iceberg blue.
This son looks at this daughter.
7 April 2008
ETA: The 'verse is continued in 'Creatura' and 'Glance Off Paradise'.
Sark as a fallen angel. No, for real. PG. As above, so below. (Vague Sark/Sydney.)
I see, I seek;
I'm near.
Be true,
Skin.
- Theodore Roethke, 'O, Thou Opening, O'
Abide
A son hated his father so much he hacked his own wings at the joints. Clawing at quill and cartilage alchemised to a brilliant pearl white -- the only colour allowed in heaven. Declared emancipation.
Rebel with a gun, ever since. He'll not follow his brothers' well-trodden path.
Did that happened?
(It's the truth serum talking.)
This son -- not the mightiest, or the most favoured -- chooses to be an atheist. That's quite a pretzel of logic. You have to admire the mental obstinacy.
A connoisseur of the profane, he savours vintage wines, picturing worms in the orchard and offal on the ground.
Bullshit.
(Give it time, Sydney.)
He's fucking with us.
This son says to Eve, Take me, make me your instrument. I'm yours.
He is. That is, until he isn't. As above, so below; he has no sovereign, no master.
But when a mouthful of broken teeth is immanent he had better pretend to believe in things like consequences -- like fear. Lie down like lions. Bite the bullet; face the music. He likes such graphic turns of phrase.
Now you listen to me, you sonovabitch.
His eyes, lighthouses searching for fellow castaways with ironic laughter, are iceberg blue.
This son looks at this daughter.
7 April 2008