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panzershrike-pretz · 2 months

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Graves - pt. 4

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

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Hey! Made a new part! I really like how it turned out and there's ✨️lore✨️!

Taglist: @onehelluvamarine @1waveshortofashipwreck @whollyjoly @sweetxvanixlla @xxluckystrike @executethyself35 (if you want in or out, tell me!)

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Dean was the one who slowly pushed the door open, a nervousness taking over his body as he took in the room filled to the brim with the most random stuff it could be - all from books to a full unicorn taxidermy, staring down at him from it's shelf.

It was about the size of a wild hare with bared pointy teeth and black eyes. Dean had never seen a real unicorn before; Archie had told him how hard to catch those creatures were. Small, fast and aggressive, who used their horns to kill their prey. He wondered for a second if they were really as scary as the taxidermy mount, but decided not to question it.

The atmosphere was heavy, filled with the sound of feather scratching paper and fire burning at the fireplace - even as the rest of the group entered, stepping on the usually creaking floor boards, it seemed too quiet. Too still.

Sat right in the middle of the room, was a desk full of uninteresting paperwork and useless decoration. Miss Peacock was there, looking at the papers without even batting an eye at the group at first - she only did so when Seamus made a shy 'ahem' sound.

Her eyes drifted from her work, up to his face, and she raised her brows, glasses slipping a bit down her muzzle.

“I see you have returned.” She let down the feather she was writing with, then entangled her fingers, curious to what they had to say. “Without Pigeon and an hour and a half after your real return. One must wonder where have you been; you put the whole place in deep fear. We were about to send out a search party.”

“Miss Pigeon refused to join us,” said Sam, a bit intimidated by the woman. It was too dark in the room for him to tell who the other women were - he recognized Laura Macaw, Peacock's own apprentice and personal assistant. Other than that, he could only guess who the others could be. “She made a point about killing whoever went after her next.”

“She's elusive as always. That's how she spent so long in hiding. We're the first to find her and that's how she welcomes us…” Peacock pushed her reading glasses up, before drinking a sip of tea, then taking a look down at the papers again.

Seamus thought about the Hollow that was set loose upon Pigeon’s loop, but decided not to talk about it. Peacock knew about the creature because of Pangea's vision, but didn't know it was wandering the place for over a week before they could access it.

“She said she doesn't want to see you again. Ever. And that you were a cowardly bitch.” Enoch continued, a grin on his face that he was lucky Miss P couldn't see in the dark. Her eyes stared at him with such intensity, though, that he regretted his words instantly.

Peacock recomposed herself, opening a sweet smile before saying: “Don't you pay attention to such a thing. She's out of her mind. Staying isolated for so long takes its toll on a person, you see…” then she looked at one of the women in the room, which Seamus finally recognized to be Hydra. Peacock's eyes narrowed. “Now, what kind of language do your Ymbrynes let you use…?”

Enoch followed her gaze to the nervous woman, who looked like she wanted to disappear on the spot.

“I'm sorry… Miss Peacock…”

“Now, you two did fail your mission, though I'm not severely surprised…” she looked back, picking her feather back up. “Next time I'll need to pick more competent people, I see. No thanks to you, Miss Ibis.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Peacock.” Hydra said, quickly, letting her head down. “It'll not happen again. You'll not be disappointed anymore.”

“Correct, I won't. You promised me your children were good for any task, but they failed at such a simple thing as to bring a one-legged old-woman to me. I'll not be using their help for these missions again.” Peacock went back to writing, after dipping the feather's tip in some ink. She stopped mid sentence, though, to look up once more. “Will you tell me why you kids took so long to get to me?”

“No, ma'am… I fear not.” Sam simply put.

Peacock shook her head, then made a dismissing motion with her hand.

“Then out of my office.”

They bowed, showing at least some respect, before quickly scurrying away, followed by Hydra. She opened her wings enough to cover their backs as they made their way through the hall, looking over her shoulder as Laura closed the door.

Hydra guided them, looking extremely nervous as she whispered to herself in an ancient language. After some walking, though, she let them stop, finally feeling just safe enough to check on them.

“Oh, thank the Gods you're safe!” She said, pulling both Enoch and Seamus for a hug. It was clear how worried she was before and now, close to tears, she couldn't quite believe her eyes, seeing them alive and in one piece. “I-I was so worried I'd lose you!”

Enoch mumbled something, before pulling himself away from her. He crossed his arms, looking at the floor: “Well, it didn't seem so while we were being humiliated by that glorified chicken.”

Hydra sighed, trying to place her hand on his shoulder, just before he stepped back, out of reach.

“I'm sorry, Enoch. I truly am. I know I should've said something, but… Miss Peacock can be hard to deal with. I'm sure she didn't mean any of tha-”

“Out of the way, searats!” Laura's voice was sharp and full of hatred as she passed by, using her blue colored wings to push Hydra and the group out of her way. “I'm impressed Miss P still lets you wander around these halls. A dirty, disgusting bunch…”

“Oh, shut yer trap!” Dean let out, receiving a very hostile look from the woman. He didn't back away, though; instead, just puffed his neck and tail fur - he just didn't do anything more because Sam quietly held his hand.

“I think Miss P is extremely kind by giving you a chance,” she said, turning around just enough for her to face him. She carried a bunch of books and paper scrolls, presumably to be retrieved to the library. “Pirates are good for one thing alone, and you know what it is.”

“Say it, then!” He dared, furious.

“To hang.” Laura then turned to go, leaving the group behind as she disappeared in the halls of Venus’ Pandeloop.

Dean wanted to break free from Seamus and run after her, to attack, but a tug made his attention shift to his partner. He looked angry, ready to take on that fight even if it meant he could actually be sentenced to death by the Bird Council. The only thing that held him back was Sam's pleading look.

“Dee, let her be.” His voice was calm, gentle, though still carrying some sadness by the way Laura had spoken.

“Let her be?! She said our only purpose is to die! To meet the end of the rope! How am I supposed to let her be?!”

“Jeremy said the same thing once…” Hydra said, looking hurt. “We wanted to throw him overboard, but we didn't. I never knew why, but we let him be. Now, he's a changed man. He doesn't think like that anymore. People can change their minds, Dean, give Laura time to actually know and understand us.”

“I think she's a prejudiced piece of good-for-nothing crap!” Enoch huffed, sounding angry. "We should trow her to Artemis' dragons!"

“And how are you any better?” Pangea asked, making him go silent.

The way back through the almost empty halls was silent. During the day, that place was filled with people of all kinds, from everywhere in time and every part of the world, traveling through the Pandeloop's portals to visit places and friends. From winged women being followed by their peculiar children to weird looking animals and groups of scientists meeting to talk about discoveries. At night, though, all you could see were the occasional staff cleaning and tidying up the place.

They passed by the known people, giving them faint smiles and quiet waves as they went but, other than that, they were each absorbed in their own minds.

As the group approached their own door, right at the end of one of the second floor's halls, Hydra pushed it open. The door was made out of wood, seemingly normal if not for the corrosions from salinity and the smell of ocean water coming from behind it. Besides that, the only other indication that it was the right door for them to go through, was a golden sign with “Blithe, present. Restricted access. Do not enter.”

The room slowly transitioned from a guest room in London, 1886, to a pirate ship's jail, on the lowest deck of it.

They went through, feeling a slight shift in the air as they stepped out of the past and directly into the present. Going from stable ground to a moving one, as the waves swayed Blithe around, made the group almost lose their balance, safe from Hydra, the best prepared for it. She used her wings to help them stand normally and, when they all finally seemed to be able to actually stand by themselves, she opened the cell's door for them to get out.

Peggy wagged her whole body as she started sniffing around, shoving her nose in one of the ship's cats face - Oops hissed at her. The cat, sleeping peacefully inside the cell, was definitely caught off guard as her owners stepped out of seemingly the wall. Unable to see the portal, Oops simply arched her back, trying to seem dangerous before almost hitting Peggy in the nose and running off, letting out angry hisses and meows.

Seamus was the first to step into the ship's kitchen, caught by surprise by the presence of all the Crew, standing around the table and looking down at a map. He had almost forgotten his command to Horace, for him to gather everyone and fill them in, to the best of his ability.

“So, Pansy is back?” Hugh tilted his head, a couple of bees flying around his face as he stared at the group, waiting for the rest of the news.

“Yes, and she…”

“Kidnapped Harriet Compton?” Millard asked; even if he was invisible and no one could see his face, his voice made it absolutely clear that he was holding back so he wouldn't cry. His efforts were in vain, though, as he saw Sam's small nod. He covered his mouth with his hand, looking down as a hiccup left his throat.

“You worked with her, right…?” Juni's voice was low and gentle as she reached for his shoulder, rubbing her hand against him, trying to soothe Millard. “I'm sorry, Mills. She’ll be alright, I know it.”

“Oh… if Pansy needssed someone to guide her through the Map of Days, it could've been him…” Olive said, receiving weird looks that she couldn't quite understand. “What?! It is true!”

“Olive, please take Claire and go play upside.” Natasha smiled at her, trying to convince the kid to step out of the kitchen so she wouldn't have to listen to anything, if it came to it, but Olive didn't move a single strand of fur.

“I'm older than you!” She argued. “And so is Claire!”

“Ye're still physically and mentally kids, though. Please, dear, would ye do it for yer dad?” Rodion intervened, kneeling to stand at her height. He had a smile, gently holding her little hands with his big, calloused ones. “I know ya want to be included, but just this time, ok?”

“Not fair! Mamma lets me participate in stuff!” She stomped her feet, looking around for someone to defend her, but everyone seemed to agree that it was better if the kids were left out of the discussion. “Why do you all act like I don't know anything?!”

“We know ye're an amazing lil’ fighter, Olive. We know ye know a lot.” Rodion got back up, gently shoving her in the direction of the exit. “This time, tho, there'll be stuff ya don't wanna hear.”

She crossed her arms, stomping away followed by Claire. Her white fur let it show how her face turned red in anger, as she huffed and puffed all the way up the stairs, mumbling about how “grown ups are stupid!”, “I can shoot and sword fight!” and “I'm not scared of Pansy Graves!”.

Rodion let out a sigh, turning back towards the rest of the crew, waiting for their information and plans to be laid out.

“Alright… we stopped by the Cutthroat Inn and Jack told us he thought the next place Pansy would go is her family's estate, we just don't know where it is.” Sam started, leaning against the table as he tried to make sense of the UK's map. “We know they're bankrupt and living off the Serpen's loaned money. Presumably, also close to one of your family's places…?” His eyes darted back up at Sirius and Hydra.

Both stood side by side, looking at the map in silence. Sirius leaned forward, pointing at London and tracing a line with his finger towards Hampshire.

“Me family has a manor in the countryside here, up near North Wessex. We used to travel there in the summer with Mother, remember Hydra?” He tilted his head, tapping the map. “I think the Grave's Manor is near here. Mother would talk about ‘em being good people and she wanted our Grandmother to marry Hydra to ‘em instead of the Carrow Family.”

“Oh, yeah, a lot of magical families lived nearby or had summer residences there.” Hydra nodded, trying to think. “The Graves, the Carrows… now Sagitta and Scorpius, after they married. Didn’t Archie's grandparents live there too? The Müllers.”

“Well, it means he could help us find out which is the Grave's manor.” Dean pointed out. “Just gotta know how the fuck do we get there while also passing by Brighton to get him.”

“Easy; you go from the Devil's Acre directly to Brighton.” Hydra said, immediately noticing the confused faces. “Oh, you didn’t know, right? The third floor will be closed tomorrow, by Peacock's orders. There'll be no way out of the Devil's Acre unless you go through Miss Lyrebird's imitation of the Pandeloop.”

“Miss Lyrebird's what the fuck?”

Hydra stopped, biting her tongue. For a moment, she wanted to hide herself and act as if nothing happened but, now, she had no way out of the discussion without spilling all the beans.

“Kenji and I were scared when Peacock took control over the Pandeloop. I pulled Lyrebird aside one day and she helped us come up with a plan B in any case…” She looked down, seemingly guilty for not telling everyone earlier about what she and the other two had done in secret. “I stole Venus’ old papers from when she was being forced by Regulus to build the Pandeloop and we set up another one inside Lyrebird's Loop…”

Hydra sat down in one of the chairs, a little dizzy from pure anxiety.

“We- we know it works to send someone somewhere, but it can't open for someone to come back through it. It's a one-way ticket to wherever you want, but you have to come back without it.”

“Well, we’ll be in the present so it shouldn't be hard to get back…” Sam mumbled, still trying to wrap his head around the news. “We use it to go to Brighton, get Archie and he takes us to the Graves’ Manor.”

“No! Absolutely not!” Hydra spat out, suddenly getting up again and promptly regretting it. She took a deep breath. “You can't go there. You have no clue how that place will act once they find out you're there.”

“Why…?” Dean tilted his head, confused.

“If you think Laura is prejudiced, you never met one of those families!” Hydra stared at him, her wings shooting open. “I was born and raised with them, Dean, you have no idea how far their hatred can go. They'll disappear with all of you solely because you're not considered ‘pure’, or whatever.”

Dean wanted to protest, but Sirius stopped him with a motion of his hand, before speaking up.

“Hydra 's right. They tried to kill me, their own blood. What would stop ‘em from killing y'all? They're all on Regulus' side, anyway.”

“At the same time, we need to stop Pansy…” Jeremy said. Until now, he had been silent sitting with his hands together, staring at the map almost without blinking. He finally looked up at Sirius, grabbing his hand to calm him. “Ay, love, ye know ‘em. Those kids are made out o’ iron. I trust ‘em to go there and come back alive.”

Seamus let his ears down, then looked at his own hands. He didn't like to mention his own health conditions or curses but, somehow, he felt like it would bring some peace to Hydra and Sirius.

“I'm… an Obscurus…” he said, slowly, trying to look up only to fail. “If anything happens to anyone… I can… uh… let go…”

“FUCKIN’ NO!” Dean yelled, grabbing him by the arm. “The Gods know when you’ll die ‘cause of that… thing! I don't need to lose ya now!” Dean let go, still looking absolutely betrayed by the mere idea. “That parasite drains your soul every time you let it take over and you know it!”

“You have to promise, Sam.” Pangea said, crossing her arms and tapping her foot on the ground. “No Obscurus. No matter what.”

He simply nodded, looking up at Hydra and Sirius. Both still seemed anxious, but if Jeremy gave the green flag for them to go, it was final.

“Alright. I promise.”

“Good.” Jeremy got up, still holding Sirius’ hand. “The three of you should rest and leave early tomorrow.”

“I'm… not going… I have to stay and take care of Enoch.” Pangea said, side eyeing him. “I promised Eleanor I'd look for him if the potion's side effects grow worse.”

“Oh… well… then… “ Jeremy looked around, eyes falling upon Natasha and Emma. “You two will go. Their powers are great for defense and attack, if needed.”

The two girls seemed caught by surprise, but didn't argue, simply nodding their heads with a slight smile on their faces.

"Wait! You're letting us go?" Natasha placed a hand on her hip, a sassy smile forming on her lips. "Fuck yeah, we're ready!"

"Someone has to save the boys' fur..." Emma winked at Sam and Dean, before letting out a laugh. She leaned against her friend's shoulder, jokingly putting up her middle finger to Sam and Dean, with a single flame burning at the end of it.

Seamus crossed his arms, letting out a mumbled "fucking great..." as he heard Dean laugh. He wasn't completely against the girls' involvement with the mission, but he couldn't quite put aside the fear that both of their strong perdonalities would end up being more of an obstacle to them.

"See you by the morning. We're leaving when Sun's up."

"A'ight, sir!" Natasha did a playful playful salute, that only made his patience drop a little more. He knew it was a joke, but part of him couldn't help but feel pissed at how unserious they were.

Nate and Emma both walked away, giggling with themselves as they disappeared down the stairs, walking towards the sleeping quarters.

"They'll give you a headache~ ", Dean joked, side eyeing Sam's already tired face.

"Yeah, good luck." Pangea agreed, a soft laugh leaving her mouth. "They're not quite your usual soldiers, Seamus."

"I can't quite think if that's good or bad..."

#pretz oc #🥨🪶#i love Emma and Natasha's dynamic #poor Seamus #at least they're quite good at fighting soooooooo

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pangeasplits · 3 years

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happy new year you filthy animals

#i don't have champagne so i did a shot of whiskey instead. seems apt #pangea creaks

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andrewrosswatson1987 · 5 years

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REVIEW: MOZES AND THE FIRSTBORN DADCORE ON NEW ALBUM

Mozes And The Firstborn have now reached that third full-length album point. This brand new album, Dadcore, out today (January 25), is released via label, Burger Records. California's Burger Records were the first to jump onto the addictive, raw energy of Mozes And The Firstborn, releasing their debut album in 2014. Vocalist and guitarist, Melle Dieleson, explains the love behind their music. After all, ask an average fifteen year old nowadays what rock music is and they’ll characterise it as something their dad listens to: “Dadcore is a love letter to rock music. It’s an ode to being in a band. After eight years we still sometimes play shows where only twelve people show up, there’s no backstage and the fee is a case of beer and a place to crash. Nonetheless, there’s four people up on that stage rocking out as hard as they can. That's Dadcore to me.” Dadcore was produced by drummer, Raven Aartsen, with Chris Coady (Beach House, Yuck, together PANGEA) on board as co-producer. On this third record the band has worked with different mixing engineers, including Chris Coady, Rob Barbato (Kevin Morby, The Babies, The Fall), Roland Cosio (together PANGEA, Fuzz, Peach Kelli Pop) and Andrew Schubert & Eric Carlson (together PANGEA, Mean Jeans, Wand). They’ll bring their potent mix of Eindhoven, Netherlands four-piece grunge and powerpop to the UK for an exclusive show at Shacklewell Arms, London on Tuesday, March 12. The singles for the project are, so far, “Baldy”, “Sad Supermarket Song”, “Hello”, “If I” and “Blow Up”. Title track, “Dadcore”, featuring together PANGEA, opens the album childlike and with earnest. Then those drums, strange and foreign, kick off the song with urgent and immediate guitar. Grunge but with a touch and spot of seeming optimism. Second track, “If I”, however, screeches into existence. Drums fire climatically and ominously, giving life to this evil beast. Mourning and despondent, the guitar cutting like a buzz saw in the hands of the insane. “Can you shut your mouth?” a question inviting you to, daring you to, think your next step carefully. “If I could’ve left it there” like either not acting on impulse to potentially kill, or not prodding the beast into calamitous action. “Baldy”, now. This’s more upbeat, though still with a touch of melancholy to it. “Well, I know this can’t be right” like a step of trepidation. Harmonica like the blues in an altogether different setting. Then comes “Sad Supermarket Song”, sounding maybe as it should; downbeat, sparse and introspective. This then gives way to driving, grungy rock. At one point it tapers off into brief silence, like cut short facing a dead end. Then there’s a vocal refrain, signalling a little more time to think akin to a crossroads and not a metaphorical cul-de-sac. “Fly Out I” is a short intermission, as sad as it may be. The scene of “...and move into LA/I fly out to meet you, it’s a bright and shiny day” painting a picture of anticipation. “Blow Up” is like the happiness of anticipation matching the euphoria of the meeting itself. The stuff of dreams and then some. The reverb of the vocals indeed like a dreamlike state. A refrain stretches the dynamics of the song, the vocals bouncing off walls more so amidst the relative silence. They then fade in and out like in some sort of time warp. The drums then stride forward independently, crisp and emphatic before the rest of the instrumentation sees the track out. “Hello” trudges before, “This is a song for Rosalie” hammers the song in proper. “Now she is a woman and it’s wonderful to see/Any moment she can summon up the life she’s lived and dreamed” like joyous realisation. A wayward solo like the excited passion of unabashed happiness. Things slow unceremoniously, like as the start before hammering in and getting cut off even more unceremoniously. The then strains of “Scotch Tape/Stick With Me”, featuring Kelsey Reckling, are deep and bassy of guitar chord. Thick and almost feet in the mire. The dynamics of intermittently going from relatively inanimate to otherwise keep the ears curious. There’s a thankfully marked delineation between both halves of the track, the latter a creaking wail of ambience and ringing out more sedate than before. Together “Were All Saints”, sways from side to side, sunbathing in whimsical thought. It’s more inward moments see the bass taking relative flight of melody and breaking from just letting life wash over you. “Amen” is a wall of guitar chord and you can’t get over to the other side where the grass is greener. An angular solo is in the rut as much as anyone else in this situation. Things slow, is this a chance to scale the wall in the end? The concluding “Fly Out II” pleads, “I need to feel you/I need the real you”. The notes ring out earnest, the song dictated by the drums in a pattering kind of rhythm. “I’m so tired of living far apart…are you ready to depart?” like leaving the airport for a whole new life, together proper and not just lovers by mailed love letter to rock music and being in a band. Indeed, pattering rhythm like a trudging distance only ever narrowed by flight at remarkable speed. Ones to look out for are “Dadcore”, “If I”, “Sad Supermarket Song”, “Scotch Tape/Stick With Me”, “Amen” and “Fly Out II”. One particular thing to remark upon looking at this album is the aesthetic symmetry of the track list when pondering those ones to look out for. What you’ve basically got are the first two, last two plus the fourth and fourth last giving you means to appreciate what’s all start, approximate middle and end. Mozes And The Firstborn are a good mix of the loud, quiet and somewhat more sedate. They’re a grungy rock band with a modern twist with the genre true having died a death some years ago. You can make somewhat broad stroke comparisons to the likes of Nirvana, but these are minimal. They’ve got a somewhat attuned ear to the pop and accessible, sometimes like pop punk. Mozes And The Firstborn’s Dadcore can be bought on iTunes, here.

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ethanwade-blog1 · 7 years

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Mother

-by Ethan Wade

Oh mother, they have you, of whom has wallowed in the drug for some time now. What is that black sheet, magnetic and flypaper, drug-up to get clung-up and hung-up? That dreary addiction that detaches heartbeats from the passionate suction cups of the steep spirit head. Mother, my black hole held close. Guess I wouldn’t be here without you. Your wombing. Guess the world would not seem so fractaled; and then who would I re-drape with your internal image? You entered through a lavender corridor, illuminated and pregnant with light, through a dream-antenna as I slumbered in weight. I was a sphere of white light, cradled in your arms. All was wind and transient. Little seeds of starlight, tiny orbs, were wafting in flurries, picking us up and we lifted and soared selves through the lavender corridor. The light pulsed as breath dying and back to life, all in reverse. Submerged in violet and there was this unsure love, the pseudo-structure holding the physical playwright together. All an act, our skin another piece of the stagecraft. And beneath, spirit life in the all. And as I look around now, all the women in the cafe, I see you bleeding through. Oh, what are you? What are you really? I’ll never know, can only feel you floating there as some neuro-mirror in the spiritual labyrinth beneath skull. You held me in tainted arms, my pores open to symbiosis and my soft-head soaking in the fetal labyrinth beneath skull. Eyes are subtle slot machines in spiritual lotteries, graphing until no ceasing. Breathing, just keep breathing. All loaded and coded with you, but what are you? Through the death, clog, cloud, and ectoplasm to find you. And the smooth jazz, volume increases, blooming mauve, my listening glistening. Looking up from eyelids, sip the cold brew. Willpower says “can I take your order?” Right brain lifts a generative hand: a voice ascends out the throat, mine: “listen to this here”: “with every opening, dissolve the spiritual pawnhood, lift to sift the prize from the derelict.” And I said this. The eyes in the room look up and to the globe around my formed purple circumference. Must remember to nullify the buzzing-busy-body beneath before antidotal insertion. They reared white fangs through black minds. Back to situational zero. Jazz hands on the piano through the air and a couple old birds walk in through the coffee door, creaking, bringing their purses to close clutch in terrified talons. Peasant pheasants sifting the materialistic skin for the birdseed congregate. Sure you need another dose of the coffee bean? The fear boosted in through the ritualistic electro-cube seems to have fixated you out of your rhythm, numbed enough. But you are like mother, with her head in the pillbox, her hand on another man. Loose plan. Submissive, none her own. Missile perceptions: on target but blow up in the hand. Benefactors: zero. Old birds peruse the menu through tinted eyewear. Where the pupil lands, nobody knows. Couple couples of black mirror-wear where eyes are targeting, unseen. They marry their choice to a couple double espresso shots, one on each bird. Sipping until the eyes branch red rivers, black shots turn white eyes wide and bloodeye. Birds with bloodeyes, a conversation: “My son is in navy. I am proud of son. Tweet tweet. He make good family. I be happy grandmother. Only if I am happy mother first.” “You should be very proud of your son, Barb. Tweet tweet. He has made all the right decisions in life.” “He authority good. Well done has he. Tweet. He make me happy. He make country safe. Tweet. Me feel safe. Men must mean. Mean men. No coincidence. No conscience. Conscious say so. Tweet twat.” Big arm men run the den? Nonsense, the illusion grown rampant kudzu and crafty little sluggers hide in the midst of solidarity. Laugh into their abysmal faces trudging through thought mud. Oh mother, they have you. Where have you been? Always seemed to love brother bear with an elongated care compared. Shutter in the pale stab. Memory ghosts. He had a personality in the bud of 4 years to my 4-month form. How to say. Lost somewhere in the blackout childhood. Memory gone scattered, pitter patter down hell’s hallways. Won’t get much anywhere without the innerware woven and caressed with care. Then the winter-corpse of the past writhes back into solar statements. The entire cycle is alive in good attention. Horizon of Aries airs these; eyes backwards and forwards through springs-of-time. Bust out the tubas, trumpets, trombones and timpani. Coping with instrumental care. Goodbye birds on ballistic branches. Tweet twat. Until we meet in another chamber. Somewhere in there. Somewhere down there. Some here, some there. Oh mother, they have you. Last time I saw you, I met you. Didn’t have a mind able to see you through clear glass rotations as there was something in the way. Something in the wave oppressing the way. Semantics, the anti-shamanic, obscurity. Oh mother, they have you. Wrapped in gears. Get out of the pharmaceutical den. Greek for poison, you know. A laugh in your abysmal face. False columns erected in your imitator Pantheon. Shaded your own Athena. The magic hands faded from then. You just can’t remember that you don’t need to remember. No missing pieces. Just pieces unseen. Just peace and unseen serene gleaming under the water. Oh mother. Wet mind turned dry. Turn on your piano. Attached by our chord. Notes play onwards. In my dreams: you are the ocean. In my dreams: you are the sky. Your tag on the floor. Your tag on the ceiling. Had a dream a time ago: on a cruise boat. Wade, me through the wading ocean. Through your soft skin and liquid azure: your tears into your ocean in the slow motion flux. There and back again. I am the boat, wading. The cruiser eye. A point in pursuit. That is. And my children of the dream all gathered around, solid circle cackling, solar; blushing figures of light aboard. My, my. Mother may I? I may malmother them into parts, deny the unified into groups to parade them about in mine. That’s to train the tone, train the eye-train-everlasting to pinch the vein and put a pin in the clock-year. Start then stop. Change the colors. Range of tones. Disbanding the Pangea-template so the cord can be seen. So the cord can be seen. So the chords can be seen. So the notes make their own scene. Scales on the snakes and the snakes made the scales. And hatch up a celestial contrast because of yearn for the yolk, so the colors seen can be the scene. Addiction to observation. The vicarious virus. Their colors are my colors floating there as some neuro-mirror in the spiritual labyrinth beneath skull. Their colors, my colors: in form, in motion, and in myth. Oh mother, they have you. Why add to the death-funnel-downwards with luckless lube? In motion, Mother Ocean, I can’t escape your past of current rushing in. The backdrop is stained glass of dark plums with your facial overlay. Your impossible face made up of the little seeds of starlight, wafting in flurries, swirling in the marriage of your contextual smiles. Smiles of my stone-age, the distant archaic, telepathic records. Dusted my cerebral skeleton. Edged closely to the forgotten. Oh as me, a physical memory. Memorial residue gifted. With freewill. To right your wrong as I write your wrongs as songs. Into ripe light. Oh mother, they have you. I could not have had you.

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