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rainbowfic2024-01-23 03:15 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2024-01-23 03:15 pm
Iridium #6, Newsprint #8, Psychedelic Purple #24: An hour and thirty five minutes past seven p.m.
Name: An hour and thirty five minutes past seven p.m.
Story: Peccadillo Parlour
Colors: Iridium #6 (cutting-edge), Newsprint #8 (The future is stupid.), Psychedelic Purple #24 (now my life has changed in oh so many ways)
Supplies and Styles: feathers (Britannica's On This Day: 1997 - The Age of Aquarius dawned); fingerpainting, postcard
Word Count: 136
Rating: general
Warnings: A poem about being a teenager.
Note: This is a poem by Reuben Tam Sherman, my character. I have never been to a cricket field, which is clearly the most important part of this poem.
*
1995 was a year, a logo, a moment.
1997, the dregs of my youth standing over an empty cricket field
thinking I smelled my end in the smog
I had too many words in my head and not enough of them in my mouth
to say what I wanted
in the slow crash towards 1998
not knowing what waited on the other side of my graduation.
Change is an ending; an ending that never ends
no going back to those empty stands
shards on the seating
a busted lamp up above and the memory of its beam
a roar of absent humanity whispering around me
waiting for my mates; a hundred thousand days away.
It's 2001 and I've forgotten
what was so special about 1995.
It's 2010 and I've forgotten myself
three times over since 1995.
Story: Peccadillo Parlour
Colors: Iridium #6 (cutting-edge), Newsprint #8 (The future is stupid.), Psychedelic Purple #24 (now my life has changed in oh so many ways)
Supplies and Styles: feathers (Britannica's On This Day: 1997 - The Age of Aquarius dawned); fingerpainting, postcard
Word Count: 136
Rating: general
Warnings: A poem about being a teenager.
Note: This is a poem by Reuben Tam Sherman, my character. I have never been to a cricket field, which is clearly the most important part of this poem.
*
1995 was a year, a logo, a moment.
1997, the dregs of my youth standing over an empty cricket field
thinking I smelled my end in the smog
I had too many words in my head and not enough of them in my mouth
to say what I wanted
in the slow crash towards 1998
not knowing what waited on the other side of my graduation.
Change is an ending; an ending that never ends
no going back to those empty stands
shards on the seating
a busted lamp up above and the memory of its beam
a roar of absent humanity whispering around me
waiting for my mates; a hundred thousand days away.
It's 2001 and I've forgotten
what was so special about 1995.
It's 2010 and I've forgotten myself
three times over since 1995.