#i almost never write rhymed verse

[rustbeltjessie]

I love jazz! Oh, how I dig it; Like Miles Davis, “Blue in Green.” Night arrives, my mind goes twilit, I love jazz, oh. How I dig it. That modal mood makes my brain split. Some square cats say: “What do you mean?” I love jazz! “Oh, how?” I dig it. Like Miles Davis. Blue, in green.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, “Untitled (Jazz Triolet)” (NaPoWriMo 2023, Day 4; prompt from NaPoWriMo.net)

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

The thing with the Mari Lwyd, though, is that it's being... I don't know, 'appropriated' is the wrong word, but certainly turned into something it isn't.

Thing is, this is a folk tradition in the Welsh language, and that's the most important aspect of it. I feel partly responsible for this, because I accidentally became a bit of an expert on the topic of the Mari Lwyd in a post that escaped Tumblr containment, and I clearly didn't stress it strongly enough there (in my defence, I wrote that post for ten likes and some attention); but this is a Welsh language tradition, conducted in Welsh, using Welsh language poetic forms that are older than the entire English language, and also a very specific sung melody (with a very specific first verse; that's Cân y Fari). It is not actually a 'rap battle'. It's not a recited poem. It is not any old rhyme scheme however you want.

It is not in English.

Given the extensive and frankly ongoing attempts by England to wipe out Welsh, and its attendant cultural traditions, the Mari is being revived across Wales as an act of linguistic-cultural defiance. She's a symbol of Welsh language culture, specifically; an icon to remind that we are a distinct people, with our own culture and traditions, and in spite of everyone and everything, we're still here. Separating her from that by removing the Welsh is, to put it mildly, wildly disrespectful.

...but it IS what I'm increasingly seeing, both online and in real world Mari Lwyd festivals. She's gained enormous pop-culture popularity in recent years, which is fantastic; but she's also been reduced from the tradition to just an aesthetic now.

So many people are talking/drawing about her as though she's a cryptid or a mythological figure, rather than the folk practice of shoving a skull on a stick and pretending to be a naughty horse for cheese and drunken larks. And I get it! It's an intriguing visual! Some of the artwork is great! But this is not what she is. She's not a Krampus equivalent for your Dark Christmas aesthetic.

I see people writing their own version of the pwnco (though never called the pwnco; almost always called some variant on 'Mari Lwyd rap battle'), and as fun as these are, they are never even written in the meter and poetic rules of Cân y Fari, much less in Welsh, and they never conclude with the promise to behave before letting the Mari into the house. The pwnco is the central part to the tradition; this is the Welsh language part, the bit that's important and matters.

Mari Lwyd festivals are increasingly just English wassail festivals with a Mari or two present. The Swansea one last weekend didn't even include a Mari trying to break into a building (insert Shrek meme); there was no pwnco at all. Even in the Chepstow ones, they didn't do actual Cân y Fari; just a couple of recited verses. Instead, the Maris are just an aesthetic, a way to make it look a bit more Welsh, without having to commit to the unfashionable inconvenience of actually including Welsh.

And I don't really know what the answers are to these. I can tell you what I'd like - I'd like art to include the Welsh somewhere, maybe incorporating the first line of Cân y Fari like this one did, to keep it connected to the actual Welsh tradition (or other Welsh, if other phrases are preferred). I'd like people who want to write their version of the pwnco to respect the actual tradition of it by using Cân y Fari's meter and rhyme scheme, finishing with the promise to behave, and actually calling it the pwnco rather than a rap battle (and preferably in Welsh, though I do understand that's not always possible lol). I'd like to see the festivals actually observe the tradition, and include a link on the booking website to an audio clip of Cân y Fari and the words to the first verse, so attendees who want to can learn it ahead of time. I don't know how feasible any of that is, of course! But that's what I'd like to see.

I don't know. This is rambly. But it's something I've been thinking about - and increasingly nettled by - for a while. There's was something so affirming and wonderful at first about seeing the Mari's climb into international recognition, but it's very much turned to dismay by now, because she's important to my endangered culture and yet that's the part that everyone apparently wants to drop for being too awkward and ruining the aesthetic. It's very frustrating.

[rainintheevening]

Peter writes home from the battlefield every chance he can.

Lucy's letters are full of barely rhyming, rambling poetry, talk of stars and trees and any plants or animals he's seen. He puts in all the words that will never describe any of this, but still there is a great sky above him, and a big heart in his chest, and he hopes she will understand. She could if anyone can.

To Edmund he sends the muddy, bloody, wobbly-writing letters, the ones with rambling memories of Narnian battles and strategy, though he takes care to phrase it as 'playing in the woods', not wanting the censors to get leery. There are also many theological musings, and usually the continuation of whatever Bible verse Ed has sent in his letter. I wish you were here, and yet I am glad you are not, is a sentiment oft repeated.

Susan and Mother usually get the same letter, little stories of kindness shown or soft things appreciated. He asks them for more socks for Jackie, an extra bar of chocolate for Hamish, tells them how he's gotten his whole unit to memorize the Jabberwocky poem, and they make each other smile with it.

Dad is usually named with Susan and Mother, but sometimes he gets an extra scribble, usually a single scripture reference, or the name of a local boy now dead, and a few things Peter asks him to go tell the family.

Eustace gets the occasional missive folded in with the rest, usually sketches of aeroplanes, with which Eustace is fascinated, though they aren't very good sketches. If there's a sketch for Eustace, there is usually also a sketch for Jill, something Narnian, a sword or a forest or a castle.

Professor Kirke only gets occasional letters, usually short and to the point, but written in particularly formal language, as of a king writing to a dear advisor.

They all write to Peter.

Professor Kirke sends exerpts of whatever philosophy or theology or history books he just happens to be reading at the time he remembers to write. Sometimes it seems very random to Peter, but he loves it.

Eustace's letters are infrequent, but burst with colourful descriptions of his school life that make Peter laugh.

Dad usually just scribbles scripture references at the bottom of Mother's letters. Susan signs those too. Mother's letters are full of ordinary home life, rich with the warmth of hearthlight and fresh baking and good books and comfortable chairs and a much loved old quilt. She says what everyone is doing much more clearly, tells how the garden is coming in.

Mother and Susan are also very good at writing to the boys who don't have anyone to write to them. (Peter has a picture of his family, and everyone in Peter's unit thinks Susan is the prettiest girl in Europe, that she should be a queen, but they all watch what they say around Peter, they know how he feels about his sister's honour. But it really does bring up morale.)

Edmund doesn't usually say a lot, but he's regular, always engaging with whatever musings Peter put in his previous letter, making some of his own references to Narnia, usually to things Oreius taught them, and always concluding with a Bible verse. Half the time Ed absently addresses the missive To High King Peter, my brother... He never actually says I'll find you when I join up, I promise, it's just sort of there, between the lines.

Lucy's letters are like blue sky and fresh air and a fierce hug. Sometimes Peter can almost smell Narnia on the paper. They're not long, but she says I love you all the time, and talks of the weather and the flowers, and the girls at school who are struggling, and how she's trying to help them, and there's always a bit of poetry or a hymn that she's written, but it's actually good, compared to Peter's stuff. Courage, dearest brother, she always says. Remember the Lion, she always finishes.

Peter gets so many letters he has to start sending them back to his family for safe keeping.

[lis-likes-fics]

Rhyme and Reason

Pairings: Corinthian x dream!Reader Word Count: 8.7k words Prompt: Corruption Kink Warnings: NSFW, explicit descriptions of death/murder, torture, descriptions of blood, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), slight hair pulling, multiple orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, corruption kink, creampie, fucking in front of a dead body... A/N: There are only two left, guys! I might be able to do this! This took a minute to write cause ADHD is a bitch. But I finished and I hope you like it! Thank you and Happy Holidays!

The little party you find yourself in is just that, little. It takes place in a bar rented out by the set of hosts, a get together with maybe a little over twenty party-goers.

It took so long to find him.

When your lord Morpheus disappeared some fifty years ago, you and the rest of the Dreaming were left…confused. You thought that maybe it was a test? He wanted to see how loyal his creations really were to him, their king. Would they revolt the moment he no longer gave orders?

But, after the first two decades, you concluded that he was just…gone. And you, among many dreams, left as well.

You spent the next twenty years in the Waking world, searching the world aimlessly for something to inspire you.

When Dream still resided in his realm, you would sing for him. He dreamed up a dream of music and song and you became. He loved your songs, he was inspired by the music you made.

When you sat in Fiddler’s Green, you would sing about the butterflies fluttering through the breeze or the bees in their honeycombs. When you sat by the sandy beach, you would sing about the lap of the tides against the mouth of the sea. When you looked up at the skies, you would sing about the sun and moon, how they loved each other so.

On some nights where you danced in the heads of your mortal lords, he would be there, in the seat in the back, listening to you soothe the minds of frightened children or ease the thoughts of anguished men.

Morpheus loved your sweet music, your heavenly song. You reminded him of someone, someone he loved very much.

Much he knew nothing of how you longed for more than your kindly poetry and prose. You loved the gift he bestowed upon you, but you grew weary of your melodies of dancing birds and sugar cane.

He knew nothing of the way you gazed at the dark and twisted dreams that walked his realm, the way they strut, the way they smirk, the way they spin their fables and tricks and white lies. You wished you could sing in deviant keys, tales of wicked fantasies and depraved beasts.

How you longed for the voice of a siren, rather than the whistle of a songbird.

So you looked for inspiration. And you found it.

The humans were a new kind of nightmare. Yes, they had so much love and light and whatnot, but the depravity. The debauchery and sin you found among their kind, it was more than you could have dreamed of.

You didn't just want to sing their songs, you wanted to create them. You wanted to write your verses as they wrote theirs. You wanted to sing your tales and inspire the rest in the same way your sweet lyrics did.

But you didn't know how. You searched all over for someone to teach you, to show you how to take their sullied natures and adopt them into your own poesy.

Soon you realized that no man could teach you how to sing. You'd almost given up your pursuits of fulfillment until you heard of him; a dream you'd never met but had heard of so many times before in the sleeping realm, a nightmare so infamous and so curiously revered by your former lord. You'd heard it through the mouths of chattering men, then read it in the paper. A “man” whose deeds were so reminiscent of the devil, everyone had to know his name, to know who to protect themselves against.

The Corinthian.

He captured men and took their eyes. He made them see all the wonders of the world. And you wanted to sing them.

It took so long to find him.

You seduced and bribed and begged your way through every little turn in order to get to him. And now you're here with a drink in your hand and so many inspirations surrounding you in this little bar.

And he is beautiful.

It's things like him that inspire you to sing. He’s charming and tall and the sight of him, his dark glasses—which hold more truth than eyes could ever tell—frame his face as the golden rim adores his golden hair. You catch yourself staring too often, so enamored and enchanted by the symphony that he is.

But he'd noticed you too, in the moments where your eyes don't find his. Of course he had. He knows exactly who you are, the music of the Dreaming. He hears it in every little breath you take, the gentle lilt of your voice. You were spoken of with as much regard as he was, though in the more virtuous way rather than in the way of his own notoriety.

What an odd little creature. He'd heard so much about you, how sweet and gentle you were. How Dream would sit for hours and listen to you sing in the meadow. And here you were, surrounded by the darkest of creatures, unbothered but so curious.

How nice you would be to…play with for a while.

“Well, hello there.”

His voice seeps into your skin and has goosebumps rising along your body. You turn and look up at the Corinthian like he was a sight to behold. Your eyes are slightly widened with wonder, and you look like you'll get to your knees and begin praising him at any moment, as though he is some great saint.

“Oh,” you breathe, trying and failing to be subtle. “Hi.”

He leans his elbow on the bar, looking you up and down through the dark of his glasses. “What's your name, little thing?”

You scramble to organize your thoughts once more. He's scrambled them with just the sound of his voice. “Uhm,” you stutter. Shaking your head, you offer him your name.

He chuckles lightly, his charming smile curling over his lips as he shakes his head. “No, hah,” he mutters, “I meant your alias.” He turns a little as he motions to the people in the room, dark souls able to be free in the little space of this bar. “Everyone here has an alias. What's yours?”

“Mine?” You clear your throat. “Oh…” You hadn't thought about that. You rub your palm against your thigh, smoothing your dress over your legs nervously.

He thinks you're precious. He turns with a chuckle, looking around the room before gesturing with his head toward two men talking amongst themselves.

“You see him over there? On the right?” he asks. You nod, staring at the man as the Corinthian speaks. “That's the Extinguisher. He's a pyromaniac. He traps his victims in their own homes and covers them in gasoline. Burns it to the ground, starting with them.” The way he speaks is like music, and you get lost in it.

He stares at the wonder on your face, his lips twitching into a curious grin. “Him, there? He goes by the Boa Constrictor. Like the snake. He ties up his victims real nice and tight until their skin turns purple and numb. Then he…” he breathes a little laugh, “...ties a rope ‘round their necks and keeps it there…nice and tight, until they stop squirmin’.”

He expects you to pale, to see the fear light up in your little eyes. But you don't. You stare, hypnotized by his voice and his words.

“Wow,” you whisper. “What about her?”

He smiles wide, looking at the woman in question. “Oh, her?” He licks his bottom lip. “She comes in a pair, only the public doesn't know that. Actually, they think it's a man. She and her friend over there are known as the Tailor, but they call themselves the Seamstresses. You see, it's easier to be taken seriously as a man in this age, otherwise no one would bat an eye at their art.”

Your eyes twinkle with wonder. He doesn't think you realize it when you grab his arm, clutching it as you continue to listen, watching the two ladies talk. He leans nearer to you, speaking gently into your ear.

“They slice the limbs off their victims, nice and clean cuts, and stitch them back together after they've already bled out.” He tilts his head. “They're actually quite sweet.”

You sigh, almost like you're in a dream. “Woah.”

He turns his body back to you, and you realize your hand grasping him. You let him go, offering an apology through a small smile as you looked up at him. He watches it fade, the wonder returning as you take him in.

“If I had to guess who you were…” he says quietly, his voice a whisper as his eyes wander your face, “I'd say you were the Whisperer.”

You tilt your head, watching every little shift in his face as he speaks. He smirks, “Am I right?” You blink at him, moving to speak but unable to find the words. “The artist who sews the mouths of her victims shut so they can't speak,” he seems to lean in further, his voice getting softer and softer as your eyelids flutter. “Sings a little song to them as she…slits their throats wide open.”

You sigh, nearly folding under the weight of his gaze. You nod gently. “Y-yeah,” you rasp, clearing your throat. “Yes, that's me.”

He smiles wide, leaning back to release you from the spell. You let out a breath at the distance, seeming to come back to yourself. “I admire your work,” he says. “That job you did up in Malibu was just…beautiful.”

You don't know where that is, but apparently this Whisperer did. You nod, “Thanks. Thank you.”

“In fact,” the tips of his fingers brushed your hand, turning it to hold in his palm, “I would love a demonstration. Up close and personal.”

You bring your other hand to graze the side of his palm. “Would you mind giving me the honor of witnessing it firsthand?”

You swallow thickly, staring at him. Firsthand… “Uh, I don't have…thread on me.”

He shrugs. “Well, I'm sure the Seamstresses wouldn't mind lending their tools. If we ask nicely anyway.”

“Well–”

“Come on,” he chuckles. “Just…one little show?” He shows a finger, grinning his charming grin.

So pliant to his word, you give in. “Okay.”

The proud grin he displays is wide and triumphant. “Well,” he says, “thank you very much.”

~

The Corinthian opens your door as you step out of the car, looking out over the large building lit up from the inside and crawling with people. He offers his hand, which you take gratefully as your stomach turns, anxiety and anticipation sharp in your gut. He gives you another charming smile.

You both walk inside, taking in the nightclub still in full swing. It's a Friday night, so there are plenty of people here looking to let loose after a long work day.

There's a small band on stage playing upbeat jazz, a singer performing for an enthused crowd. You know this song, you know every song.

The Corinthian’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close to him as he seems to glare at the bodies mingling with one another. It's possessive, like he'll cut the eyes out of anyone who so much as glances the wrong way at you. You lean into him.

He leans down to your ear, his smile returning as he speaks gently. “Who here sparks your interest?” he asks. “Who fits the bill?”

You look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“A target.” He looks around the club, as though he's searching for someone who sparks his own interest. “Most artists have a pattern among their chosen…” he makes a gesture with his hand, trying to find the right word, “canvases.”

You like the way he speaks. It's poetic.

You lick your lips. “What's your pattern?”

“Oh, me?” He shrugs, looking over the crowd again. “I don't follow anything specific.” Tilting his head, he hums, “I suppose I do have a bit of male preference… but I'm not picky.”

“Ah,” you mutter.

“Well?” he wondered. “Anyone?”

You look around at all the people, dancing and sweating and talking. Eventually, your eyes land on a man. He's tall and lean, with black hair messy from dancing.

He reminds you of someone.

“Him.”

The Corinthian’s gaze finds the object of yours. A grin curls devilishly over his lips.

“Very nice.”

“So…” you look up at him, “What do I do?”

The urge to play with you is strong, like it's embedded in the tissue of his being. “You don't know?”

You nod quickly, trying to figure out what to say. You're supposed to be a professional.

“Well, uh, yeah, of course I know,” you clear your throat. “B-But what do you think I should do?”

He chuckles, turning you to face him as his hands cup your waist. He leans in, moving slowly as his lips brush your ear. He lowers his voice to a deep hum. “I always find that seduction works wonders.”

You nod gently as he pulls aways. His black shades stare into your eyes, dark and compelling. “Alright.”

He chuckles, jutting his chin out toward the man, your canvas. “Go on,” he bids. “Take him to the hotel a few blocks down. I'll be waiting for you there.”

Again, you nod. He knows best.

“Okay.”

He grazes his knuckles along your cheek, granting you one last grin before turning and leaving you to your own devices. You would be fine.

You turn toward the dark-haired man, taking in a deep breath before setting a small smile upon your lips. You begin walking over to him, sinking into the music to blend in with the crowd. Even as your hips sway and your face shifts into something more sultry, your hands tremble as the anxiety slips into your skin.

Stepping up behind him, you get his attention by placing a palm on his slim waist. He glances down at your hand and follows it up your wrist, your arm, your shoulder, up to your pretty face as his own smile spreads across his pink lips. “Hello,” you smile gently, leaning forward just enough to tilt your head back to look up at him.

He turns, enjoying the way your hands shift to stay at his sides, your thumbs feeling over the fabric of his shirt. He’s handsome, easily falling victim to your own charm as he lets you seduce him. His smile widens, though he doesn’t look predatory, like a lot of men you’ve come across among the years. He’s charming.

“Well, hello there.” He looks you up and down, and you take in the sight of his pale blue eyes as he does.

You just keep smiling, and it’s all you have to do for him to fall further and further for your charm. “Hi,” you lick your bottom lip.

Considerate of you, he places his hand on your shoulder and brushes it down your arm slowly until he slips it into your hand, holding one of them and setting his other hand onto your own waist. Yours eased to his shoulder, and soon you were holding one another as you danced on a slow tempo to the quick rhythmed music.

“How's a pretty girl like you doing on a night like this, hm?” he wonders, his voice warm and just as smiling as his lips.

You shrug a shoulder as though you're shy. “I'm doing alright,” you chuckle lightly, breathily. “Are you having fun?”

He hums. “Now that you're here? So much fun.” He watched you appreciatively, biting his lower lip and sighing. “You lookin’ to play with little ole me?”

You tilt your head gently. “Do you like to play?”

“Doll,” he chuckles, “I love to play.”

You giggle softly, and you watch him seem to almost melt at the sound of it. “You wanna play with me?” you lean in a little closer.

“Do I?”

You stand on your tiptoes so your lips brush his ear as you whisper, your words light and airy. “Why don't we go somewhere more private so we can…play?”

He sighs longingly. “Oh, I love the sound of that.”

You smile wide, pulling away from him as you keep your hands firmly clasped. “Well, come on then,” you say as you pull him gently toward the door. He walks with you, joining your side and exiting the club with you on his arm.

As you're walking out, his lead taking you in the direction of his car, you find yourself humming the song that had been playing inside under your breath. His gaze turns to you and he finds himself even further under your enchantment.

What a wonder you are… An angel from heaven.

He helps you into his car, shutting your door and rounding to the other side as he takes his seat as the driver. “So where are we going?” he asks, looking at you with anticipation seeping through every pore.

You smile, and he swears you speak like a melody as you say, “I've got a room down at the hotel.” You bring a hand to your face as you rest your fingers just under your chin. “We shouldn't be interrupted there.”

He grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”

~

He's been so sweet, much closer on the sweeter side of the men you've met since you first came to the mortal plane. Graham, he said his name was.

You nearly felt bad about what was going to happen to Graham…but you wouldn't be putting him to waste. No, you would be honoring him. He would inspire your songs, he would give life to them. That was an honor you felt befit him, an honor he deserved.

The hotel comes into view, and your stomach flips. Graham parks, opens your door like a gentleman, and then offers his hand as the both of you enter the building. You glance around as you walk, wondering what you're supposed to do now. He just said to meet him here…

You walk, tucked into his side as you try not to aimlessly wander. He stays close to you, almost dutifully, and you don't notice the way he gazes at your face.

You look up at him, an innocent—almost naïve—glow to your eyes that makes his smile grow. “You're beautiful, you know that?”

You hum lightly, smiling gently. Your gaze wanders from his and falls upon a conference room door, the window on the door reflecting something off its surface.

Your eyes catch on the silhouette of such a familiar man. You walk over, pulling Graham with you as you push the door open.

“Thought we were going up to your room, doll?” he wonders. You pull him into the dark conference room, glancing around for your new mentor and finding nothing but shadows.

You turn back to Graham, thinking on your feet as you give him a smile. “I…just couldn't wait that long,” you chuckle lightly. You step forward, your hands on his chest.

He smiles, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot and turning the lock as he looks down at you with a smile. “Sounds good to me,” he grins.

He holds your body close, wrapping you up in his arms. Your smile falls as he leans in closer, and when his lips brush yours, you can't help but push him away with the gentle push of your fingertips.

He seems concerned as he takes you in, holding his hands up enough to show he isn't going to hurt you. “What's the matter?”

In the corner of your eyes, you catch a shadow. Your gaze lands on the Corinthian, hidden in the dark space behind Graham with a finger held up to his curling lips, and your breath hitches in a small gasp.

You watch him silently, watching as his hands gesture toward the both of you. He just nods, urging you on.

You look back at Graham, his eyes still just as concerned as before. You remember to smile, stepping back toward him as you slowly set your hands on his shoulders. “Nothing,” you whisper. You kiss him, and he takes a moment to allow you space before his hands fall to your waist again. His lips are soft, comforting.

Tilting your head, your eyes creak open to see the Corinthian again. He smiles reassuringly, lifting his hand to cover his eyes. After receiving your confused look, he just gives another encouraging gesture. You figure, he knows best.

Pulling away again, you keep your hands on his shoulders. Graham opens his eyes, watching you smile up at him. “Close your eyes?” you ask gently.

He chuckles, amused, “Why?”

You bat your lashes, a subtle but rapid blink that makes him pliant to you. “Trust me?” Your voice is gentle and small, a whisper he has nor reason to doubt.

He just sighs and laughs, shaking his head as he brings hand to cover his eyes, peeking at you teasingly before hiding behind his palm again. You look to the Corinthian for more instruction.

He raises his finger to tap his throat. You watch his other hand come up, balling into a tight fist. He punches his palm soundlessly. And you understand.

You place your gaze upon Graham once more. His pretty face, his messy black hair, his pink lips, his closed eyes hiding pale blue rings around his pupils. You clench your fist, feeling the tightness in your fingers, the strain of the skin over your knuckles.

You take in a deep bracing breath, and he's still waiting patiently for you. Patient, gentle, good.

And you strike him hard in his throat, your fist colliding with his Adam’s apple as his eyes bulge from his skull. He tries to gasp at the sudden impact, the sound barely coming out in a painful wheeze as he raises his hands to his throat.

He looks at you, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. His mouth is open wide as he gapes, trying so hard to speak, to breathe, to figure out why.

You hadn't even realized it when the Corinthian moved, his hands landing heavily over Graham’s shoulders as he wheezes and gasps, making the most dreadful sounds in an attempt to breathe.

“Hello, there,” he grins, Graham’s eyes finding him and bulging. When did he get there?

His gaping mouth tries to form a word, and the Corinthian tilts his head to hear it before chuckling lightly. “Don't try to speak. You'll find it hurts more.”

He pulls a chair from the large conference table and sits him roughly down onto it. Graham doesn't try to bolt, the door is locked and he isn't confident in his ability to get out of here with the Corinthian as your apparent partner. He tries to speak, to negotiate, but he can't get any sound past senseless croaks.

The Corinthian joins your side, wrapping an arm possessively around your waist as you stare at the man you'd doomed. Doomed. That's a nice word.

He opens up his jacket, reaching in an inside pocket as he pulls out the silver needle and red thread he'd procured from the Seamstresses.

“Now, beautiful,” he says, handing it over to you, “why don't you take this while I help you out a little?” You look at the tools he offers, blink a couple of times before picking it up.

His crooked finger brushes under your chin before he turns away toward your friend again. He rounds to another chair, which he pulls from its spot tucked at the table, a duffle bag you hadn't noticed before sitting in the seat. In the bag is rope, strong rope he uses to tie Graham to the chair as he kneels behind him.

You glance at the needle. “What do I do with it?”

He looks up at you as he wraps the rope around the back of the chair and his chest and ignores Graham’s struggles. He says it like it's obvious. “You'll sew his mouth shut.”

Graham struggles against the rope, but to no avail. The Corinthian makes a tight knot, looking at him with a warning in his tone. “I suggest you be nice and good for her or…” he smiles, his hands on his shoulders as his lips brush the shell of his ear, “I'll just have to intervene. And you don't want that.”

Graham goes completely still, sweating and crying now. The tears roll down his cheeks and he gives you a desperate look.

You realize your hands are shaking, like the first time you even stepped foot toward him.

“I…” you mutter, staring at the needle.

The Corinthian’s smile remains unchanged, encouraging. “Come on,” he says as he stands, walking over toward you once more. “Don't be shy.”

The anxiety curls in your stomach, shakes in your hands. You take a step back, turning to him timidly as you don't meet his eyes. “I'm… I'm not her,” you say, struggling to get the words out as the nerves eat away at you. “I lied… I'm not the Whisperer. I'm just…some dream… I'm just a dream.”

He laughs, and you watch him as the confusion sinks into the features of your face. Graham is out of both your minds as you stare at him.

“Well, I know that.” He chuckles, stepping into your space as he grabs your free hand, cradling it in his palm. “But you're not just any dream, are you? You're Aria. One of Morpheus’ special dreams, his little song.”

Irritation rises in your belly and you shake your head, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “I'm not Aria,” you bite. “Not anymore. I hate that name.”

He raises a brow. “Do you now?” His smirk is devilish. “Who are you then?”

You stare at him, offering the name you'd take thirty years ago when you left the Dreaming for the first time, your new name with its new rhythm and rhyme. The Corinthian repeats it back to you, tasting it on his tongue like honey.

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, another step taking you away from him. “But I'm not the Whisperer.”

He shrugs. “‘Course you're not. I made her up.” You watch him, surprise in every crevice of your face. He reaches out and takes your hands, pulling you close again as he watches you, the look I'm his eyes almost predatory as he lowers his voice for you to hear. His words seep into your skin.

“But you want to be, don't you?” He smiles, “I can see it in your eyes, you wanna be more than Dream's ‘little song’, don't ya?”

Graham watches, feeling his vocal chords easing in the slightest bit. He still can't speak, can't scream, can't get any sound out but a whisper so quiet, he still can't be heard.

“You want to be something not so sweet,” he continues. “You wanna sing something other than Kumbaya, holding hands with your neighbors and bein’ all nice and happy.”

Your lip twitches at the mention of that song, a campfire song that felt like a pinnacle of your distaste for the music you've been forced to sing. “I hate Kumbaya,” you mumble.

He chuckles. “Don't we all?” He brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone, smoothing down to rest underneath your chin. “You can be so much more than that. I know it. You can leave behind all that sweetness, and become like me. Remake yourself in your own image.”

He raises your hand, still cupping the needle and thread in your palm. “All you have to do…” he gently pushes your palm toward your body, separating each word as he does, “...is take the needle.”

He takes a step back, giving you space to think.

You look down at your palm, contemplating. This is it. This is your chance to become more than a little songbird. You could become better. You could fulfill your own hopes and dreams and become a better version of you.

Your fingers curl over your palm.

Your eyes turn on Graham, and fear flashes across his face. You take the first step toward him, then another, and he begins to squirm in his chair as you do. The Corinthian tuts, walking toward him as he places his hands on his shoulders to keep him down, still.

He smiles, a dark and wicked smile. “There you go,” he encourages. “Do it. Become more than that sweet little dream. Do what you want to do, not what you were made to.”

You take the string of thread and punch it between your thumb and forefinger, stilling your breath completely as your slightly shaky hands work to thread the needle. It takes a moment for you to get it through the eye, letting out a relieved sigh when you do.

Graham keeps squirming, despite the uselessness. You stand in front of him. “Take a seat,” the Corinthian says. “It'll be easier.”

You set your free hand on his shoulder, lowering yourself onto his lap as you straddle him. His mouth forms a word, the slightest whisper tearing painfully from his throat as it did. Please. Please. Please.

He casts a desperate, pleasing gaze upon you, his life in your hands—the hands of the beautiful siren who had forsaken him. You watch him with an unwavering gaze, the anxiety and anticipation curling your brows.

He is so good. So genuinely good. The kind of good that stares at your face and calls you beautiful. The kind that keeps calling you beautiful until you no longer have the capacity not to believe it. He's the kind of good that holds you when you're sad, wipes away your tears when you cry. The kind of good that makes you feel better about living in such a cruel world.

And you want to feel bad about taking his life away, about taking the rhythm of his heartbeat away.

But you can't, and you don't. And honestly, a rage and desperation flares within you as you stare at him. Because he is good. And that's just the problem, isn't it?

For so long, all of your songs have been so good. Songs about dancing birds and twinkling stars and buzzing bees. Songs about hope and love and care and whatever else. And you're sick of it.

You were only drawn to him because he's good.

You need something new, something a little fiercer than the blazing sun in the sky, something a little darker than the moonless night. You need inspiration.

And he could give it to you. The Corinthian would help.

You begin to move your hands toward his face, and Graham desperately tries to move away. You sigh, looking up at the Corinthian. He understands immediately.

Taking Graham’s face in his hands, he holds his head still and his jaw securely closed. He bears his teeth like a frightened animal, breathing quickly as whispers of protest strain in his crushed vocal chords.

You use one hand to hold his lips closed. The Corinthian nods along with you. “Just at the corner. Right there.” You slide your pinched fingers over to the left corner of his lips. “Very good. Now just…push it in…”

You position the needle, holding there for a long time as you internalize taking this step. All you have to do…is push it in.

The needle pierces his flesh, sinking into his skin as he screams silently, held still as a statue by the Corinthian, as though his strength is nothing to him.

The sharp end comes out on the other side of his bottom lip, and you pull it all the way through as the red thread becomes redder with the blood staining it. You pull until you have enough length, tying the end off with steadier hands.

“Very good,” the Corinthian praises. “See? You're a natural.”

He takes in his success, his great triumph. Dream's little song…nothing more now than the outlines of a nightmare waiting to be filled in with a little more color. He almost feels drunk off the sight of you, straddling this man as you continue to pierce him with your needle and sew his lips shut, tight, taking away the one thing you were made to do.

Sing.

Such a sweet little bird you are now, a corrupted and twisted little dream in the hands of a wicked nightmare.

He watches you thread the needle through his flesh as Graham continues to cry and try and try and try to scream, to have someone hear him, save him from the pain and torture. But you're all alone in here, locked inside this room with nothing but the night…

As you focus, you find yourself easing into the task. Pinching and piercing and pulling and repeating. You smile, calm as a melody comes to mind.

You hum it, lower and slower than the original speed. The Corinthian watches, in awe of you as you continue to work. He almost swears the rhythm of Graham’s silent breaths and cries begin to form to the rhythm of your song.

“Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Graham’s nose. “Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.”

You poke the needle through the end of his lip, piercing the far right corner slowly, calmly. “While I'm alone and blue as can be…” You tie the end of the knot, singing a little slower as you do. “Dream a little dream of…me.”

You lean forward and cut the thread with your teeth, taking in the sight of your good work. The Corinthian lets Graham go, and he just sits there, still sobbing, his face wet with tears and blood and sweat.

“Look at that,” the Corinthian admires, laughing deep in his throat as he sets his hands on your shoulders and shakes his head. “Beautiful.”

You stare at him, taking in the sight before you. The Corinthian’s hands fall to your waist, and his head rests at the crook of your neck. Graham’s eyes struggle to stay open, his vision blurry with tears and the adrenaline and pain crashing down and making it hard to find the will to stay conscious.

“Look at all your hard work,” the Corinthian hums, the sound of your song still playing in his mind. “How does it feel?”

You look at him. His dark blood is crimson as it stains his shirt. His messy black hair is only worse now, his pale blue eyes brighter and paler as his pupils grow to the size of a coin.

He looks beautiful, you think.

“Different.”

The tip of his nose brushes underneath your ear. “Do you want to finish it off?”

You nod gently.

The Corinthian fishes a sharp blade from the inside of his jacket. He takes your hand and wraps it around the handle, gripping it tight and helping to guide you.

“Right…” he moves the tip of the blade to press against Graham’s straining neck. He presses it right under his chin, starting from the far right, opposite the needle, “...here.”

“Here?” you ask as he lets go, keeping the blade steady.

He nods. “Right there.”

You lift your other hand to hold the back of his neck steady. Graham watches, terrified. You stare him dead in the eyes, unblinking, unwavering.

You carve the blade into his throat and slice. All the way across, you take your time in slowly slitting his throat. You only blink as the blood sprays out of his sliced arteries and spray all over your face and neck. It keeps spraying and keeps spraying, coming in spurts as he chokes on his blood, gurgling and coughing.

You continue to stare at him, even as you've finished even after he has died and the light has left his eyes and the songs have left his soul. His eyes are bulgy and he's drenched in blood. Butchered.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a dark hand reaching out to Graham. You want to turn, to see her take him, to watch as he is swept away in the hands of Death to his afterlife. But you don't. Watching Graham, you see the flickers of hope in his eyes die out as the life leaves him and replaces it with emptiness. A momentary silence is filled with the gentle flap of wings.

The Corinthian comes back to mind as he pulls you back enough to see the whole of your work. He shakes his head in admiration, smiling wide.

“Your first one,” he says.

“My first one.”

“How does it feel?”

His hands on your hips pull you back against his body. You lean into him. “Different.”

He chuckles lightly, one of his hands moving from your waist in favor of sliding up the length of your body to wrap around your throat, resting there as he holds you securely. His other hand slides down your arm and takes the knife from your hand.

“I think you liked it,” he hums in your ear, dropping his knife on the table with a clatter and holding your neck tighter. “Having his life in your hands?”

You swallow thickly, staring at the dripping blood as the crimson on your face dries. “I–”

“Say it,” he cuts you off, his lips right by your ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. “You loved it. You loved silencing him.”

He feels your shallow breaths beneath his palm. Still dazed, you say, “I–”

“Say it.”

You take in a slow breath, filling your lungs before you admit it, the curling in your stomach gone and replaced by the chills along your skin. “I loved it,” you sigh. “I loved silencing him.”

He smiles triumphantly. “I know you did,” he chuckles. “Now look at you. A new person, a new dream.” His smile widens and his hand tightens. “You're just like me.”

“Just like you.”

“A nightmare.” His lips graze the shell of your ear.

“A nightmare.”

You lean into him with a slight moan when his lips press against your neck, kissing it with insistent lips and insistent teeth. “Just like you,” you whisper, like the repeating lyrics of a song.

“Just like me.”

Your eyes flutter at the way his teeth nip at your flesh. “A nightmare.”

“A nightmare.” He turns you around in his arms, moving you so your back presses against the table. His lips crash down on yours, swallowing you whole as they do. He can taste the blood staining your lips. You melt against him, weak and wanting as his body presses flush against yours. He bends you back against the table, laying you down as his lips trail down to the skin of your neck, kissing and biting and sucking.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “A corrupted little dream.”

Corrupted. You like that word.

“Corinthian,” you moan, bringing your arms up as your hands wrap around the back of his head and keep him close to you.

“My little dream,” he scoffs, his hands gripping your body tightly.

You go to speak, but he cuts you off. He laughs wickedly. “But you're not a dream, are you? And you're not a nightmare.”

“Cor–”

“You're just a little whore, aren't you?” he smirks, riding your shirt up as his hand slips under it. “A little whore who wants to be something else.”

You moan. “A whore.”

His face is inches from yours again as he speaks quietly, his voice low and rough and dangerous. “You thought I wouldn't know what you were when I saw you?” he questions, finding it amusing. “You thought I wouldn't know you were just a dream trying to be something she isn't?”

Your breath has picked up, heavy as your head spins. “I–”

He's not having it. He silences you again, holding your throat still as he makes you look at him, as he makes sure you can't look away. “Let me show you what you are,” he breathes. “Then I'll rebuild you into something you can be.”

Enchanted by him and his words, you breathe deeply. “Show me what I am,” you echo.

He nods, “That's right.”

“What I can be.”

“Good girl,” he praises. He attacks your mouth once more. It's a bruising kiss as he wraps you up in him. His hand grips your neck tightly, constricting your breath a bit as he does. With one hand, he rips your dress from your body and lets it fall to the ground in rags. You gasp as he does it, your body now exposed to the chilly air as you're left in nothing but your undergarments.

He hums deeply as he looks over you. He smiles. “Dream had it right with this body,” he says, running his hand over your skin and listening to the way you moan.

He hooks his finger around the waistband of your panties, pulling them roughly down your legs to reveal yourself to him. “Look at you,” he breathes as he smooths his hand over your mound. “You're so pretty, aren't you?”

You moan when his long middle finger sinks inside of you, sliding between your damp folds. He's surprised by how wet you are, though he supposes he shouldn't be.

You immediately clamp down around his finger, and he lets out a long sigh. “Such a tight little thing.”

Your legs move to close at the intrusion, not new to the feeling but still not quite used to it either. He just forces them apart, keeping you spread wide for him as he does. “Don't you hide yourself from me,” he says, thrusting a second finger inside of you as you moan at the stretch.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you, collecting the gathering wetness as he watches you through his dark glasses, admires the way your body responds to him.

Your hips meet his hands as he keeps touching you, eager to feel more of him as your shallow breaths continue to pass between your lips. When he pulls his hand from you, you whimper at the loss, clenching around nothing in an attempt to feel him again.

You watch as he sets his fingers on his tongue, closing his mouth around them and suckling with a deep hum. He caresses your name with his lips as he looks down at you. “You're delicious, sweetheart,” he says, and your body keens into his touch.

His hand around your throat tightens as he bends down so his face is hardly separated from yours. “I bet you'd just love to feel my mouth on you, hm?”

You nod quickly, “Please.”

He laughs darkly, kissing you roughly and letting his mouth trail down your body—down, down, down until his mouth ghosts over your fluttering pussy.

Your back arches when you feel his hot mouth against you. His tongue laps against your folds and he suckles around you, tasting the sweetness of your nectar. His tongue flattens against you as he begins to lick you up.

His hand loosens around your throat before ultimately letting go to hold your grinding hips down. Your mouth falls open and you give into him, tangling your fingers in his hair and encouraging his mouth against you.

He laps at your pussy like you're the finest wine. He can taste the virtue that pulsed in your veins, and he can taste the darkness beginning to replace it. His tongue delves inside of you, his lips wrapping around your throbbing clit and suckling gently.

The pleasure jolts through your body like a fire, and you’re entirely willing to let it consume you. You want to feel its burning flames lick at your flesh, searing it from bone to turn you to ash and create something new out of the remains.

The Corinthian sinks three fingers into you after a while, pumping them in and out as you enjoy the delicious stretch with closed eyes, moaning and grinding. He looks up at you, looking for your eyes and finding them hooded.

You mewl when he pulls away from you. “No, no, no,” he says. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You gotta watch me make you mine.”

You do as you're told, opening your eyes and doing your best to keep them that way. He praises you with another “good girl” before he's wrapping his lips around you again.

He enjoys every second immensely, tasting the sweet nectar of your arousal as he coaxes it from you, taking the grinding of your hips every time he curls his fingers or sucks on your clit.

You moan his name as you feel the rise in your stomach tightening with an oncoming pleasure. You clench around his fingers, your clit pulses against his tongue. You've forgotten all about Graham's body slumped in his bindings, you'd forgotten the blood staining your face and neck. It's all the Corinthian.

You throw your head back roughly and gasp when you cum, your head spinning as the back of it smacks against the table. Your thighs tremble and shake as he refuses to let up, sinking his tongue deeper inside. Your moans almost sound like tiny cries as you grind your hips into his mouth.

He licks his lips, tasting you on his tongue with an immense amount of appreciation. "You're fucking delicious, baby,” he hums, smirking dangerously.

He sits up to his full height once more, his hand finding its place around your throat as he bends down to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating.

His lips smack as he pulls away from you. Without a word, he flips you onto your stomach atop the table. He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it roughly. The breath is forced from your lungs as your chest presses against the table.

The Corinthian tangles his hand in your hair as he roughly pulls your head up, making you look up as your eyes fall on Graham.

“Look at him,” he hums. “Look at all that good work.”

You do. You take in the sight of him with a new set of eyes. The red thread keep his lips shut tight. He'd made such wonderful sounds when you'd sewn them. You'd taken his song and added it to your own, his fear and his desperation had been the perfect addition to your symphony.

His blood soaks his clothes, as well as your face, what was once crimson now darker from being exposed to the air. You can still hear the way he choked, the way he gasped for air that wouldn't come.

His skin was so pale, his eyes that were once a pale blue now cloudy and grey with the mask of death. His once pink lips are just as grey. You can still see the smile they made, the words they spoke. The things he could sing.

You could still hear him singing.

You moan when the Corinthian’s hand presses between your slick folds again. He smiles, another dark chuckle slipping from his lips. “There you go,” he says. “Nice and slick for me. Be a good girl and say please.”

You let out an airy breath, mumbling a tiny whisper of, “Please.”

But he isn't convinced as he groans and shakes his head. “No, you can do better than that, sweetheart. Now I'm not going to give you what you need until you say please.”

Desperate and needy, you let out another breathy moan. “Please,” you whine again, louder this time as your words form into a melody. “I need you. I need you to make me yours.”

He's drunk off your obedience, the way you gave into him so easily from the start. He inclines his head, satisfied. “Good girl.”

The jingle of his belt buckle fills your ears with its gentle ring. Your pussy flutters when you feel the tip of him press against your folds. “Please,” you whisper again.

You let out a long breath when he buries himself to the hilt inside of your hot cunt. A rough groan falls from his lips, the tip of his cock pressing deep inside of you as you lose your breath.

You grip the table, allowing the pleasure to fill you as he holds your hips tight. You moan at the stretch of him inside you.

The Corinthian lets out a deep breath, steadying himself as he pulls out just barely to the tip before roughly thrusting back into. You moan loudly, your head dizzy with the feeling blossoming inside of you.

He doesn't allow you a slow build. He doesn't give you the privilege of easing you into the monstrous nature of his love. Instead, he holds you steady as he fucks into your tight pussy, snapping his hips in and out of you without sparing a second for you to adjust to him.

He grunts and groans behind you as he uses you to his need. He feeds off your moans, their song-like nature filling the air and seeming to hypnotize him into wanting even more of you, into needing even more of you.

The sound of his hips smacking against your ass fills the room. It joins your moans and his dark grunts, blending together perfectly.

“Listen to you,” he grunts. “You're my little song now.”

You can no longer think straight, your head spinning with pleasure, with the sound of Graham's singing in your head, with the sound of flapping wings.

You watch Graham as if through rose-colored glasses, the pleasure mixing with the sight of him creating something you've never felt before as you continue to moan meekly.

And, for a moment, you think of Dream.

As a melody plays in the back of your brain, a new melody you've never heard before, you think about how much you want to show Dream.

But he abandoned you. And, before that, he'd created you as a sweet dream that could never know anything other than harmony. And you hated him for that.

So, as you watch the blood drip from his sealed lips, you smile and give into the Corinthian completely. His fingers press to your clit, and you shudder as you feel yourself getting so close, so close to falling apart and forever becoming the Corinthian’s song…ready to leave Sweet Dream behind forever.

The pressure builds as his speed on your clit does as well. You clench around his cock, your head light and your moans scratching your throat. “Corinthian,” you whine. “I'm so close.”

His hips snap into yours a little harder. “I bet you are,” he huffs. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make you nice and full.”

The pleasure rises within you until you can’t hold it in anymore. With a thrust of his hips and a circle of his finger, you fall apart. Your whole body shudders as you let out a loud, breathy moan as it all comes crashing down. You give in to the Corinthian’s symphony of death.

A rough groan, bordering on a growl, erupts from his throat as he shoves his cock as deep inside you. He gives in to the squeeze of your cunt and cums, grinding his hips so deep as he fills you to the brim.

And with one last thrust, with his cum buried in your fluttering pussy, he claims you as his. He lets go of your hair, pulling out of you with a heavy sigh.

You whimper at the loss of him, laying on the table as your legs shake.

The Corinthian’s arms wrap around you, picking you up and pulling you to stand as he embraces you in another kiss. You lean into him, letting his lips meld against yours.

He looks over your face, the new clarity in your eyes. He smiles.

“Sing me a song, sweetheart.”

And you do. You sing a song of a dying promise, the sounds of the symphony you'd just created allowing you to sing a melody of broken hope and shattered dreams.

You sing for a long time as the Corinthian listens to you, enchanted by your song, by your new dream.

Now, you belonged to him.

The Sandman taglist: @poetic-fiasco @the-nerdy-goddess @life-on-needs @fanreader @jamiethenerdymonster @sarahbullet235 @majestyjade @melinoe-the-rat @katsukis1wife @sugakookieswithacupoftae16 @hatterripper31 @kplatzman @kmc1989 The Corinthian taglist: @waitingformysandman @honey-im-hotdog @saltysasque @anotherblackreader Tag yourself here...

[sterlingarcher23]

Max's memories are forshadowing: ElMax & Lumax

Inventive foreshadowing creates a sense of unity in a story even when the audience may not be consciously aware of the foreshadowing and payoff., David Trottier

Sort of. The happy memories actually give us the basic structure of Max's character arc in regards to relationships in Season 5. (As far as there is scene material because I think there's something else.)

Now the first thing is Lucas & Max from S4, but then they start to show us several scenes but completely out of order.

Lucas "I'm right here" (at her bedside - S4 or 5?), Swallowing the red Skittle/the ghost like Pac-Man mid flight ("You were wearing that yellow benny's burgers t-shirt and it was so big it almost swallowed you whole")=consumption of a ghost, followed by the linking sequence, going back to S2 apso out of order, the boys meeting the killer & Lucas and Dustin teaming with Max, the ghost trap, photos of ElMax, like frozen in time (Doctor Who=single moment in time). Lucas and Max when he calls her Madmax (like Mad Max Rockatansky), again ElMax together ....

...even Mike appears (a talk between him & Max like Kota and Lucy having a conversation?), foreshadowing the movie date, ElMax hugging, Lumax not unhappy and, Highfive! Winners.

Lover in the mind - lover in the physical world.

Lucas speaks to the dying (physical), El speaks to the going (mind).

Both have patterns that need another verse in order to rhyme bc of a tiny change midway through (similar to a certain D&D bridge puzzle😉)

Elumax Endgame.

Byler on the left, ElMax on the right, both when Will or Max respectively, have their possession phase.

Oh, and the movie date scene is a basic story writing technique: a promise. And this needs a payoff. The question isn't IF but HOW. (And how you get abilities is been established in Season 4.)

It's you and me won't be unhappy.... Promise, progress, payoff.

So, they made a promise, are now (with the revival) in the process of a progress which will be added through the way how Max will wake up....

...and this will get a payoff. Simple. Right now, most can't imagine how, given the circumstances even though the writers gave us the rules for doing it and every foreshadowing possible that will lead to a payoff. Max can't feel nor see - both! So, either both will be mended or none. Excluding one is bad writing. - So, its both. We learned how, therefore it's not a Deus ex machina, and we will learn why. Max only needs to take his, I mean her medicine. Darn pronouns.

That payoff is only possible through ElMax and note how they use sequences with them in which they are physically close to one another after the mall scene in which they link, like they are...inseparable.

Here separated...

...after this they are combined. Linked. "Love goes through the stomach"

It's all One and One for all = 11

A bit dated (admittedly)

[taylortruther]

A traditional pop song follows this structure: intro - verse - chorus - verse - chorus - bridge - chorus - outro. Most of Taylor's songs follow this structure with a few alterations, usually minus the intro (she often has a post-bridge breakdown and/or an outro). Her songs are verse - pre-chorus - chorus - verse - pre-chorus - chorus - bridge - chorus/outro. Sometimes she has verse - verse - chorus - verse - chorus - bridge - chorus. Like in All Too Well: "I walked through the door with you" -> "oh, your sweet disposition". ("Photo album on the counter") Every verse has different lyrics, but same rhythm. The chorus is where the song speeds up because it's supposed to be the part of the song that gets stuck in our heads. With Taylor's songs, a chorus can be different each time but with the same rhythm. All Too Well: "cause there we are again in that little town street" -> "cause there we are again in the middle of the night" -> "cause there we are again when I loved you so". Or a chorus can be the same where the second chorus has added lines. Love Story: "Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone" -> "Romeo save me they're trying to tell me how to feel."

right where you left me is: intro -> verse -> pre-chorus -> chorus -> bridge -> breakdown -> verse (that's nearly the same as the first verse) -> pre-chorus (longer than the first one) -> chorus. This strange structure, the melody & rhythm, the rhyming scheme and the lyrical content all add to this feeling of "being left behind".

The intro is quick-paced but she slows down when she sings "but I'm right where you left me" and there's a drop in the rhythm the moment she sings "help" so it gives this feeling that all of these things (friends breaking up and getting married, rumours flying, etc.) are happening in front of you but you can't really pay attention because they happen SO fast. Life moves on in front if her but she's still at the restaurant. That verse is where the story really starts and she focuses on herself.

In the chorus she does something very clever with the lyrics. "You left me no" sounds like her begging him not to leave. Notice the way she's crying out the word "no". That line feels rushed, it feels incomplete so it makes it feel like she's trying to reach something, trying to say something but can't complete the thought and then she says the full sentence "you left me no choice but to stay here forever" and then "you left me" (and she elongates that "left"). So "you left me, no!" -> please don't leave me "you left me no choice but to stay here forever" -> you've abaonded me and now I'll never move on. "You left me" -> acknowleding the abandonment, which then immediately goes back to "you left me, no" because she denies the situation (she lives in delusion!).

Right after this chorus, comes the bridge. The bridge is a part of the song that connects two sections of a song. The bridge usually provides a break from the typical rhytm of the song (think Out Of The Woods' bridge). Bridges usually come towards the end of the song. So this immediate, rushed jump to the bridge adds to the feeling of being left behind. We've barely had time with the verse & chorus before she jumped into the bridge.

With the bridge, she writes like she's telling us a rumour. "Did you hear about that girl whose boyfriend dumped her for another girl?" It's almost like she isn't the one who's talking in that part. After the bridge, comes the breakdown and she goes back to talking about herself in the first-person POV "And you're sitting in front of me // at the resturant". This is the slowlest part of the song. time moves in a normal pace for everyone else, but for her it is painfully slows ("time won't fly, it's like I'm paralysed by it"). In this part of the song she's also finally telling us what happpened (he told her that he met someone) so there's a sense of relief for us because we finally understand what happened. She will never have this relief, she will never understand why he left her, and we see in the end of the song that she's still right where he left her

She moves on to the verse and it's the same like in the beginning "help, I'm still at the resturant" possibly because, since she's frozen in time, everything remains the same for her. But this verse is shorter, it ends with "they say what a sad sight" and she moves to the second pre-chorus where she says she bets he's got a "wife out there". She doesn't know whether this is true or not and even acknowledges that she's "unaware 'cause I'm right where I cause no harm // mind my business"

She might not be able to move on, but she does more than just replay the moment he left her. She also makes up a story where he moved on and is happy without her. She's digging even deeper in the wound.

With the rhyming scheme, she does this thing where she puts two AA rhymes in each line and then rushes the BB rhymes.

Friends break up, friends get married

Stranges get born, stranges get buried

"rumours fly through new skies" the rhymes are in the same line. They're rushed and, again, add to the sense of being left behind.

And then there's "But I'm right where you left me" which rhymes with nothing. This line just stands alone among the other, rhyming sentences.

With the verse she's rhyming each line: restaurant -> haunt -> light -> sight -> drop -> stop -> cloth -> on. This is hard to explain because I now sight and drop don't rhyme but haunt and sight do and haunt and drop also do (imperfect rhymes, though). So she, like the genius writer she is, is able to give the entire verse the same rhyming scheme. In the intro, everyone has the same rhyming scheme which is happening too quickly for her. Meanwhile, she's trapped in the same "resturant -> sight -> stop" rhyming scheme.

The pre-chorus has plenty of rhymes and each line has two rhymes.

I stayed there

Dust collected on my pinned-up hair

They expected me to find somewhere

Some perspective, but I sat and stared

She does something similiar to the intro with the bridge:

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?

Time went on for everybody else, she won't know it

She's still 23 inside her fantasy -> rushed rhyme in the same senfence

But then she adds another rhyme in a different line: "how it was supposed to be" so she lingers on that rhyme, just like she lingers on the life she should have had (a life where he didn't leave her).

In the breakdown, the come in a funny structure:

At the restaurant, when

I was still the one you want

Cross-legged in the dim light, everything was just right

And then the rhymes are normal again:

I could feel the mascara run

You told me that you met someone

Glass shattered on the white cloth

Everybody moved on

And in the second pre-chorus there are three rhymes:

Dust collected on my pinned-up hair

I'm sure that you got a wife out there

Kids and Christmas, but I'm unaware

'Cause I'm right where

I cause no harm, mind my business

If our love died young, I can't bear witness

And it's been so long

But if you ever think you got it wrong

And notice the way she rushes over that "cause I'm right where" at this point we know the full sentence is "I'm right where you left me" and we'd expect her to say that but she switches to it and sings "I cause no harm"

anon i could kiss you on the mouth for this!!!! taylor's internal rhymes are one of my favorite things in her writing but also you broke down exactly why i think the fandom loves this song so much and you gave me a newfound appreciation for it. the bridge adding a sense of "rushing"/being left behind - and then going back to a slower pace, where she's been left - is blowing my mind a little.

[tonibeltran]

x. status -> closed for @thephoebeyates x. location -> o'shea's why are you even asking at this point

Far be it from him to judge anyone’s alcohol preferences, but Antonio can’t help wondering why so many people enjoy the taste of vodka. He can appreciate it for what it is — a means to an end, that is — but when it comes to taste, surely literally every other alcohol in the world surpasses it by miles and miles. It seems every time Antonio glances back up at the man bartending today, he’s pouring some more vodka into a glass. It’s gotten to the point where he’s begun to doodle the bottle itself in the margins of the prose he’s attempting to write, a fanciful distraction in the face of rhyming block. 

No one’s asked him to write this song. It’s one of those he’ll never finish — he’ll start it, optimistic that maybe he’ll get somewhere this time, then he’ll abandon it as soon as something more profound than what he’s ready to face on paper crosses his mind. He’ll let it gather dust with the rest of his unfinished verses, somewhere in the bottom of his bedside drawer. Though he supposes it’s something. More than he could write sober, anyway.

He’s shading the bottle illustration with his pen when his ears perk at someone mentioning the names Lorde and Charli. Two names he’s familiar in the industry, of course, especially since he’s started moonlighting as a pop songwriter. But mostly, what catches his attention is the fervor in which the names are being spoken, almost as if they’re stumbling right over the other. Antonio peeks to his right and finds a young woman — can’t be more than twenty-one, if she’s allowed in here — with her laptop situated in front of her, seemingly explaining something about the pop stars’ most recent single. Toni can’t help the small twitch of his lips in amusement — he misses being this passionate about something. Even if it is for something as frivolous as a pop song.

Moreover, she’s doing this while seemingly also typing away on her laptop, a feat that impresses Toni so much he has to pipe up when she seems to finally end her conversation with the two men. “Sorry, I have to ask,” he leans forward a bit, a curious expression on his face. “Were you…transcribing your conversation? Or were those two things,” he gestures between the laptop and the two older men. “Completely unrelated?”

[aaknopf]

In Shakespeare’s Sisters, Ramie Targoff recovers to literary memory the lives and talents of four women who wrote in England during Shakespeare’s time, well before there was any notion of “a room of one’s own.” From Mary Sidney, sister of the well-known poet Sir Philip Sidney (she wrote most of the beautiful translations of the Psalms ascribed to him) to Anne Clifford, a diarist and memoirist who fought for decades against a patriarchy that tried to disinherit her from her family’s land, these women stun us by their bravery. In the passage below, Targoff discusses the important poetry of Aemilia Lanyer, born of an illiterate mother and an immigrant father; it appeared in print in 1611, making her the first woman in the 17th century to publish an original book of verse.

. . .

In the same year the King James Bible first appeared in print, establishing the most influential English translation of scripture ever produced, Aemilia dared to tell a different story. Over the course of 230 rhyming stanzas of eight lines each, her “Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum” lays out the story of Christ’s Passion from a distinctly female perspective. The formal challenge of writing the poem was itself daunting: it’s no easy feat to compose over 1,800 lines of ottava rima (iambic pentameter stanzas written in an abababcc rhyme scheme). But Aemilia’s greater audacity was in tackling the subject of Christ’s crucifixion. To justify this, she makes the same claim for divine inspiration that the great Protestant poet John Milton would make sixty or so years later in writing Paradise Lost. Describing her own “poor barren brain” as “far too weak” for the task, she asks God to “give me power and strength to write”:

Yet if he please to illuminate my spirit,  And give me wisdom from his holy hill,  That I may write part of his glorious merit,  If he vouchsafe to guide my hand and quill Then will I tell of that sad blackfaced night,  Whose mourning Mantle covered Heavenly Light.

     Given the fact that the poem proceeds to do exactly what she petitions for, Aemilia shows her reader that her prayer has been answered: she’s not so much writing as channeling the divine word.[...]      Aemilia’s narrative of Christ’s Passion begins on the “very night our Savior was betrayed.” As part of her overall strategy in “Salve Deus”of celebrating female virtue, the poem draws attention both to the wicked acts of men (Caiaphas, Judas) and to the compassionate acts of women (the daughters of Jerusalem, the Virgin Mary) in the days leading up to Christ’s arrest. None of this comes as a surprise. But when Aemilia arrives at the moment that Pontius Pilate considers Christ’s fate, she does something totally unanticipated. Relinquishing her own role as narrator, she hands the poem over to Pilate’s wife. Among the most minor figures in the New Testament, Pilate’s wife has a single line of verse in only one of the four gospels. In Matthew 27:19, a woman who is never named urges her husband, the Roman governor in Judaea, to disregard the will of the people calling for Christ to be crucified: “Have nothing to do with that just man,” she warns Pilate, “for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.”      In early Christian commentaries and apocryphal writings, this woman was often called Procula Claudia, or simply Procula. In medieval England, Procula was paraded onstage in the mystery plays as an evil woman who almost prevented Christ’s saving humankind; in the York Cycle’s play named for her—The Dream of Pilate’s Wife—Percula, as she’s called there, receives her dream from the Devil himself. There’s no way to know if Aemilia knew this or other medieval dramas; it’s more likely she would have noticed the more positive treatment Pilate’s wife was given in the Geneva Bible, the popular translation done by English Protestants in the 1550s. Consistent with the Protestant belief that everyone should have access to the Bible directly, the translation was heavily glossed with marginal notes. Next to the verse from Matthew regarding Pilate’s wife was a single gloss suggesting that Pilate should have taken the “counsel of others to defend Christ’s innocence.” But whether the treatment of this woman was negative or positive, she had never been asked to perform the role Aemilia gave her in “Salve Deus,” where she delivers one of the strongest defenses for women’s rights that Christianity had ever seen.      In Pilate’s wife, Aemilia found her perfect heroine: a woman whose intervention at the crucial moment could have changed the course of history, if only her husband had listened. With the scriptural verse from Matthew before her, Aemilia made two crucial additions to the story. First, she transformed Pilate’s wife into a faithful believer who already regarded Christ as her Lord. “Hear the words of thy most worthy wife,” she begs her husband, “who sends to thee, to beg her Savior’s life.” Far from simply reporting that she’s had an ominous dream, as she does in Matthew, Pilate’s wife explicitly warns Pilate that he will be killing the son of God.      Second, Aemilia turned Pilate’s wife into a proto-feminist. After urging Pilate to let Christ go on religious grounds, she comes up with a new reason for why he should be pardoned: “Let not us women glory in men’s fall / Who had power given to over-rule us all.” If men are sinful enough to crucify their savior, then women should be liberated from men’s rule. “Your indiscretion sets us free,” she declares, “And makes our former fault much less appear.” In these four short lines, Aemilia’s character anticipates the killing of Christ as the basis for women’s freedom from patriarchy.      As if this weren’t radical enough, Pilate’s wife moves in “Salve Deus” from making her argument about the Crucifixion to recon- sidering the reason for Christ’s sacrifice in the first place. “Our mother Eve,” she exclaims,

. . . who tasted of the Tree Giving to Adam what she held most dear, Was simply good, and had no power to see,  The after-coming harm did not appear.

If Eve had no way to know the damage she might do, Adam was only too aware: it was he who received the command directly “from God’s mouth.” Eve was simply a victim of misinformation and “too much love,” whereas Adam, not betrayed by the “subtle Serpent’s falsehood,” knew exactly what he was doing.      Aemilia was certainly not the first person to defend Eve on grounds of her innocence or to propose that Adam be held responsible for the Fall. She was possibly the first to argue that the crime of killing Christ so overwhelmed any fault of Eve’s that women’s subordination should come to an immediate end. “If unjustly you condemn [Christ] to die,” Pilate’s wife concludes,

. . . Then let us have our Liberty again, And challenge [attribute] to your selves no Sovereignty;  You came not in the world without our pain, Make that a bar against your cruelty; Your fault being greater, why should you disdain  Our being your equals, free from tyranny? If one weak woman simply did offend,  This sin of yours, hath no excuse, nor end.

Hundreds of years before the women’s liberation movement, Aemilia used the figure of Pilate’s wife to argue that the sexes should be equal. In doing so, she also rescued a voice from history, giving full personhood and agency to a woman whom the Bible didn’t regard as worthy of a name.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Shakespeare’s Sisters by Ramie Targoff.

Browse other books by Ramie Targoff and follow her on Instagram @ramietargoff.

Hear Ramie Targoff read at the Boston Athenaeum in Boston on May 15, 6:00 - 7:00 PM. Click here to join virtually. 

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[angeleirene]

So the ADHD has fixated again — on three things actually — and so we’re gonna talk about one now and maybe I’ll curse ya on more later.

So NonNomNami exist, and they’re perfect, and while being doused in her content and inevitably enamoured, I’ve started listening to Bad End Theatre’s true end version, and so here’s just a few cute things I’ve noticed and died over. No they’re not gonna be mind blowing, but they’re cute and so I gotta talk about them even if I’m an echo from the choir.

The song is written as a beautiful call and response, designed as a beautiful mirror between the first verse and chorus and the second. The first sang from Tragedy’s POV and Second from her lover.

“To the lost, the cold”, reflected by “searching all alone, searching for my lost love”. Then the welcome to bad end theatre matched by her stumbling into it, and giving that song a stronger semblance of duality and emphasis on the title.

“When the curtains close, you’ll come away stronger. Or maybe you’ll break, not my fault you sought this pain” gets reflected in a few ways. “Though it’s plays were cold, I still felt this warmth from them”, as she came away stronger. And they would, eventually, even with Tragedy’s own slow work to break herself and all of her characters. More so, this second set is written in a reverse: Tragedy sings about maybe coming away stronger, a hint of hope, yielding to the pessimism of suffering and pain. Yet her lover feel that cold, but remains unyielding, reminded of warmth and her search for it.

And then the chorus, “Share in my misery, for all eternity, labyrinth of suffering…”. It’s a triplet of the same. Pain with no time or place it would ever end, lost *much like the first line* and ultimately as a chorus it leaves itself, its rhymes and its cadence unfinished. Most importantly its missing rhyme was left hanging with ‘suffering”.

So her lover comes in, “for all your tragedy, I’ll write happy endings”, seeing all that pain, the viscous circle of it and changing it. Looking for the happy ending and even breaking hard the rhyme with “endings” instead of “eternity” to “misery”. And finally, she echoes the “suffering” rhyme, as if taking over for Tragedy and doing what she does best: writing their happy ending. “I’ve missed you my darling”.

Tragedy’s part gets even worse when you look at the structure between lines, as in her song she almost doesn’t allow herself to end. “Welcome to bad end theatre- when the”, that ‘when the’ is part of the following line, yet it’s slipped right into the end of that bar. Same cappers between “when the curtains close- you’ll”. And with “come away stronger- or”, and with “maybe you’ll break- not”.

It gives the song an unfulfilled energy, something that lacks closure… lacks an ending.

Then in the chorus, and this might be nitpicking, but ‘misery’, ‘eternity’ and suffering’ all exist alone in their own bars. The melody itself stops having that cadence and instead lets the pain and suffering hold. Yet when it’s asked to end its chorus it doesn’t, as if Tragedy was melodically stuck without a way out.

AND HER LOVER JUMPS IN. And she’s much the same. Her origin is more stable in its bars till bad end theatre, where herself too is lost in that unfulfilled pattern, but less. She does give herself some finality. “Still felt this warmth from them” doesn’t lead to anything. Same with “help thinking of your face”. There’s no sudden jump into another line. Yes on both their preceding lines there was that sense of despair, but it’s like they were fixed before their pairs had to end. Starting unfulfilled and ending fulfilled.

And when she gets to the chorus, much like tragedy, she keeps the pace of [most of the line] then [single word and emotion left hanging]. But changes it up in her own style through the words. And there’s a key there. “For all your” - “tragedies” is paired with “I’ll write happy” - “endings”. Not happy endings, but endings, the one thing that Tragedy never got, the one thing she was stuck without. Ultimately undoing Tragedy’s viscous cycle of “suffering”…

“I missed you my” - “darling”, by providing the love and fulfilment that tragedy was missing. She allowed the presence of tragedy, while pairing them up with her comedy. Because ultimately tragedy was lost and meaningless without her pair, comedy. Because, like the characters themselves their meanings exist only through the existence of the other, otherwise incomplete while alone.

But this last part is to the much more capable and knowledgeable music theorists out there because this has all been very basic and done by someone who truly has a lot to learn, but. Did the song modulate between A minor and C Major? Cause if I caught it right then the first verse is A minor, which carries a sense of melancholy and sadness. Tragedy. But did by any chance it modulate to the structurally parallel C Major? Particularly during the (first and!) second chorus? Changing to the happier and more soothing C Major? Keeping that duality of a sad start matched up by a happy ending?

Cause if it did that then that’s even cooler.

[gothhabiba]

I am curious: do you tend to craft a poem around a specific form that you have in mind or do you write a critical mass of imagery/ideas before trying to structure it more strictly? I would like to get better at playing with poetic forms other than free verse, but really struggling to not go completely blank when I have constraints

I almost never set out on purpose to write e.g. a sonnet or a villanelle—a few images and phrases come to mind and I notice that they're iambic, or that there's a good rhyme in there somewhere, or that it would sound good repeated, and I go from there. sometimes I have to insert these words and phrases into a few different "places" in the poem (so, what I thought was the second quatrain of a sonnet is actually the first, &c.) before I get something that sticks. I interpret this as noticing that a poem is "asking" to be a sonnet and attempting to oblige it. on occasion this doesn't work and it ends up free-form after all.

I often experience the constraints of fixed forms as generative, rather than restrictive. maybe I only have three lines written—but the fourth has to rhyme with the second, so I have a limited pool of words to work with, so I try out a few lines that end with a few of those words before deciding on the best direction to go—like the poem is generating itself from a set of initial conditions. I experience found poetry the same way, particularly if the set of words I'm working from is small.

eventually as you write (or read!) more metred poetry, you will get a 'sense' for what works rhythmically and will spontaneously think of metred lines more (rather than thinking of something that doesn't 'fit' and then going about trying to make it 'fit'). practice with working around limited rhyme sets (do not be too proud to use a rhyming dictionary... it is a tool that is there to help you) should also help.

you say you're "struggling not to go completely blank when [you] have constraints"—as if you think of a next line or a direction to go that would only work if the poem were free-form, but won't work in the fixed form? maybe trying start a poem without knowing in advance what you want to "say" with it. exercises where you describe a physical object, start with one word or phrase and see where it takes you, &c. rather than a poem where you have a message that you feel you're struggling to make 'fit.'

it's entirely possible that the first few fixed-form poems you write will be rote ones that technically fit the form but don't gain anything from it—that's to be expected. just push through this phase until you get some experience with it—try writing exercises such as taking news articles and trying to make them iambic, rewriting other people's poems as sonnets, &c. it probably won't feel so mechnical forever.

it's possible that any given poem just simply doesn't want to be in a fixed form, and it's also possible that you'll try fixed forms for a while and find that they're not for you! but if you're trying to find a place to 'break in', this kind of thing could get you started

[caltropspress]

RAPS + CRAFTS #24: NAHreally

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

I’m NAHreally, an MC and beatmaker from Massachusetts currently living in Jersey City, NJ. I’ve been releasing music as NAHreally since 2016. My most recent album is called BLIP. It’s a collaborative album produced entirely by the Irish producer The Expert. Before that, I put out two self-produced projects called HACKINAWAY and Loose Around The Edges. Before those, I put out 5 tapes entitled TAPE through TAPE 5.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I turn rhymes and lines over in my head everywhere I go all day long, but the central hub of my writing is my desk at home. Nothing is final until it reaches the desk. I don’t have a routine or consider myself all that disciplined—I just write when I find the time to. I work toward writing every day, but probably only sit down specifically to write two or three times a week (more when I’m lucky).

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

Lately I’ve been using the notes section of my DAW (Logic) in the project I’m going to record into. Sometimes I’ll write a whole song in there. Other times I’ll start in a notebook, continue on the phone, then compile everything in that DAW notes section. I typically have my verses memorized by the time I record, but when I don’t, it’s easy to pull up and read as I go. Plus, it helps keep me organized.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

I write in bars and quatrains.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

As early as right away and as late as album sequencing. I’ll sometimes salvage a handful of lines from an abandoned song, but generally the stench of abandonment keeps me away.

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

My day job involves a lot of writing and editing—nonfiction educational video scripts and even rap lyrics. This type of writing has greatly influenced the clarity of my rhymes. I want my lyrics to be immediately digestible, and my day job has helped me with that a lot.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

I edit as I go. It’s rare for me to move on to a new line until the one I’m working on feels final in both content and delivery. This can leave me stuck on a single line for hours and sometimes months. When I do know what’s coming after a line, I’ll make a note but almost never start writing anything in earnest. In some cases, when I finally write the line, it can strike me as a better fit for one or two lines later. When that happens, I move it down and get back to work on the set up.

Because of this approach, the only editing that really happens after a verse is written is to achieve a different shade of meaning through certain words or because I realize the flow could be cleaner or more interesting.

In some cases, particularly with more conceptual songs, I’ll write out what I’m trying to say in prose then make it rhyme.

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

A big part of my writing process is rapping aloud, so I almost always write to a beat (though it may not be the beat I end up recording over).

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

The first line tends to dictate the direction of my lyrics. In my mind, once you have a great first line, the song is basically written—it’s just a matter of trial and error until you find the rest. That first line often determines whether a song will have a topic or be a little more random. Occasionally I’ll pick a topic ahead of time, but usually it’ll stem from a more naturally occurring bit of writing.

My opinion on rhyming changes depending on what I’m trying to do. If I’m writing in a stream-of-consciousness mode, those rhymes better be unique and interesting. But when I’m looking to communicate information, I’ll take whatever rhyme I can in the name of clarity.

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

Free and flexible mostly, but I’ve been in a tinkering mood lately. We’ll see if anything sticks.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

“That Many of ’Em” on BLIP. The experience of being inundated with information and opinions is practically universal and yet it’s hard to discuss without sounding like a whiny baby. I think I did OK here:

Where do people find these opinions On every last thing that’s outside of their dominion? I mean, the way they pull them out of thin air Makes me worry my opinion-having muscle is impaired. I’m confronted by opinions on a litany Of subjects daily, and it’s starting to get to me. It’s so hard to find out what’s taken place Without first working backwards through a bunch of hot takes. And I’m so damn inundated That it’s difficult to tell which opinions I’ve created In my own head and which ones were osmosis. Also, there’s this collective psychosis That makes pedestrians opine like a pundit On big picture things about which they know nothing. Fantasy GMs and political junkies Will write War and Peace on smooth vs. chunky. Too much cable news. Expertise brutally murdered by YouTube. I feel surrounded by a vocal minority Whose willingness to speak is their only authority. But squeaky wheels get grease And comments and likes and of course retweets. It appears we’ve made sane people retreat By handing the megaphone to these opinionated freaks.

But I don’t think there’s that many of ’em, And I don’t wanna know any of ’em. But it feels like there’s plenty of ’em, But I don’t think there’s that many of ’em.

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

This section is from “Civic” on Loose Around The Edges:

In a Civic bumpin’ Misfits. Number one in your heart, two on your shit list. I’m an interesting fact not a statistic. One of my friends is related to Michael Chiklis.

Like I said, when I’m going stream-of-consciousness, the rhyme matters more. “Misfits,” “shit list,” and “statistic” were already there. When I try to think of rhymes—particularly multisyllabic ones—I form the sound(s) with my mouth over and over. Real words, gibberish, whatever comes out—just something that might make a light bulb go off that leads me to the right rhyme. I don’t actually remember it, but I’m sure that’s how I landed on “Michael Chiklis” (famous actor and my friend’s semi-distant relative). 

So there the line was: “One of my friends is related to Michael Chiklis.” It’s the type of mundane thing that might make you say “oh wow” in idle conversation but not really anything you’d find in a rap song. There’s just something so funny and exciting to me about transporting a throwaway tidbit like that into an unfamiliar and absurd context. On top of that, the preceding three lines are all a bit unexpected in their own right, so there’s a sort of build up leading to the oddest possible payoff—something I love to watch people react to in real time when I perform this song live.

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

I can rap all of my verses straight through. I don’t do punch-ins, but I do often comp portions of multiple full-verse takes together to create a final Franken-take. I rap the entire time I write (out loud in private or just above silently in public), so lines I can’t rap get changed immediately. For what it’s worth, I have nothing against people who punch in.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

When I was writing BLIP, I read a lot of Kurt Vonnegut, slightly less George Saunders, and a little Joan Didion. The Expert also sent me a monster playlist of what he considers well-written non-rap songs. Some highlights: “Depreston” by Courtney Barnett, “Lah-Di-Dah” by Jake Thackray, “I’d Rather Dance With You” by Kings of Convenience, and “Cult Boyfriend” by Jeffrey Lewis. My favorite non-rap songwriter lately is Jonathan Richman.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

I oscillate between not-quite-crippling self-doubt and utter certainty that I’m one of the best rappers ever (with several stops in between).

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

Homeboy Sandman.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

I don’t think so, but as the years have passed I’m less and less sure.

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: Noah Anthony Mezzacappa

[a-wild-things-rambles]

hometown hypocrisy

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and we got fires burning in our souls and the scars to prove it, what do you know but the rains putting us out drowning our sparks and our shouts

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

and the bloods beating down in the city tonight and no-one will ever sympathize with our plight try to get up, but we just fall down trying to escape this damn hometown

and blood seeping through our clothes violence begets violence, don't ya know but these fists are my hometown pride gritted teeth and bloodshot eyes

and the fogs setting in rain against my skin and the sky's beating me down wandering my hometown and the roads gotten twisted the old life's gone, i missed it guess it is true, you can never go home again

'and the bloods beating down' is the 2nd chorus/prechorus [look i changed the structure but im not editing my analysis i dont want it to get longer]

'and the fogs setting in' is the [main]chorus [planned to use a diffrent tone to musicaly distinguish it from teh verses and pre/2nd chorus][is in italics]

and 'we got fires' is teh 1st verse and 'blood seeping thru our clothes' is the second

NOTE: should be spoken or sung for optimal beat with contractions, but for readability has been mostly uncontracted. also idk how to spell what do you know contracted right.

the chorus is much later in the singers life than the pre chorus & the two verses, the hypocrisy is that the singer wants to both escape and go back to his hometown.

the younger singer always uses plural, to symbolize community, until 'these fists are my hometown pride' almost at the end. he refutes the cycle of violence by owning his violence as part of himself- his link to his hometown.

in addition, he has become the active perpetrator of violence, [previous references were 'we all fall down' [something else to him] and 'we got the scars to prove it' which is implied to be violence perpetrated unknowingly to each other because of 'fires burning in our souls'- when they get close, they hurt each other unintentionally] he now links his sense of self to violence, and thus when he loses his ability to do violence, he loses his self, and his link to his hometown, becoming the older singer

but by doing this he also will inevitably refute his hometown, by linking it intrinsically to violence, becoming the older singer who sings the chorus when he can no longer have that link to his self or his hometown because he can no longer do violence [his inability shown by him being 'beaten down' by the rain/oppressive atmosphere], i did want to expand on this, writing more verses to show the fall and how he ended up as the chorus person but it didnt work. heres the scrapped third verse

but soon those fists turned weak what do you know? you aint at your peak stress and violence aint good for your heart and you find that your bodys now falling apart

it can also be seen as by growing up to become a perpetrator and someone with power, he is now distant from his people and community, the solidarity is formed from their shared victimhood so when he steps out of that/rejects it, he loses the community [also becoming part of the violent cycle means getting rejected] [also the chorus says 'twisted road' we dont know what happened to make him fall, thats up to the readers interpretation] [transmasc journey of realizing your masculinity then becoming ostracised][or disability]

"guess its true, you can never go home again" is the only exception to the rhyming scheme, and it gives it emphasis, it was more noticeable before the chorus was squished together [previously each half line was its own line until 'guess its true'] fuck it it can take up space on yalls dashboards its getting split again

'bloodshot eyes' can be interpreted many different ways, from crying to injury to rage, each suggesting different meanings and affecting the text in diffrent ways

[bafflement]

Ozqrow Day 7 - Alternate Prompt - Love Letters

... imagine this as the musical episode of the deaged AU. I know that I am...

Tip: Write me a message that comes from the heart

Is this an ending or merely a brand new start?

For you and I, maybe one day we'll fly

Away from the war, away from it all

Just to be free to choose a destiny that isn't the same

I feel it's calling our name, though I know that we can't

This wasn't your fight, it was never your war

Yet you still stand beside me, we've been through it all

And we're standing still, in a way, at least...

Both of us changed here, though you not as much

I long for your kiss and the sense of your touch

But I can't reach the distance that time itself placed

Between us now, not yet, but maybe one day

I still need to wait to grow up, to be adult again

You don't have to wait, I've seen that look in the eye

Of someone who sees you, you never needed to stay

Loyal to me, you know. Maybe he can give you

Everything that I can't, right now?

All that I want is you to be happy, maybe this

Can give you a taste of that, for awhile?

I wouldn't blame you, I could never grudge

You that, I love you too much.

My heart is my message, it's scrawled on my soul

Whichever fragment of it that's still me

And not someone else, at least, that much is yours

And it always will be.

Qrow: Oh pen me a missive that's written in stone

Not flesh and blood, not skin and bone just yourself

For that's all that I wanted... don't you know

That I'll wait until Remnant falls, nothing else matters

To me, not at all, only you. Well, that isn't quite true...

The kids matter too, and our friends, them as well

Though maybe not Jimmy, as much

And if Glynda stopped glaring, she'd almost be pretty...

(Sorry, I know, I need to take this more seriously...

But poetry never was my thing, pocket sized...)

Anyway... you have to know that I love you, that I always have

I don't care about Clover, not really at least

At the most he'd be temporary and I think that

I'd fast find him too annoying for that...

I mean, he thinks you're a kid, and a real one at that

The man doesn't quite get context clues.

Maybe he took too many bumps to the head

This IS Atlas after all, you know what they're like...

Tip (Laughing): Okay yes, maybe we took this too far

An interesting semblance, though, one for the ages

I rather doubt though that the medium will take off...

How do we stop this thing, anyway, it needs to wear off?

Great. Oh I love you, my dearest Qrow

But this much is obvious, this much you know

That you matter to me more than I ever thought that you could

Or that I deserved, but this love that burns deep

Is too great a fire to put out. I think though

That maybe we'd better shut up, now

This is getting rather embarrassing, as

I'm pretty certain the others will never

Quite stop laughing at us as it is.

I'm just rather glad that Tai cannot hear

Or, oh Gods, if Raven could maybe she'd decide

That I'm not a threat, that I'm still on the side

Of the good guys, I still wish I knew why

She ran... ah well, maybe one day.

Qrow: Yeah, pocketsized, I think we need to be quiet

Not that that's easy for either of us

Maybe that's why it was us that got caught?

They found the person whose semblance it was,

They say maybe five minutes, a little less?

I just want to stop speaking in rhyme and in verse

Forget either of us, this thing is truly a curse...

[ace-of-squirrels-card]

Turpentine is my all time favorite song. It was my top song from Spotify wrapped in 2023 despite being released on October 20 (wrapped was released Nov 29 lol). It's about searching for meaning in a meaningless life. Let me tell you what's so fucking amazing about this song: an essay, by me, ace of squirrel

Soak your clothes in kerosene

Cleanse the mind of ketamine

Slide your mom on top of me

Wash yourself with turpentine

Okay this song opens with very classic Tom lyrics. Wacky, silly, seems meaningless, casually vulgar. In many ways this entire album feels like a return to form, and that opening verse is a great example.

My arms, I've raised again

Today I don't feel bitter

I have no path within

Don't know if I'll get better

My own mind's unclean

Can't taste anything

What if I'm not like the others?

A broken man, a Frankenstein

What if my heart won't recover?

I'll clean myself with turpentine

Then there's an immediate tone shift to these really raw lyrics. These lyrics are heavy. It gives the impression of someone who woke up one day, no longer recognizing themself. As if to say "Is this what I've become?" Feeling like somehow, the whole is *less* than the sum of its parts. We're all just these broken pieces, haphazardly sewn together and hoping it holds. 

Meanwhile the guitar has this desperate, almost panicky feeling behind it. Somehow this is also very classic blink.

I feel like I'll cave in

I'm anxious, I am weathered

I've lost my way again

I know there ain't no treasure

These lyrics *kill* me, my god. These lyrics are saying we're crumbling apart, breaking at the seams. We're on this journey, we're lost, and we know that nothing good awaits us at the end? There's such a hopelessness to this verse.

My mind breaks with ease

Sticks and stones and dreams

We already have the ingrained association of sticks and stones being things that hurt us. Now you want to lump dreams into that category? Oh honey, who hurt you

Sharks smell the blood in the water

We're all just lambs to the slaughter

It's only all the time, this time

A generation lost and forgotten

Clawing at the lid of the coffin

Your God ain't coming back this time

We have this fun little moment that is very Mark here. We see these "spoken word"-like verses from Mark in a lot of his other songs (and especially collabs like Find My Own Way or Let Me Down). While a lot of the lyrics sung by Tom feel like an internal monologue, Mark's verses look outwards. The world around is more than uncaring. It's actively harmful, maliciously negligent. There's a sense of desperation and utter loneliness and constantly fighting to survive. 

Quit your job and have a drink

Take a pound of ecstasy

Blah, bla-blah, bla-blah, fuck

Wash yourself with turpentine

This ^ *this* ^ 

Self destructive, desperate. It's like they want to convey how meaningless everything feels and the best way to do that is not even bother writing a lyric here. Love it. 

Light me like a trampoline

Stick your dick in Ovaltine

Snort a bag of Dramamine

Douse yourself in gasoline

Throw up in the limousine

Jack off to a magazine

Wash yourself with ... turpentine

Goddamnit

Ughhhh this last verse. Amazing. It's back to classic goofy Tom, but it feels *very* different given the context of the rest of the song. Theater of the absurd. It really pulls together the meaning of the entire song. Its not so much some silly lyrics, and more like a desperate attempt to feel something. Anything. Self-deprecating at best and horribly self destructive at worst. 

Just from the perspective of a rhyming scheme, the structure is *chef's kiss*. They're showing off a certain mastery of language in this song that I would've expected from more ....respectable artists.

The song as a whole is about searching for meaning but struggling to find it. Filling the void in your heart with whatever you can, but never being fulfilled. Doing all this dumb shit, acting a fool even if you're not, because you feel so broken on the inside. It's this delicious dichotomy between deeply meaningful and hopelessly meaningless. Now THAT is classic blink (just look at Take Off Your Pants and Jacket, which somehow has a really heavy song about about a broken family dynamic but also a song about grandpa just ate seven fucking hotdogs). 

You can hear it throughout the entire album, theres this  apology to each other. It's all of them saying "I lost track of what was important. I forgot who I was because of dumb shit that didn't matter." And turpentine is that introspective lynchpin. 

Anyway y'all thanks for reading, that was a lot to come out of an account that mostly reblogs weird Danny phantom content. 

[srorgana1]

Into the Reverb (Kylo Ren/Reader)

Chapter Seven

Your right hand holds two bottles of water as you walk down the hallway, eyes scanning for Kylo. His SUV is still outside. There are only so many places he could squirrel himself away in on a weekend. You turn left as you see one of the lounge doors cracked open. You open it slightly and look inside. Your knees go slightly weak at the visual before you.

Kylo is sitting in the middle of the long couch, leaning over writing something. He has his tablet and multiple notebooks around him. His long sleeve black shirt and dark gray jeans give him a casual relaxed vibe. His long hair hangs in his face but his nose and lips are prominent. A scowl of concentration written over what you could see of his features. A tattooed finger taps at an unknown rhythm.

“Hey” you say, trying not to spook him. He looks up and gives you a warm smile. “Hey Y/N, how’s work today?” “Good thanks, sorry about earlier” you say, cringing internally. You hope you won't get a warning about tardiness on Monday. “Why? It was fine. No one died” he says, chuckling at his own joke. Your cheeks warm as you sit on the chaise across from him.

“How is it going in here?” you said, silently hoping he won’t notice your awkwardness. “It’s going” he sighs “I have one song I am struggling with. You want to look at it and let me know what you think?” “Absolutely!” you chirp, spine straightening with anticipation. Kylo has been brilliant so far with his lyrics and musical choices, you feel honored he is even asking for your input.

His eyes lock onto yours as he starts to hand you the notebook “Here”. It's so deep you can feel it vibrate in your chest. As you grasp it, your fingers brush against his. A tingle shoots through you making you gasp.

You have never felt anything like that before. His eyes widened at your reaction. “I'm sorry, did I shock you?!” he says, quickly removing his hand. “No, no you didn’t” you say, trying to quiet your body's reaction to whatever just happened. You tighten your grip on the notebook, dropping your eyes from his fierce ones. “Where should we start?”

You do not when or how but you ended up next to him on the couch, soaking in the words on the page. His handwriting is surprisingly elegant. It floats along the page in random bursts of creativity. The content varies.

Most are lyrics. Some are guitar chords. One random page has his favorite take out places listed as well as what he orders. You giggle at that. It's like you have become immersed in his world and you have no plan of removing yourself right now.

—

Kylo is blown away and wants to just gape at you as you talk. But he doesn’t because what normal person would do that. You are sitting next to him, thighs almost touching and your beautiful voice is filling the space. “I am liking these here, the rhyme is fast paced. Gives you the opportunity for some vocal distortion here, here and here…” you say as your slim fingers fly across his tablet. “The pre-choruses should be short and super punchy, most memorable part of the song. Then you can flow right into the chorus and only use chord differences instead of lyrics...”

He could do this every damn day. Just sit next to you and work on music. You have become the best part of his day very quickly and he is totally okay with it. He clears his throat, pushing down those thoughts. Your fingers continue to fly across the tablet screen as you continue talking.

“I know you and Vic write all your own stuff, but I have a couple ideas in my head that I think will round up the song. You don’t have to use them obviously…” Wait what? “What?” he says, immediately cursing himself for floating away there for a minute.

Your face warms as you face him fully. “I have some ideas to bring the song together. I think you could use them in verses. I know you are experienced and you definitely don’t need the help…” Kylo could almost hug you. “Yes! Yes I want your ideas. They are great, I promise" he exclaims. "Okay…” you whisper as his eyes hold yours.

He cannot take it anymore. He cannot not stop what has been building inside. He slowly lifts his hand and holds your chin. He watches as your eyes widen. He takes a shaky breath, then leans forward to capture your lips with his.

The kiss is perfect. Your mouth immediately opens for him as soon as he licks at your bottom lip. As he tastes you, he groans and moves his hand from your chin to around your back, keeping you flush to him. Your soft lips and tongue send shivers of pleasure down his spine. He doesn’t want this to end.

You pull back swiftly, making him have to lock his arm around your back. You pant silently as you look at him with hooded eyes. He wants you to say something, anything. “I have to go” you state flatly, your face and chest still flushed from the activity.

That was not exactly what he wanted to hear. “Okay” he sighs, releasing you. He cannot force you to do anything you don’t want to. He would be an asshole otherwise.

You stand up and hand him the tablet. Your fingers brush again, and he watches you shiver at the feeling. You feel something too, he surmises, you are just scared. “I’ll see you Monday, right?” he asks cautiously.

“Yep, I’ll see you all at 12:30” you say quickly as you head to the door. “See you then Y/N” he says softly, wishing slightly that you will look at him. All he gets is a nod as you walk out the door.

A contined huge shoutout to my girls who have supported me every step of the way ❤️❤️❤️

[lunyr-lluvio11]

An experience but more.

It was almost as if an asteroid of mystery struck upon the grounds of my brain.

A mystery only realized was there when it hit me.

An afternoon of subtle staring and to myself, quiet whispers of your name,

Made you a welcomed guest in my daydreams.

One glance back, Two eyes look away

Three mathematical equations, “Four” the both of us to solve

Five fingers writing, Six conversations made midway,

And Seven times I felt Eight parts of my body ache to hold your hand.

If a letter was enough to tell you I care,

I hope you remember my words.

A confession made by no dare,

Was a little rushed but not slurred.

A letter returned was not expected

With Your perfume lingering on the paper.

Your genuineness and honesty written,

Stuck onto my amygdala forever. Simple verses and simple rhymes, Would never be enough

To describe how your eyes mesmerize

Making stars sloughed off the sky and into your eyes full of awe.  

Your name and your personality make you a representative of the stars,

And with those speckles on your skin, you are a beautiful constellation.

A telescope is not needed to see all your beauty even from afar.

I can see you, and you have given me warmth even in my time of desolation. Thank you, and maybe in a different life

I could be the one by your side.

To take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself,

Or be the shoulder you cry on when you feel overwhelmed.