glass bombardment
By: ShinigamiForever
Warning: Strange. Strange. Strange. And, um... slash?
Dislcaimer: I am JK Rowling. All bow to my superior disillusionment.
Summary: A collection of abstract poetry dealing with Draco, his world, and, of course, Harry. Life unfolds, in an angsty poetically abstract way.
A/N: Blame Jay. Blame her poetry. Blame her. She's at fault! While you're at it, though, visit her site at www.workerdrone.org and read Nursery Rhymes: the Princess, from which inspiration sprang from. There will be some explanation afterwards. Some. Not enough.
***
[I.]
Silk flowers on the windowsill speak and--
funny, I never noticed,
but they are silk.
Yes, silk they are, and I know better
than to recollect his smile.
My daddy, daddy, daddy,
all dressed in black, black, black
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links
all down his arms, arms, arms
asked for my opinion. [1]
O! How they glimmer in the light,
those silver cuff links,
beautiful silver cuff links that reflect his teeth.
White teeth, white like ivory and daisy petals
ground under his skin.
White teeth, and he is no vampire,
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links
all down his arms, arms, arms.
While he in black and black and oil
swoops like a vulture down on my back.
Swoops, and claws with furious elbows
poking and piercing and demanding in a voice,
listen, listen, i am important, why don't you listen.
Smells of herbs and steam and potions
of musty walls with the echo of my daddy
(his silver cuff links down on the floor)
screaming.
Silk flowers on the windowsill, and funny,
I never noticed.
[II.]
An ink blot
says nothing.
But it should.
Consider.
Whose snowy owl.
Whose scrawled letters.
Whose scent.
moor flowers.
& sea wind.
& crushed leaves.
& honest sweat.
An ink blot.
What should it say.
His owl stares at me.
The black onyx eyes are
like two demons
waiting for me to strike black.
His white owl
who is white like my father's teeth
& my daddy
his cuff links are silver.
because he likes the way the black looks against the silver.
my daddy
he does not like this owl
because this owl belongs to that him.
my daddy
he does not like this owl
because this owl reminds him of that him.
my daddy
he does not know
that this owl comes to haunt at me.
[III.]
& my mommy
she is gypsy [2]
& my mommy
she is wood nymph
& my mommy
she is fairy
& my mommy--
she is beautiful.
My mommy has blond hair
hair the color of sun lit ivory
hair the color of dawn sky
and hair the color of pale parchment
and my mommy should have had ice blue eyes
but my mommy has gray eyes
eyes the color of stones
and eyes the color of wood ashes
My mommy has pale skin
skin like pallid clouds
skin the color of white sand
and my mommy--
O! How she is beautiful.
[IV.]
The train lurches as if it is to throw up all it has eaten,
all of its passengers
and all their luggage
like its lunch, its bulimia.
Lurching, lurching, my heart goes thumpty-thump
but for different reasons.
he is here, he is walls away
amongst the other food pieces we are
the train is churning him
in its gigantic stomach
waiting to exhale his stench.
He is there and his mouth is moving
a gaping hole never to be closed,
a traffic of words
crowded against each other
in the air
and he is suffocating.
Silence, my dear Harry.
The train
l
ur
che
s.
[V.]
he is in the library
& i dare not go
he is in the library
& i dare not stay.
[VI.]
He is not a gypsy
and he has not the silver cuff links
but he is my mommy and he is my daddy
and he is so much more of me.
He smells of sandalwood at night on deserts far and far away.
The dawn comes to sweep at his face when he cannot hear,
hears nothing but day approaching, comes like a fly does day.
buzzes around you, asking for something, buzzes, then attacks.
He is not a gypsy
and he is not a fairy and he is not--
but so much more than me. [3]
[VII.]
Again he is bleeding air
into my mouth,
bleeding air in sighs and words,
that I cannot understand,
but I need not.
need not understand his skin
need not understand his cries
need not understand his touch
his insistence that I can
change.
Foolish Harry, to create
what I had wished to be broken.
Foolish Harry, to believe
what I have known to be false.
Foolish Harry, to believe
and make me believe it too.
He is bleeding his words now
across my skin
and they spread like coconut milk [4]
to cover me.
I think I am protected,
can weave a spell for him.
Foolish Harry, to create
what I had wished to be broken.
Foolish Harry, to believe
what I have long given up
[VIII.]
I look for him--
(Strange. His handwriting looks as if it tastes like strawberries.
I once loved strawberries,
their pungent odor of grass and
basic sweetness,
and how they were red, red of black and red of blood,
red like sugar under their skin.
They stained my breath red
and I kissed the girls.
Their cheeks washed with the color
of strawberries.
His handwriting now sprawled across my cheeks.)
& I found him--
(Strange. My daddy's handwriting looks as if it tastes like steam.
Chalky and dusty and empty like him.
Without much thought
but painstakingly empty, as if he thought to keep himself shut out.
Maybe he is outside looking in on himself
and he can't think of what he is like
even though he is outside looking inside and inside looking outside
and there are so many things,
so many things, daddy,
that you do not know, your handwriting gives the light of day.
One time, I heard the sound of a steam kettle
and thought it was birdcalls outside. [5])
--in the shadows.
[IX.]
A low keen whining in my ear
to match the low beating in my chest, the beat of a heart
that somewhere is not beating but shivering instead.
Shivering with the rhythm of his flying fingers
the rhyme of his flowing hair
and the melody of his flickering skin.
Ah! Him him him.
Like talking over tea, like stitching flowers in white silk.
How many strange memories
crammed into accordion minds. The moonshine
like sweet honey
of liquor that flowers, of liquor that flows. [6]
Over my throat,
in the darkness
alone
crushed petals under the rim of my fingernails.
Their scent is perfume, is red thread drawn over my wrists.
& his slanting handwriting is trapped under the fabric of my pillow.
Ah! Him him him.
[X.]
This is goodbye.
This is.
This.
This is goodbye.
This is the tongue falling out of my mouth
too quick for me to catch.
This is goodbye.
This is the eyes following you,
waiting to engulf you in their grayness.
This is goodbye.
You.
Say no more words, wait until the months tick by like agony,
like the promise of no more beginnings and no more endings,
one day, like this. The train shall depart and continue on,
and all the people are gone,
except for us,
us. Us frolicking like windblown feathers, together, together.
This is goodbye.
Your knees are filled with the scrapes of metal stone where
we knelt and prayed for nameless gods to help us,
us, neither of us believe in god, and no god, we flaunt
destiny. In their faces, nothing but the too pale rivals.
You, Godric Gryffindor, and I, Salzaar Slytherin.
The snake and the lion, one to turn on your back
and bite. But you, you are open and golden and without
any mars.
This is goodbye.
This is.
This. [7]
===
Notes:
[1] My daddy, daddy, daddy...
Have you people ever played that hand game, Ms. Mary Mack? It goes like this:
Ms. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
all dressed in black, black, black
with silver buttons, buttons buttons
all down her back, back back.
There's more, but that's the point. I had it stuck in my head as I wrote the first poem.
[2] she is gypsy
This comes from a story my friend's parents used to tell him. They told him that they found him from the gypsies, and somehow, that idea struck me. I'm not sure if there are gypsies in the wizarding world, but that's not really the point.
[3] but so much more than me.
This poem actually rhymes a little. If you group the lines so that there are two stanzas of four lines, and the last stanza with only three, you will see that there is an ABAC rhyme scheme.
[4] and they spread like coconut milk
There is a fable somewhere about how some worshippers of some god opened a coconut and the milk spread all over a huge statue of the god and completely covered it. The miracle was never repeated, but it was interesting.
[5] and thought it was birdcalls outside.
If you every listen to the kettle, it does kind of sound like shrill birdcalls. Or it may just be my strange brain at work again.
[6] of liquer that flowers, of liquer that flows.
The joke here, of course, is that moonshine is also the term for illegal liquer back during some era.
[7] This.
You know when people sign yearbooks, and they do that annoying:
I
I did
I did this
I did this just...
On and on until it becomes I did this just to take up space?
Kind of the opposite of that.
===
Well. That's that. Reviews? Or just rotten vegetables? As Jay once said, asking for reviews on poetry is dangerous. But, nonetheless...
By: ShinigamiForever
Warning: Strange. Strange. Strange. And, um... slash?
Dislcaimer: I am JK Rowling. All bow to my superior disillusionment.
Summary: A collection of abstract poetry dealing with Draco, his world, and, of course, Harry. Life unfolds, in an angsty poetically abstract way.
A/N: Blame Jay. Blame her poetry. Blame her. She's at fault! While you're at it, though, visit her site at www.workerdrone.org and read Nursery Rhymes: the Princess, from which inspiration sprang from. There will be some explanation afterwards. Some. Not enough.
***
[I.]
Silk flowers on the windowsill speak and--
funny, I never noticed,
but they are silk.
Yes, silk they are, and I know better
than to recollect his smile.
My daddy, daddy, daddy,
all dressed in black, black, black
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links
all down his arms, arms, arms
asked for my opinion. [1]
O! How they glimmer in the light,
those silver cuff links,
beautiful silver cuff links that reflect his teeth.
White teeth, white like ivory and daisy petals
ground under his skin.
White teeth, and he is no vampire,
with silver cuff links, cuff links, cuff links
all down his arms, arms, arms.
While he in black and black and oil
swoops like a vulture down on my back.
Swoops, and claws with furious elbows
poking and piercing and demanding in a voice,
listen, listen, i am important, why don't you listen.
Smells of herbs and steam and potions
of musty walls with the echo of my daddy
(his silver cuff links down on the floor)
screaming.
Silk flowers on the windowsill, and funny,
I never noticed.
[II.]
An ink blot
says nothing.
But it should.
Consider.
Whose snowy owl.
Whose scrawled letters.
Whose scent.
moor flowers.
& sea wind.
& crushed leaves.
& honest sweat.
An ink blot.
What should it say.
His owl stares at me.
The black onyx eyes are
like two demons
waiting for me to strike black.
His white owl
who is white like my father's teeth
& my daddy
his cuff links are silver.
because he likes the way the black looks against the silver.
my daddy
he does not like this owl
because this owl belongs to that him.
my daddy
he does not like this owl
because this owl reminds him of that him.
my daddy
he does not know
that this owl comes to haunt at me.
[III.]
& my mommy
she is gypsy [2]
& my mommy
she is wood nymph
& my mommy
she is fairy
& my mommy--
she is beautiful.
My mommy has blond hair
hair the color of sun lit ivory
hair the color of dawn sky
and hair the color of pale parchment
and my mommy should have had ice blue eyes
but my mommy has gray eyes
eyes the color of stones
and eyes the color of wood ashes
My mommy has pale skin
skin like pallid clouds
skin the color of white sand
and my mommy--
O! How she is beautiful.
[IV.]
The train lurches as if it is to throw up all it has eaten,
all of its passengers
and all their luggage
like its lunch, its bulimia.
Lurching, lurching, my heart goes thumpty-thump
but for different reasons.
he is here, he is walls away
amongst the other food pieces we are
the train is churning him
in its gigantic stomach
waiting to exhale his stench.
He is there and his mouth is moving
a gaping hole never to be closed,
a traffic of words
crowded against each other
in the air
and he is suffocating.
Silence, my dear Harry.
The train
l
ur
che
s.
[V.]
he is in the library
& i dare not go
he is in the library
& i dare not stay.
[VI.]
He is not a gypsy
and he has not the silver cuff links
but he is my mommy and he is my daddy
and he is so much more of me.
He smells of sandalwood at night on deserts far and far away.
The dawn comes to sweep at his face when he cannot hear,
hears nothing but day approaching, comes like a fly does day.
buzzes around you, asking for something, buzzes, then attacks.
He is not a gypsy
and he is not a fairy and he is not--
but so much more than me. [3]
[VII.]
Again he is bleeding air
into my mouth,
bleeding air in sighs and words,
that I cannot understand,
but I need not.
need not understand his skin
need not understand his cries
need not understand his touch
his insistence that I can
change.
Foolish Harry, to create
what I had wished to be broken.
Foolish Harry, to believe
what I have known to be false.
Foolish Harry, to believe
and make me believe it too.
He is bleeding his words now
across my skin
and they spread like coconut milk [4]
to cover me.
I think I am protected,
can weave a spell for him.
Foolish Harry, to create
what I had wished to be broken.
Foolish Harry, to believe
what I have long given up
[VIII.]
I look for him--
(Strange. His handwriting looks as if it tastes like strawberries.
I once loved strawberries,
their pungent odor of grass and
basic sweetness,
and how they were red, red of black and red of blood,
red like sugar under their skin.
They stained my breath red
and I kissed the girls.
Their cheeks washed with the color
of strawberries.
His handwriting now sprawled across my cheeks.)
& I found him--
(Strange. My daddy's handwriting looks as if it tastes like steam.
Chalky and dusty and empty like him.
Without much thought
but painstakingly empty, as if he thought to keep himself shut out.
Maybe he is outside looking in on himself
and he can't think of what he is like
even though he is outside looking inside and inside looking outside
and there are so many things,
so many things, daddy,
that you do not know, your handwriting gives the light of day.
One time, I heard the sound of a steam kettle
and thought it was birdcalls outside. [5])
--in the shadows.
[IX.]
A low keen whining in my ear
to match the low beating in my chest, the beat of a heart
that somewhere is not beating but shivering instead.
Shivering with the rhythm of his flying fingers
the rhyme of his flowing hair
and the melody of his flickering skin.
Ah! Him him him.
Like talking over tea, like stitching flowers in white silk.
How many strange memories
crammed into accordion minds. The moonshine
like sweet honey
of liquor that flowers, of liquor that flows. [6]
Over my throat,
in the darkness
alone
crushed petals under the rim of my fingernails.
Their scent is perfume, is red thread drawn over my wrists.
& his slanting handwriting is trapped under the fabric of my pillow.
Ah! Him him him.
[X.]
This is goodbye.
This is.
This.
This is goodbye.
This is the tongue falling out of my mouth
too quick for me to catch.
This is goodbye.
This is the eyes following you,
waiting to engulf you in their grayness.
This is goodbye.
You.
Say no more words, wait until the months tick by like agony,
like the promise of no more beginnings and no more endings,
one day, like this. The train shall depart and continue on,
and all the people are gone,
except for us,
us. Us frolicking like windblown feathers, together, together.
This is goodbye.
Your knees are filled with the scrapes of metal stone where
we knelt and prayed for nameless gods to help us,
us, neither of us believe in god, and no god, we flaunt
destiny. In their faces, nothing but the too pale rivals.
You, Godric Gryffindor, and I, Salzaar Slytherin.
The snake and the lion, one to turn on your back
and bite. But you, you are open and golden and without
any mars.
This is goodbye.
This is.
This. [7]
===
Notes:
[1] My daddy, daddy, daddy...
Have you people ever played that hand game, Ms. Mary Mack? It goes like this:
Ms. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
all dressed in black, black, black
with silver buttons, buttons buttons
all down her back, back back.
There's more, but that's the point. I had it stuck in my head as I wrote the first poem.
[2] she is gypsy
This comes from a story my friend's parents used to tell him. They told him that they found him from the gypsies, and somehow, that idea struck me. I'm not sure if there are gypsies in the wizarding world, but that's not really the point.
[3] but so much more than me.
This poem actually rhymes a little. If you group the lines so that there are two stanzas of four lines, and the last stanza with only three, you will see that there is an ABAC rhyme scheme.
[4] and they spread like coconut milk
There is a fable somewhere about how some worshippers of some god opened a coconut and the milk spread all over a huge statue of the god and completely covered it. The miracle was never repeated, but it was interesting.
[5] and thought it was birdcalls outside.
If you every listen to the kettle, it does kind of sound like shrill birdcalls. Or it may just be my strange brain at work again.
[6] of liquer that flowers, of liquer that flows.
The joke here, of course, is that moonshine is also the term for illegal liquer back during some era.
[7] This.
You know when people sign yearbooks, and they do that annoying:
I
I did
I did this
I did this just...
On and on until it becomes I did this just to take up space?
Kind of the opposite of that.
===
Well. That's that. Reviews? Or just rotten vegetables? As Jay once said, asking for reviews on poetry is dangerous. But, nonetheless...