(no subject)
even after i'm gone, your story ends/with bazoolium, rated r, ten/rose
a/n: i couldn't help it. committed narrative poetry again, but you did say anything could be inspired by the pictures. this is post-doomsday, and a rough sequel to and still i persist
always Daleks.
You're starting to understand how
lifelong enemies
are born.'>
|
"How long are you gonna stay with me?" he asks
and you smile with
all the naivete of someone who can see only
the here, and now.
"Forever," you promise
like it's even yours to promise in the first place.
He smiles back, and you pretend
not to see
the pity turning his eyes soft
as he watches the swing of
your twin hands.
|
Satellite Five and
a basement in
Utah. The burning rage held in
the hearts of a man who hates them but
loves peace, above all things.
Daleks, it's
always Daleks.
You're starting to understand how
lifelong enemies
are born.
Because of them,
pepperpots aren't the only things
you cannot look at
without crying, anymore.
|
Your story ends with bazoolium.
Well, actually, it begins to end with
bazoolium. How it really ends is
a smear of mascara about
eye-level and a deactivated
dimension hopper.
So somewhere between bazoolium and
the heavy, rib-breaking sobs that quake
your heart and your body and
bring your tear-stained cheek pressed against
the cracked plaster of an empty white wall,
you die.
Later, you say: "I am the Bad Wolf,"
just to try the words
and instead of being reborn, you
are given a place at
Torchwood 3.
New to this world, you know you are
doomed to become
the mad hatter who stands in hallways
and whispers for a doctor. Takes long walks
in the fields of rural England
wearing a heavy black coat and
moving against the wind.
People will whisper and you,
you will keep looking up at the sky.
Hope, eternally sprung.
There are worse
kinds of crazy
to be,
You suppose.
|
Months after you lumber into this parallel world
akin to the zeppelins that color your new sky, without elegance
and with the distinct aura of doom trailing after you
like smoke,
a transmission flares to life
on the shores of this world's Darlig Ulv Stranden.
There is salt in your pale hair
but your red eyes are dry
when you ask:
“Doctor?” and
the word twists into the cold
ocean sky.
Lingering, sad.
He inclines his hand. His smile
is bright and careful, brittle;
for a moment, you think of staring into the sun
and the sharp pleasure of loving
something that is
dangerous but beautiful.
Stories brim inside you,
fantastic tales rising in your throat
like tea boiling over and spilling in
dark puddles at your feet.
Only, you tell him random human things
because that
is all you know these days.
And he, in turn, speaks of celestial bodies
says that planetary gases and burning fire and energy
have helped him to reach you.
To cross over the limitless boundaries
between you both
and whisper with one last
breath--
Nothing.
He says nothing that matters.
Talks in circles
and then squares
To be honest, you are tired
of the way he hides behind shapes
(a big blue box, a sonic cylinder, the
triangle of his earnest,
mobile mouth)
so you let the admission rip past your lips
because you know now
that you don't have forever:
I love you.
He looks startled at first, eyebrows slanting
then, resigned.
Impossibly tender, he opens his mouth
and tilts back into the waves
before unceremoniously
fading
away.
You blink.
Your heart hangs on
the end of a thread
that sways like
a snapped cable on a bridge in a hurricane.
There was not enough time
to say enough words
but is there ever time enough
or words enough
with a man who weaves the past and future
into a shroud, and does not stay
long enough to mourn?
This is resolution without
resolution.
But you turn around, because what else can you do?
(No big yellow truck or open consoles to
save the day)
and if your hand itches like
bones reknitting themselves together
after a devastating fracture, well--
You try not to notice.
|
A memory:
He kisses you against
the wall of your bedroom on the TARDIS
where you have pictures from
alien worlds tacked up
with pieces of alien Sellotape. Next to your ear,
beams into the darkness a reflection of
you and him, smiling like loons on
Thyrofax, as the trace of his thumb lingers
against the underside slope of your breast. A flick and the wet
heat of his mouth against the distended end of the soft,
heavy curve and you
throw your head back
sucking in great lungfuls of air,
laughing as he then blows a raspberry
into your neck.
His knee separates the lush curves of your thighs
like a boat cutting water,
driving towards a horizon of pinks and reds
and twilight; a setting sun.
You sigh as he insinuates himself in you,
his teeth biting into your
collarbone and his pulse beating a
raindrops-against-rooftops rhythm underneath
your hand. The musicality of the way
he moves with you
is proof that
he knows how to dance, after all.
Your fingers glide through his hair
where its sweatiest, at the nape, long and
curling, and you try to remind yourself
to make a note:
Haircut in the morning, the snip-snip
and silence of domesticity. Tea boiling on the stove,
the familiar shape of his shoulders against your stomach
as you stand behind him and master your art.
The thought brings a smile to your lips and then
he arches into you, a long stroke of
something full and pleasant and so
Oh. Oh. Oh, that
all thoughts of tomorrow are driven
away in favor of right now--
This is the point when
the memory dissolves because the dream ends
and you wake back into the nightmare of
missing someone so much
that even strangers with similar hair
or eyes or a way of walking
can elicit the most resonant grief from the chambers
of your heart.
The dreams are the worst,
because they make you happy
but it is a transitory happiness and
you are so weary of things that
do not stay.
Light from the kitchen paints
your face a bone-white
as you count out the sleeping pills
and walk back to bed.
The morning, you know,
will just give you more memories to
dream about. But for now,
you welcome the cold, dark
shell of temporary
amnesia.
|
Life in the slow lane
comes to an abrupt halt when
the stars begin to go dim outside
and schematics for
dimension cannons start to
litter your flat.
Despite the burgeoning complicated chaos
of the world outside,
you're almost glad of the chance
to discard your costume
of Rose Tyler, twenty-something Vitex heiress.
You can only
play dress-up for so long,
wearing the skin of
some other Rose
who wears black dresses and red lipstick,
goes for coffee instead of tea and is
all right with sitting down when the situation
calls for standing up.
So
you let yourself
unzip the slinky skirt and
you step back into the armor
of Rose Tyler, defender of Earth and,
a wolf.
More like a woman on a mission, Mickey jokes
and you adore him all the more
for what he does not say.
That you and your lonely heart are
nomadic, and
that traveling is in your veins
and you do not belong here
no matter how much you love your mother
and brother and makeshift father.
And even though he
still looks at you like he dreams, sometimes
Mickey will tinker and tool
until you find your Doctor once more.
Because he loves you, and when you love someone
you don't give up. Not ever, not even if
it hurts.
The prototype sparks
and something sizzles through your
blood and raises
the hairs on your arm.
Your face is a thundercloud,
but your mind is on
applegrass.
"Again," you say,
and you get to work.
|
Perhaps all love is doomed to end
in remnants,
made up of whatever pieces
you have managed to salvage
from the wreckage
and once, that thought might have made you
sad, made you think of
the destruction that must come first
rather than the rebuilding that must come after, but
now, now all you can think of is
how you much more value is added to that recovered treasure
of love between fragile beings.
Through universe after universe, you carry with you
the dusky taste of his kiss
as he whispered prayers into your mouth
that even the least devout would think of
as holy.
And oh, how his heart, blazing in the
wet, dark focus of his gaze,
stole yours.
There is something evocative about the way
you touch your reflection
in the mirrors of the houses in which you visit, the windows
in which you stop;
the blurry outline of your face
traced by a single finger
because you want to, more than anything,
love yourself
as much as he did.
Lightning cracks
as the dimension cannon compresses
your atoms into
buzzing, reality-defying things.
You are a Goddess in these moments,
more than any other
gold-soaked, vortex-consumed
instance.
The ruins of your relationship lay behind you
in some distant land and some distant time. Today,
you are looking towards
the reconstruction.
You step sideways into a new street
and begin the impossible.
|
"How long are you gonna stay with me?" he asks
and you say, because you will always say
no matter what you learn and no matter what truths
the universe tries to tell you,
"Forever."
a/n: i couldn't help it. committed narrative poetry again, but you did say anything could be inspired by the pictures. this is post-doomsday, and a rough sequel to and still i persist
always Daleks.
You're starting to understand how
lifelong enemies
are born.'>
|
"How long are you gonna stay with me?" he asks
and you smile with
all the naivete of someone who can see only
the here, and now.
"Forever," you promise
like it's even yours to promise in the first place.
He smiles back, and you pretend
not to see
the pity turning his eyes soft
as he watches the swing of
your twin hands.
|
Satellite Five and
a basement in
Utah. The burning rage held in
the hearts of a man who hates them but
loves peace, above all things.
Daleks, it's
always Daleks.
You're starting to understand how
lifelong enemies
are born.
Because of them,
pepperpots aren't the only things
you cannot look at
without crying, anymore.
|
Your story ends with bazoolium.
Well, actually, it begins to end with
bazoolium. How it really ends is
a smear of mascara about
eye-level and a deactivated
dimension hopper.
So somewhere between bazoolium and
the heavy, rib-breaking sobs that quake
your heart and your body and
bring your tear-stained cheek pressed against
the cracked plaster of an empty white wall,
you die.
Later, you say: "I am the Bad Wolf,"
just to try the words
and instead of being reborn, you
are given a place at
Torchwood 3.
New to this world, you know you are
doomed to become
the mad hatter who stands in hallways
and whispers for a doctor. Takes long walks
in the fields of rural England
wearing a heavy black coat and
moving against the wind.
People will whisper and you,
you will keep looking up at the sky.
Hope, eternally sprung.
There are worse
kinds of crazy
to be,
You suppose.
|
Months after you lumber into this parallel world
akin to the zeppelins that color your new sky, without elegance
and with the distinct aura of doom trailing after you
like smoke,
a transmission flares to life
on the shores of this world's Darlig Ulv Stranden.
There is salt in your pale hair
but your red eyes are dry
when you ask:
“Doctor?” and
the word twists into the cold
ocean sky.
Lingering, sad.
He inclines his hand. His smile
is bright and careful, brittle;
for a moment, you think of staring into the sun
and the sharp pleasure of loving
something that is
dangerous but beautiful.
Stories brim inside you,
fantastic tales rising in your throat
like tea boiling over and spilling in
dark puddles at your feet.
Only, you tell him random human things
because that
is all you know these days.
And he, in turn, speaks of celestial bodies
says that planetary gases and burning fire and energy
have helped him to reach you.
To cross over the limitless boundaries
between you both
and whisper with one last
breath--
Nothing.
He says nothing that matters.
Talks in circles
and then squares
To be honest, you are tired
of the way he hides behind shapes
(a big blue box, a sonic cylinder, the
triangle of his earnest,
mobile mouth)
so you let the admission rip past your lips
because you know now
that you don't have forever:
I love you.
He looks startled at first, eyebrows slanting
then, resigned.
Impossibly tender, he opens his mouth
and tilts back into the waves
before unceremoniously
fading
away.
You blink.
Your heart hangs on
the end of a thread
that sways like
a snapped cable on a bridge in a hurricane.
There was not enough time
to say enough words
but is there ever time enough
or words enough
with a man who weaves the past and future
into a shroud, and does not stay
long enough to mourn?
This is resolution without
resolution.
But you turn around, because what else can you do?
(No big yellow truck or open consoles to
save the day)
and if your hand itches like
bones reknitting themselves together
after a devastating fracture, well--
You try not to notice.
|
A memory:
He kisses you against
the wall of your bedroom on the TARDIS
where you have pictures from
alien worlds tacked up
with pieces of alien Sellotape. Next to your ear,
beams into the darkness a reflection of
you and him, smiling like loons on
Thyrofax, as the trace of his thumb lingers
against the underside slope of your breast. A flick and the wet
heat of his mouth against the distended end of the soft,
heavy curve and you
throw your head back
sucking in great lungfuls of air,
laughing as he then blows a raspberry
into your neck.
His knee separates the lush curves of your thighs
like a boat cutting water,
driving towards a horizon of pinks and reds
and twilight; a setting sun.
You sigh as he insinuates himself in you,
his teeth biting into your
collarbone and his pulse beating a
raindrops-against-rooftops rhythm underneath
your hand. The musicality of the way
he moves with you
is proof that
he knows how to dance, after all.
Your fingers glide through his hair
where its sweatiest, at the nape, long and
curling, and you try to remind yourself
to make a note:
Haircut in the morning, the snip-snip
and silence of domesticity. Tea boiling on the stove,
the familiar shape of his shoulders against your stomach
as you stand behind him and master your art.
The thought brings a smile to your lips and then
he arches into you, a long stroke of
something full and pleasant and so
Oh. Oh. Oh, that
all thoughts of tomorrow are driven
away in favor of right now--
This is the point when
the memory dissolves because the dream ends
and you wake back into the nightmare of
missing someone so much
that even strangers with similar hair
or eyes or a way of walking
can elicit the most resonant grief from the chambers
of your heart.
The dreams are the worst,
because they make you happy
but it is a transitory happiness and
you are so weary of things that
do not stay.
Light from the kitchen paints
your face a bone-white
as you count out the sleeping pills
and walk back to bed.
The morning, you know,
will just give you more memories to
dream about. But for now,
you welcome the cold, dark
shell of temporary
amnesia.
|
Life in the slow lane
comes to an abrupt halt when
the stars begin to go dim outside
and schematics for
dimension cannons start to
litter your flat.
Despite the burgeoning complicated chaos
of the world outside,
you're almost glad of the chance
to discard your costume
of Rose Tyler, twenty-something Vitex heiress.
You can only
play dress-up for so long,
wearing the skin of
some other Rose
who wears black dresses and red lipstick,
goes for coffee instead of tea and is
all right with sitting down when the situation
calls for standing up.
So
you let yourself
unzip the slinky skirt and
you step back into the armor
of Rose Tyler, defender of Earth and,
a wolf.
More like a woman on a mission, Mickey jokes
and you adore him all the more
for what he does not say.
That you and your lonely heart are
nomadic, and
that traveling is in your veins
and you do not belong here
no matter how much you love your mother
and brother and makeshift father.
And even though he
still looks at you like he dreams, sometimes
Mickey will tinker and tool
until you find your Doctor once more.
Because he loves you, and when you love someone
you don't give up. Not ever, not even if
it hurts.
The prototype sparks
and something sizzles through your
blood and raises
the hairs on your arm.
Your face is a thundercloud,
but your mind is on
applegrass.
"Again," you say,
and you get to work.
|
Perhaps all love is doomed to end
in remnants,
made up of whatever pieces
you have managed to salvage
from the wreckage
and once, that thought might have made you
sad, made you think of
the destruction that must come first
rather than the rebuilding that must come after, but
now, now all you can think of is
how you much more value is added to that recovered treasure
of love between fragile beings.
Through universe after universe, you carry with you
the dusky taste of his kiss
as he whispered prayers into your mouth
that even the least devout would think of
as holy.
And oh, how his heart, blazing in the
wet, dark focus of his gaze,
stole yours.
There is something evocative about the way
you touch your reflection
in the mirrors of the houses in which you visit, the windows
in which you stop;
the blurry outline of your face
traced by a single finger
because you want to, more than anything,
love yourself
as much as he did.
Lightning cracks
as the dimension cannon compresses
your atoms into
buzzing, reality-defying things.
You are a Goddess in these moments,
more than any other
gold-soaked, vortex-consumed
instance.
The ruins of your relationship lay behind you
in some distant land and some distant time. Today,
you are looking towards
the reconstruction.
You step sideways into a new street
and begin the impossible.
|
"How long are you gonna stay with me?" he asks
and you say, because you will always say
no matter what you learn and no matter what truths
the universe tries to tell you,
"Forever."