Drip
the drip on my shoe.
Drip
Their pipes are leaking.
Drip
This girl wants to dance.
Drip
This guy next to me wants to dance.
Drip
He looks like a Kevin.
Drip
Kevin is too shy to dance.
Drip
I wish I could dance.
Drip
My ankle is wet.
Drip.
Drip.
(Source: visualgraphic, via the-absolute-funniest-posts)
So I did the weird thing and wrote one of my poems, Blood of the Behemoth, in Dwarfish Moon Runes. Tuesday morning well-spent. Ignore the smudge in the second line, I messed up and didn’t feel like starting over.
I’m considering doing this for a couple poems, from the past and possibly coming in the future (of course, accompanied by regular English versions of the poems as well). Any thoughts? Personally I think they look pretty neat. Kinda nerdy.
I am a sidekick
and women are heroes,
saving the world, one world
at a time.
How could I hope
to make
a duo
fit to save these streets?
I don’t have X-Ray eyes
or super strength
like every girl I meet.
At the base of Breckenridge,
I don’t see the snow stop the sky.
The two pages
share their perfect words;
the soft, unwritten sky
with the wrinkled wastepaper earth.
Gathered the green of Spring
between fingers.
Watched Autumn orange
engulf the life of landscape.
Let warm Summer water
swim within me.
Added white Winter
to the inches underfoot.
The lights die on the giant’s hide.
I become lice, hiding,
clinging to wire hair.
Ice air stings me,
and cradles the creature.
Night stirs the blood of the behemoth.
My own bursts forth,
painting my flesh, freezing.
Arteries beat to the heart of
a beast,
out of the valley,
of the coal black below.
I leave due South today.
Did I fail?
In building what I dreamed,
did I succeed?
Touching the air, making it real.
Building each new.
Now dragged up by tires
and shaken from trees,
burying my first victim
in my new back yard:
his last tracks.
Shaking in my car,
I wanted to be home
more than warm.
The first turn was easy,
done a thousand times before.
A second more?
Pound per inch less?
Either or, I guess.
My door faced due North
while it approached the tree,
I cried out
as the trees reached for me.
I plan to work through the night.
It’s been some time
since a break.
At one point,
my eyes were drawn from my work
to watch the progress of familiar tracks.
The first, and then the last.
I’d left my work
on the air
to watch him slide, and see
that I, Brandon Knoble,
Architect,
had built my home
in his trail of snow.
My construction of his destruction.
