angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2004-12-18 11:34 pm
angelgazing) wrote2004-12-18 11:34 pm
(no subject)
Just got home. Dislike my family. Bah.
I realized last night when I was trying to sleep and couldn't that Drug makes just as much sense backwards. No, really. And I'm not talking the usual pansy-arsed "go to the beginning of this section and read then the beginning of this section.." No, I mean from the last sentence to the next to the last sentence to the next to the next to the last sentence. Sadly, I did most of this in my head.
(They come undone together, and it's more than Draco ever thought he wanted.)
Draco sighs content discontentments against the curve of his mouth dropped open. No, a little closer now. They shudder as the colors wrap round them, lean closer, just a little closer. Bend and break the broken, it's easy.
"Think you've got the nerve to do it all again?" Say, "Look where you are, look at what you've become now." Hold up two fingers crooked and grin. So they doubt the curve of the earth and their spoons, always aim for something bigger than the dare, more than the moon.
Satan sits at the foot of the bed, says, "Doubt the curve of the moon, I dare you."
They laugh again, dirty and wrong, answer, "We fuck bliss, you know. Like it more beneath us," as they crush poppies in their fists.
Say, "You aren't worthy of this, you know, bliss is above you." Whispers flirt, first in the land of agains and ends.
Break it down, again, yeah, that's really all they need. Just a little something more to help to stem the bleeding of more than blood is worth. Got 'em both for a Galleon on the corner, dark ally too inviting. Want is what they have and have is what they want.
"What makes you think a soul's worth saving? What makes you think my soul needs praying?" Draco asks, barks a laugh and hides behind dark glasses.
A woman says to them once, "I'll pray for your souls."
(Believe in nothing that isn't the thereness of each other and the nothing of their thereness. They believe in neither.) They pass a sign that reads, "God Is Love."
Prowl empty streets with empty pockets and stand with open arms in the middle of the road for nothing like, please, give me what I need. They walk loudly in the dead of night.
The pun is bad enough to make him laugh. Breathing is easy, but flying is sweeter, is the thought, it doesn't get hard until the crash. Drinks it in with both sitting in his lap. He tells stories of the sound of a razorblade on glass.
The serpents slither silent round their (k)nee(s)d, and they'd sell their souls if they were theirs to give for just one more chance. They float on the edge of being devoured as they bathe in filthy water. Hits their hips in quiet sighs. The tide slaps their feet, their calves, their thighs.
They slip to sea, and salt burns their skin, says, "Look, this is what it takes for your soul to be cleansed." (Unless you count the everything that has.) The dull brass angels sing their hymns and nothing ever goes wrong. Secret saints, sly and cunning, whisper prayers above their bed.
"The worst thing you've ever had?" is asked, like, tell me the best ones first.
(Lights dance in time with the beating of their hearts on the ceiling, they fly without their brooms, and fuck instead of holding on tight.)
Here they don't hear anything but each other. "Life is impossible to live without," he says, head thrown back in wonder. Laughing in the dark at things that they don't see. Shiver in the moonlight, silver burning slivers of things that they can't be.
"You think this is real?" the mirror asks, and so they turn their backs. They shiver, cling, bruise as bones meet and knock, rattle in flesh cages they try slowly tearing apart. The mirror mocks them in the quiet, too pale and thin and broken.
(Laugh as they do like, don't you wish you were us. Flame is something they can touch.)
He shivers, then, and touches places and he never should have known. Fingers wrapped tight around his spoon, cold and all alone.
They never ask if it's more than he can afford. Draco breathes and it costs him, again and again.
Sharp like ice and they don't look for things that they don't want to find. Fingers curl, clutch and whine. Draco slides his mouth along, tongue dragging as he whispers how he likes the taste. "Reckon?" he asks, and the sky doesn't answer.
"You can't mourn winning, and life ain't yours to waste." Morning laughs and wears pink, says, "Boys, you are so queer." Angry colors wear black in defiance, say, "Look at me, I'm mourning."
Lies lie in skin marks, burns and bruises and scars of things that—(his teeth are needles and needles feel like his teeth)—truth cannot stand to try and find. They bathe in dirty water, shivering in the cold.
Dirty with shame that they don't have, loudly praising useless, pretty things as they roll on plastic bags. Like winning doesn't matter, they lie in losing and end results. Curl fingers and make him writhe, say, "You were mine first." The beginning was the end, and Draco laughs when he says it.
(He said, "Satan, you forget, I created you too." The earth quivered and thunder rolled across the blue-black sky, God smiled down like love divine, shaking in his boots. Looked at the stars and shook his fist, said, "This is how battles are won." On the ground he laughed, and dusted off his clothes. Mad. The devil was an angel too, until he told the Lord, "I won't stand for your hypocrisy" and crashed down hard, with clipped wings, angry.)
"It's a truth universally known that truth is a lie."
Black, Draco laughs, like the color of his eyes. White and numbing, they float on things they can't divide. Burns and bleeds it all until it's dry, there is where red's green envy lies. The way the gray fades things to less and less. Color dreams of black and white, angry, hissing sounds, the things it wants to be.
Secrets hide in everything said, like, "Does God exist, do you think?" and "Do you? Do I?"
They laugh together madly, like it ever fucking mattered. Grim and grin, grind it in, make it old, give it power. Magic lies in ancient things, new things lie in dirt.
Lips against his elbow, soft against soft skin, like something new and old. Talking like a dance of taking, like the battles in the war. "Beauty," is the counter, the next step being made.
Drapes closed over boring, boarded windows, sunlight still sinks through, burns his eyes but not his skin, unusual in its truth. "Filthy," he whispers, smirking, and turns his head. He can't get a grip. He shifts, pulls again and digs in deep, free hand sliding, slipping over dirty sheets.
Gray eyes dance like sin in sunlight burning, turning black, bleeding smoke and lighting everything on fire.
Fear died like they did, maybe, but no, he remembers, he thinks they're still alive.
"Full of shit," he hisses, bares teeth against his belly and there's never a flash of fear from anyone anymore. And Draco laughs against his stomach, twists and turns beneath fingertips, trapped by nails in scalp and heels in calves.
"That's real." He surges, laughs, the mirror on the dresser holds their reflections too still, hazy with flecks of white. "There's hate," he answers, clenching fingers just that too hard, the wince it gets is something divine.
"You think?" is asked, like conversations long and too rehashed. Worn hands warn with fingers like ice, dancing up his spine. There's laughter, cold and broken—his and everyone's now, (everything is here) here everything is shattered, lying as he does in pieces on the splintered wood floor.
"It's all a lie." Says, "Nothing real is real." Pulls him up and makes up his mind. It's cold fingers tangled tight in white-blond hair, like something sin divined, slick and tired, lazy he pulls hard.
Content and wrong, warm and soft inside him. The sin of secrets left unsaid lies hatefully beside him.
Or read it forward.
I realized last night when I was trying to sleep and couldn't that Drug makes just as much sense backwards. No, really. And I'm not talking the usual pansy-arsed "go to the beginning of this section and read then the beginning of this section.." No, I mean from the last sentence to the next to the last sentence to the next to the next to the last sentence. Sadly, I did most of this in my head.
(They come undone together, and it's more than Draco ever thought he wanted.)
Draco sighs content discontentments against the curve of his mouth dropped open. No, a little closer now. They shudder as the colors wrap round them, lean closer, just a little closer. Bend and break the broken, it's easy.
"Think you've got the nerve to do it all again?" Say, "Look where you are, look at what you've become now." Hold up two fingers crooked and grin. So they doubt the curve of the earth and their spoons, always aim for something bigger than the dare, more than the moon.
Satan sits at the foot of the bed, says, "Doubt the curve of the moon, I dare you."
They laugh again, dirty and wrong, answer, "We fuck bliss, you know. Like it more beneath us," as they crush poppies in their fists.
Say, "You aren't worthy of this, you know, bliss is above you." Whispers flirt, first in the land of agains and ends.
Break it down, again, yeah, that's really all they need. Just a little something more to help to stem the bleeding of more than blood is worth. Got 'em both for a Galleon on the corner, dark ally too inviting. Want is what they have and have is what they want.
"What makes you think a soul's worth saving? What makes you think my soul needs praying?" Draco asks, barks a laugh and hides behind dark glasses.
A woman says to them once, "I'll pray for your souls."
(Believe in nothing that isn't the thereness of each other and the nothing of their thereness. They believe in neither.) They pass a sign that reads, "God Is Love."
Prowl empty streets with empty pockets and stand with open arms in the middle of the road for nothing like, please, give me what I need. They walk loudly in the dead of night.
The pun is bad enough to make him laugh. Breathing is easy, but flying is sweeter, is the thought, it doesn't get hard until the crash. Drinks it in with both sitting in his lap. He tells stories of the sound of a razorblade on glass.
The serpents slither silent round their (k)nee(s)d, and they'd sell their souls if they were theirs to give for just one more chance. They float on the edge of being devoured as they bathe in filthy water. Hits their hips in quiet sighs. The tide slaps their feet, their calves, their thighs.
They slip to sea, and salt burns their skin, says, "Look, this is what it takes for your soul to be cleansed." (Unless you count the everything that has.) The dull brass angels sing their hymns and nothing ever goes wrong. Secret saints, sly and cunning, whisper prayers above their bed.
"The worst thing you've ever had?" is asked, like, tell me the best ones first.
(Lights dance in time with the beating of their hearts on the ceiling, they fly without their brooms, and fuck instead of holding on tight.)
Here they don't hear anything but each other. "Life is impossible to live without," he says, head thrown back in wonder. Laughing in the dark at things that they don't see. Shiver in the moonlight, silver burning slivers of things that they can't be.
"You think this is real?" the mirror asks, and so they turn their backs. They shiver, cling, bruise as bones meet and knock, rattle in flesh cages they try slowly tearing apart. The mirror mocks them in the quiet, too pale and thin and broken.
(Laugh as they do like, don't you wish you were us. Flame is something they can touch.)
He shivers, then, and touches places and he never should have known. Fingers wrapped tight around his spoon, cold and all alone.
They never ask if it's more than he can afford. Draco breathes and it costs him, again and again.
Sharp like ice and they don't look for things that they don't want to find. Fingers curl, clutch and whine. Draco slides his mouth along, tongue dragging as he whispers how he likes the taste. "Reckon?" he asks, and the sky doesn't answer.
"You can't mourn winning, and life ain't yours to waste." Morning laughs and wears pink, says, "Boys, you are so queer." Angry colors wear black in defiance, say, "Look at me, I'm mourning."
Lies lie in skin marks, burns and bruises and scars of things that—(his teeth are needles and needles feel like his teeth)—truth cannot stand to try and find. They bathe in dirty water, shivering in the cold.
Dirty with shame that they don't have, loudly praising useless, pretty things as they roll on plastic bags. Like winning doesn't matter, they lie in losing and end results. Curl fingers and make him writhe, say, "You were mine first." The beginning was the end, and Draco laughs when he says it.
(He said, "Satan, you forget, I created you too." The earth quivered and thunder rolled across the blue-black sky, God smiled down like love divine, shaking in his boots. Looked at the stars and shook his fist, said, "This is how battles are won." On the ground he laughed, and dusted off his clothes. Mad. The devil was an angel too, until he told the Lord, "I won't stand for your hypocrisy" and crashed down hard, with clipped wings, angry.)
"It's a truth universally known that truth is a lie."
Black, Draco laughs, like the color of his eyes. White and numbing, they float on things they can't divide. Burns and bleeds it all until it's dry, there is where red's green envy lies. The way the gray fades things to less and less. Color dreams of black and white, angry, hissing sounds, the things it wants to be.
Secrets hide in everything said, like, "Does God exist, do you think?" and "Do you? Do I?"
They laugh together madly, like it ever fucking mattered. Grim and grin, grind it in, make it old, give it power. Magic lies in ancient things, new things lie in dirt.
Lips against his elbow, soft against soft skin, like something new and old. Talking like a dance of taking, like the battles in the war. "Beauty," is the counter, the next step being made.
Drapes closed over boring, boarded windows, sunlight still sinks through, burns his eyes but not his skin, unusual in its truth. "Filthy," he whispers, smirking, and turns his head. He can't get a grip. He shifts, pulls again and digs in deep, free hand sliding, slipping over dirty sheets.
Gray eyes dance like sin in sunlight burning, turning black, bleeding smoke and lighting everything on fire.
Fear died like they did, maybe, but no, he remembers, he thinks they're still alive.
"Full of shit," he hisses, bares teeth against his belly and there's never a flash of fear from anyone anymore. And Draco laughs against his stomach, twists and turns beneath fingertips, trapped by nails in scalp and heels in calves.
"That's real." He surges, laughs, the mirror on the dresser holds their reflections too still, hazy with flecks of white. "There's hate," he answers, clenching fingers just that too hard, the wince it gets is something divine.
"You think?" is asked, like conversations long and too rehashed. Worn hands warn with fingers like ice, dancing up his spine. There's laughter, cold and broken—his and everyone's now, (everything is here) here everything is shattered, lying as he does in pieces on the splintered wood floor.
"It's all a lie." Says, "Nothing real is real." Pulls him up and makes up his mind. It's cold fingers tangled tight in white-blond hair, like something sin divined, slick and tired, lazy he pulls hard.
Content and wrong, warm and soft inside him. The sin of secrets left unsaid lies hatefully beside him.
Or read it forward.
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no subject
I thank you. lol
no subject
no subject
I did it mostly because I was trying to sleep and thought that what I really wanted to do was write something that worked forwards and backwards, then it hit me that I might have already. So I ran through it in my head (I read it like for times before going to bed.) and it just worked insanely well. lol Feel free to express it while drunk, it might just be more fun. ;)
no subject
This is amazing forwards
backwards
from one random sentence to another
this is just amazing.
you are amazing.
mind if I friend you? I'd love to get to know you.
wow. In a totally non stalker creepy way.
no subject
I don't mind friending at all. Welcome aboard, enjoy the ride. I get obsessed with things easily, so you should be prepared for the long trek of fandoms that stalking me, I mean, friending me could entail. ;)
no subject
(Anonymous) 2005-12-24 05:30 pm (UTC)(link)no subject