Sounds that sparkle
Breaking gently over the ether
Echoes of a summer evening
The heartbeat of time
Shinji's (not) a Basket Case[to the tune of “Basket Case” by Green Day]
Do you want to hear
About your darkest fears
And the end of the world in the Third Impact?
Giant war machines,
With pilots age 14,
No wonder everyone is mentally cracked.
It’s not a future we deserve.
Don’t think I trust the folks at NERV.
It all keeps adding up,
So, Shinji, hurry up.
I know you’re scared but there’s a world to save.
The Evas don’t work
At least one went berserk.
It looks like we’re all going to end up dead.
Asuka’s got no heart
And Rei is falling apart
And Shinji’s hiding underneath the bed.
Sometimes I’m shocked they’re still alive
Why do they let Misato drive?
When you hear Shinji say, I mustn’t run away
You know he’s gonna run.
Oh, there he goes.
What the hell is that
Coming out of the sky?
So much I didn’t want to know.
There’s too much fluid in this show.
It all keeps adding up.
So, Shinji, hurry up.
I know you’re scare
RainbowsI started out looking for rainbows
And found only grimy grey lies
And I could keep searching and searching
Til the day that I drown in the skies
Roaming without maps or anchors
Wishing without voice or prayer
Thinking I was lost forever
Chained to walls that were never there
It’s a game you win when you stop playing
Unsolved and intact, you succeed
The wide open sky is my canvas
I can paint all the rainbows I need
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 11Austria waited outside the bedroom door, tapping his fingers against one another. The doctor had wasted no time in arriving and beginning the examination, and yet a great deal of time had passed since the door shut. Anytime an unpleasant thought imposed itself on Austria’s mind, he replaced it with “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Still, time wore on and his strategy was failing him. At long last, the bedroom door opened.
“Come in, please,” said the doctor. Resisting the urge to run to the bedside, Austria entered the room. Inside, Hungary lay nestled in the centre of the bed. She was resting with her arms folded behind her head and a peaceful look on her face. A serene smile graced her lips as she watched him approach.
“Thank goodness you’re alright,” Austria said.
“Better than alright,” said the doctor. “There is good news.”
“Wait, wait,” said Hungary, si
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 10In panicked heartbeats and hushed whispers, Austria and Hungary scrambled for a plan. Many rooms away, Chibitalia was still practising. Austria could not believe that this example of precocious diligence was related to that odd man waiting outside.
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Hungary said, although her voice betrayed that she suspected it wasn’t. Unexpectedly, she stumbled backward. Austria caught her just before she would have hit her head of the bust of Mozart.
“I hate that thing,” she said faintly. Austria looked at her in concern. He had never seen her look so strained.
“I’m fine, Austria,” she said. “Just a little dizzy.” As one, they looked at the door. The anachronistic stranger was probably still waiting there. Gentle, clumsy notes continued to flow from the music room. Austria gripped Hungary tighter.
“We must act now.
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 9Hungary awoke that morning to the sound of musical notes. Just the notes - not really music. The sounds were plain, clear, and orderly, yet punctuated often enough with missteps and awkward pauses. She found her slippers and wandered down the hall to investigate. As she approached the music room, she remarked how unusual it was for the door to be left wide open. Peeking inside, Hungary could not believe what she saw.
Not only was Chibitalia inside the room, but he was actually seated at the piano bench. Technically, he was seated atop a stack of books on the piano bench, but he was indeed playing. Austria stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, as he watched the young child navigate the scales. Another batch of eight notes concluded. Chibitalia looked up at Austria for approval.
“Again,” Austria said with a nod. “And this time, remember to only use the correct finger for each key.”
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 8Even in Austria’s dreams, the elusive melody taunted him. The song he had been straining to compose presented itself in the feeling of a perfect flow, and yet was discernible only in tantalizing bits and pieces. If he could only capture that song, he swore, he could hold the key to maintaining his empire’s glory. His family would need -
He had a wife, not a whole family. There were no -
Blinking awake, Austria tried to bring his world back into focus. It was pitch dark inside the bedroom. He couldn’t see a thing, so he just listened. The faintest chirping of the crickets outside. Hungary’s gentle, even breaths. And something else.
A string of strange and discordant notes drifted from the music room. Austria slipped out of bed and followed the sound. He paused outside the music room door. Sure enough, the sound was his dear piano being played by horrendously unskilled hand
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 7Working by the burning frustration within him, Austria let his fingers fly over the piano keys. It wasn’t an angry song, per se, but it was a song being carried on the fiery energy of anger. That worked just as well. Austria felt furious and dignified at the same time - a tiger, king of his lair. The very air in the music room resonated with the bleeding notes. Austria didn’t know what he was playing and he didn’t care. Intuition guided him. The song he played was fury, as primed by years and years of training.
“No one can take this from me. No one!”
His hands crashed down on a sour note, causing Austria to realize how loudly he had been playing. The child was probably in bed already - not that it mattered.
“This is my house,” Austria hissed to the ivory. “I’ll dictate the rules.” The moment he said so out loud, his fingers lost track of where to land nex
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 6Dinner was early that evening and Austria resented it. There was no excuse for interrupting his piano rehearsal. Adults could eat later than 6pm and if the child needed his food sooner, there was no sense in shifting everyone else around because of it.
“But isn’t it nicer if we all eat together as a family?” Hungary said. Chibitalia nodded in agreement and had a large bite of his beloved pasta. Austria refrained from pointing out the obvious. Hungary paused, perhaps testing if he would.
“Do you know who I saw at the market today?”
“Poland and Lithuania,” Hungary said. “I told them all about Chibitalia, and Poland said, ‘Your son sounds totally cute.’”
Austria’s hand froze halfway to his glass.
“You... told Poland that this child is our son?”
Hungary giggled and waved dismissively.
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 5In the centre of the resonating sound, Austria let his fingers run across the keys. In stressful situations such as this day’s, he generally chose a piece of considerable difficulty, so as to fully occupy his mind. This time, however, he had begun with the first etude on his piano desk stand and let the routine take over. There was probably something new from Schubert somewhere nearby, but he felt too cloudy to retrieve it. Fine. This piece would do. It was enough for him to feel the cool ivory under his fingertips and let the humming aura of the sound consume him.
With Hungary and the child preoccupied, Austria allowed himself to forget the world. Following the familiar patterns was hypnotic. It gave him a sense of pride and power knowing he could stylishly trace each song and recreate it like magic.
As his fingers spidered across the octaves, he thought he heard something rustling behind him. He looked over his shoulder and
"It's storming in Chicago," calls the mother to her son,
who already knows—he can see the thunderhead,
black and towering, gliding above the corn fields.
It's miles away now, in Illinois, but his Hoosier blood
stirs with the approach of another Midwestern storm.
While she reflexively checks the radio
for tornado warnings, he runs between the cornstalks,
feeling the first teasing breezes on the outskirts
of the front. The field is empty otherwise; the cardinals
have already found shelter, as have the pasture deer.
She calls to him, but knows he is safe for now,
and remembers what it was like to run through corn fields,
letting the leaves slap against tanned arms and legs,
tasting the ozone tang of the distant lightning
and hearing, just barely, the tolling thunder.
He thinks of glaciers he's seen in schoolbooks:
slow, inexorable (though he does not know that word),
and wonders if a glacier announces its coming, too,
the way the storm air weighs down an afternoon.
MetamorphosisBelly-up along a sleet-slick sill:
a caterpillar caught in the cold.
Behind thick glass, frost-thoughts are filling
teasteam, leaving trails on dark windows.
Out passed the grass, burdened with winter,
snowflakes blur a comet's shooting tail.
Beneath bone-thin trees, wolves howl windward;
the forest, caccooned, changes for dawn.
I have a bouquet of light
of shattered sunrays
that shun those
whose rose is not as rubicund
or whose cerulean is only slightly sea-green-stained.
Slice up the white
and imprison it in sardine cans
and push the plungers home.
But no matter how much you may try
the result is death;
for you've frayed the perfect threads
And only dried minerals and plasma
some darker version of the cosmic latte concentrated.
My heart is a prism.
All that's around me
some hibernating humming
frozen beneath the winter's coat.
I must be a time machine,
because I cannot abide this monochrome much longer.
And I've sprung forward to spring.
I'm seizing the icicles
that drip from the pallid clouds
and stripping them
and cutting them
and setting them
and in my heart they are transcribed
and flowers bloom
in the rumination of the sunlight.
a host to the aquatic fermentation
and I sip this bouquet
an imitation of the future,
Kaa's SpellDeep in the jungle you'll meet a snake.
He says "Hello", but his kindness is fake.
He coils you up, leaving your head.
You feel a strong sense of dread.
You're forced to look into his eyes.
Then you are hypnotized.
As he hisses in your ear
With a taunt and a jeer,
Your eyes are swirling,
You mind is whirling.
His head moves in a strange dance.
You are deeply within a trance.
And he spellbinds you even more
And brings you high above the floor.
You fall into a deep sleep.
You're now his to keep.
Your face is alight with a helpless smile.
Kaa wants to keep you awhile
While It BurnsWhy does a moth fly
Directly into the flame?
Perhaps its captivated
By the beauty to be found
In such pure recreation
It flies so surely
Into its own death
Because it believes
The flames of rebirth
Will allow it a second chance
And perhaps that this time...
It will appear a butterfly.
Perhaps this is the only thing
It can force itself to believe
While it burns.
goldthe surface ripples.
you are the sun and alone,
the radiance of a halo not Luna,
whose visage is pale
as bone, whose flesh is cartilage.
peel the wallpaper away,
as grayscale as my touch silver
fades to sparks of ash.
a mist dissolves
to day. and you linger so transient
layer to layer, the clouds set as sheets
on an expanse of skin. tremble:
sea and sky
converge only to exhale
as they expand,
once. atmospheric pressure builds
where stars fall to water.
Ramblings of a mad manAs time goes whistling by
Like wind and the trees
I stop and notice how
life's not what it seems.
I look out and see
the sky over yonder
seems so blue and fresh
and begin to ponder.
Day to day we live
never asking why
instead of blending in
we build buildings to the sky.
Instead of peace and happiness
we build a world of hate
so strong we feel it burning
trying to escape.
You say the world is beautiful
and yet you torch and burn
all existing life
Fleeing from there home
This world it started out
as a place of pure bliss
but the more we try adapt
the more it caves on in.
We anger Mother Nature
the created of this bliss
convince her we are evil
a bug that she must squish.
She sends the tides apon us
the winds and fires too,
To clear us from this world
so she can start anew
but we refuse to part
from this world we must destroy
rid it of its creatures
poison furtive soil.
We do all these things
saying it is right.
That nature must be vanquished
because we fear it's might.
Come here all my
The Wild PlacesMany people would find this place peaceful and restful.
Lovely wooden benches to sit on.
Clean, solid concrete paths.
Oh, look, a spot of nature just beyond your front door.
A few trees here or there, watered daily by hidden sprinklers.
A layer of green grass mowed into shape.
A couple of birds flitting from tree to tree.
A squirrel you can give a nut to.
Maybe a jogger or two.
Maybe someone walking their dog.
Groups of people chatting noisily,
Not caring where they drop their trash,
Though a trashcan is only a few feet away.
No biggie. Someone else will pick it up.
Look at this place.
So calm, so serene, so tame.
This isn't nature, not really.
Not when it's fed with growth-inducing food.
Not when it's watered with growth-inducing water.
Not when there's an army of workers specially trained to "take care of it."
Even natural reserves aren't really natural.
Everything is carefully monitored,
Endangered animals tracked with tags.
"Hey there, how's the tiger population doing?"
And why are