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Slowly winds the handle he. Discord matched, sweet harmony.
Sending sheaves of song slicing through the bare-board walls. The black box his mellow instrument - some esoteric tool to cleanse away, to spy foul deed.
He knows nothing.
Under new management we are falling away - still slow, but stumbling and falling back into individual lock-down. Contained by rusty fixings pierced to the heavy, green-fade doors.
It is the one-nighters, room rent on copper change, two hour stay.
Between the walls he creeps - the box on his back, hand tracing the dust, looking for secrets. The orchestra strikes up - silent sound through their last-hand room. Strings of golden light tense up and play - shivering onto the threaded floor.
But, among the needles, they do not notice. The white notes slice through whitewash walls to white-worn scars. Among the seeping sweat - ten-note, practised, one-way duet.
And where his eyes once stared from the crawl-space, between the filed-out holes, a slide of metal is shifted in place.
And throughout the night, he screws cool panels to the walls, as they screw heat through the springs
And again we are tucked back further into our yellowed cells, held fast by our hard-won rent.
Smoke from room three - tinged brown, rainbows dancing there - creeps through the spaces which remain. Heavy, hugs the floor - curls tight back against the door. Fragile in the neon glow, a secret shared, shattered soon if the slides sink any further to the wood, pushing us out of his domain.
Vacant. The light proclaims his hate: for this inherited hell, where we stretch and swell, ever mingling between the walls. He wants a plaza, shining stars and a chord of flagpoles - clean shoes, fresh news. Grey-pressed suits and credit cards, not these creased vagrants.
But come they do, and come they must - fugitive motel, tender in the dust. With their bottles and powders, with their blades, their bibles, their black hearts and heavy fists.
He tries - oh, he tries indeed - to push them away, stop the rusted coins falling to the counter top. He tries to scrub the acid stains away, bleach the damp sheets, hopelessly peel the nicotine from the tiles, wash the wood white, sterilise the burnt air.
And he slams the hard steel back against the boards, punching the rivets through the silence, through the anger.
But he knows nothing.
Everyone forgets something - everyone leaves something behind. An atmosphere, a memory hung above the door, streaks of red across the floor. These last-hand chambers heave with tiny fragments, glowing orange filaments of light - each one a secret, a pleasure, a vice. The foundations for such a brittle place - as we seep through the walls, the bonds grow stronger, and the walls knit tighter.
These veins trace through scars and pinpricks, not marble.
The only uniforms here are bought by the hour.
These pillars are toxic, supporting the ceiling from loose-roll papers.
Footsteps echo only from the past.
So he storms between the walls, steeling our gaze with the polished plates, winding the black box with a manic hand so fast that even the newcomers cease their chanting, press a glass against boards. Tonight he presses the blade to our spines, stabbing us back to the brink, and the plaster starts to fall.
Through the vulgar song he works, the walls shining from the inside. So absorbed, he doesn’t see the rituals cease, the sinners press up against the wall with tender ears - his dream, true now, shattered as he rings their innocent heads with twelve-inch nails. Metal slides in, the old beams crack, and the slates slide from the roof - each blow straightening the walls against their will.
We shrink back, fall forward.
He works on, aching crescendo through the dark, until everyone is celled short - tight within the walls they rented.
Dawn streaks across the sand, breaking onto clean-cut, lead-lined establishment new. Rays pierce through the fallen slate, onto the metal he strikes into the wall, and he sees himself - a perfect reflection - with unholy clarity.
Hammer raised, sweat-stung eyes - bloodshot, sleepless, ringed with lies.
The cuts and bruises on face and throat, of lazy needles, scalpel stroke.
Pale skin, high-hunched back - a slash of tan where he peers through the crack.
He lets the steel drop down, swing on the single nail, and shuffles forward, flaying his head against the ripped wall. From the inside, I saw it all.
He catches my eye, shivers and nods, sniffs the white from his nostrils and clasps again the handle, turning gently the other way - winding it all back.
Slowly, slowly - winding it all back.
Sending sheaves of song slicing through the bare-board walls. The black box his mellow instrument - some esoteric tool to cleanse away, to spy foul deed.
He knows nothing.
Under new management we are falling away - still slow, but stumbling and falling back into individual lock-down. Contained by rusty fixings pierced to the heavy, green-fade doors.
It is the one-nighters, room rent on copper change, two hour stay.
Between the walls he creeps - the box on his back, hand tracing the dust, looking for secrets. The orchestra strikes up - silent sound through their last-hand room. Strings of golden light tense up and play - shivering onto the threaded floor.
But, among the needles, they do not notice. The white notes slice through whitewash walls to white-worn scars. Among the seeping sweat - ten-note, practised, one-way duet.
And where his eyes once stared from the crawl-space, between the filed-out holes, a slide of metal is shifted in place.
And throughout the night, he screws cool panels to the walls, as they screw heat through the springs
And again we are tucked back further into our yellowed cells, held fast by our hard-won rent.
Smoke from room three - tinged brown, rainbows dancing there - creeps through the spaces which remain. Heavy, hugs the floor - curls tight back against the door. Fragile in the neon glow, a secret shared, shattered soon if the slides sink any further to the wood, pushing us out of his domain.
Vacant. The light proclaims his hate: for this inherited hell, where we stretch and swell, ever mingling between the walls. He wants a plaza, shining stars and a chord of flagpoles - clean shoes, fresh news. Grey-pressed suits and credit cards, not these creased vagrants.
But come they do, and come they must - fugitive motel, tender in the dust. With their bottles and powders, with their blades, their bibles, their black hearts and heavy fists.
He tries - oh, he tries indeed - to push them away, stop the rusted coins falling to the counter top. He tries to scrub the acid stains away, bleach the damp sheets, hopelessly peel the nicotine from the tiles, wash the wood white, sterilise the burnt air.
And he slams the hard steel back against the boards, punching the rivets through the silence, through the anger.
But he knows nothing.
Everyone forgets something - everyone leaves something behind. An atmosphere, a memory hung above the door, streaks of red across the floor. These last-hand chambers heave with tiny fragments, glowing orange filaments of light - each one a secret, a pleasure, a vice. The foundations for such a brittle place - as we seep through the walls, the bonds grow stronger, and the walls knit tighter.
These veins trace through scars and pinpricks, not marble.
The only uniforms here are bought by the hour.
These pillars are toxic, supporting the ceiling from loose-roll papers.
Footsteps echo only from the past.
So he storms between the walls, steeling our gaze with the polished plates, winding the black box with a manic hand so fast that even the newcomers cease their chanting, press a glass against boards. Tonight he presses the blade to our spines, stabbing us back to the brink, and the plaster starts to fall.
Through the vulgar song he works, the walls shining from the inside. So absorbed, he doesn’t see the rituals cease, the sinners press up against the wall with tender ears - his dream, true now, shattered as he rings their innocent heads with twelve-inch nails. Metal slides in, the old beams crack, and the slates slide from the roof - each blow straightening the walls against their will.
We shrink back, fall forward.
He works on, aching crescendo through the dark, until everyone is celled short - tight within the walls they rented.
Dawn streaks across the sand, breaking onto clean-cut, lead-lined establishment new. Rays pierce through the fallen slate, onto the metal he strikes into the wall, and he sees himself - a perfect reflection - with unholy clarity.
Hammer raised, sweat-stung eyes - bloodshot, sleepless, ringed with lies.
The cuts and bruises on face and throat, of lazy needles, scalpel stroke.
Pale skin, high-hunched back - a slash of tan where he peers through the crack.
He lets the steel drop down, swing on the single nail, and shuffles forward, flaying his head against the ripped wall. From the inside, I saw it all.
He catches my eye, shivers and nods, sniffs the white from his nostrils and clasps again the handle, turning gently the other way - winding it all back.
Slowly, slowly - winding it all back.
Page:
Hurrah - I was waiting on that.
So unpredictable of you, FFF.
So unpredictable of you, FFF.
So was he.
Well, he wept on everyone with those strange, stringy tears anyway.
Well, he wept on everyone with those strange, stringy tears anyway.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> He's the leader.
He failed to inform me of this promotion.
I'm upset.
> He's the leader.
He failed to inform me of this promotion.
I'm upset.
[URL]http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/display_messages.php?threadid=113027&forumid=4011[/URL]
a la Elliott.
Especially beautiful guitars.
Especially beautiful guitars.
Ju§t Tinkª wrote:
> It's called the cybernetic gay room and the whole world is in it.
>
> Including your dad.
He's the leader.
> It's called the cybernetic gay room and the whole world is in it.
>
> Including your dad.
He's the leader.
Cyclone wrote:
> FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Yeah I know. Just as long as it's good music, I don't really care
> what you call it.
>
> True enough.
>
> Except the Libertines.
>
> EY TRIBBERS?!
>
> EY?
Shush. Libs rule all.
As a rule, if a review has the phrase 'beauttiful guitars' or 'heart-breaking / wrenching' in it, I'm there. And has a good score, obviously.
Neither of which would ever describe the Libs, but there we go. Genius has no restrictions.
> FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Yeah I know. Just as long as it's good music, I don't really care
> what you call it.
>
> True enough.
>
> Except the Libertines.
>
> EY TRIBBERS?!
>
> EY?
Shush. Libs rule all.
As a rule, if a review has the phrase 'beauttiful guitars' or 'heart-breaking / wrenching' in it, I'm there. And has a good score, obviously.
Neither of which would ever describe the Libs, but there we go. Genius has no restrictions.
It's called the cybernetic gay room and the whole world is in it.
Including your dad.
Including your dad.
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Yeah I know. Just as long as it's good music, I don't really care
> what you call it.
True enough.
Except the Libertines.
EY TRIBBERS?!
EY?
> Yeah I know. Just as long as it's good music, I don't really care
> what you call it.
True enough.
Except the Libertines.
EY TRIBBERS?!
EY?
Get a room, you gays.
Page: