noli_me_tangere: (empty)
In the end, love
   is the only language
breathed in quiet rooms
      to the time of oxygen, the shuttered eye
  looking down the halls of record
      the soft mystery
                 of the moving lips.

Past all the questions, the tales,
           the un-answers,
  past all of the shouting to storybook gods
       and the lists of the saints
          standing shoulder to shoulder
 through childhood memories,

In the faintness of echoes in the tubes
        or the swift shuttle of eyes beneath the lids,
   the twitch of electricity in the fingers
       and all of our fingers miming
     some animal instinct of solidarity,
         some panting struggle to let go,

When crowded around the narrow stage,
       all of the sentences of yesterday await,
          thronging for their turn before the curtain,
    turning, voiceless,
         watching the shadows silently,
      the dimming lights before their debut

 With the flicker of many wings,
          rising soft from a thicket of words
     leaving the dew upon the branch,
  and becoming small amid the sky
      but flashing, in the light there, brilliant
              they fly one by one away -

in the still time.
  into the eternity of the expired breath.
    Now it is a hollow, human thing -
created to hold infinities, an open, blank book,
    the letters fled, the gulf unimaginable.
           The speed of light.

In the end,
   it blooms, the easiest thing upon the silent tongue,
          these wordless moments are your gardens,
                                 your monuments,
               they are all that must be known:
 In the end, love

    In the end,
love is the only language

          you need.

noli_me_tangere: (Default)
The Great State of Georgia
     killed an innocent man tonight.

 I suppose they figured,
    why turn back now
after twenty-two years -
  that's eight thousand, thirty six days
 of pretending
when it comes to killing cops
   one black man is as good
       as another -
the stakes are too high:
  all the governors and presidential
   all the justices and judges
     the lawyers and law enforcement
   the flag-wavers
    the racists
      the burning crosses
  the black smoke
    of a hundred fifty years
   the solemn chains
of two hundred fifty more;
   that's too much history
     too far down the steep narrow road,
  that ponderous and redoubtable tread
   of supremacy, waving the flag
        of imaginary birth-right,
 flattening the traces of those who had gone
      before, with lighter steps.

 Against that,
             what's one man--
  bespectacled, with books and letters,
        now a teacher whose only towers
  are of words, parcels given to a young nephew,
bright, starting small.
       That singular assembly
  of atoms of human matter
     the four limbs, the erect spine,
  the cradle of histories and futures unknowable,
       the eyes that record
    and the mouth that conceives,
the heart that contracts with purpose or pain -
      it is done now.
    It goes dark.
 The murder victim's family
and the Georgia State officials
    were the only ones allowed to see,
to watch the veins pump poison
     and a darkness come upon the eyes
         an intimate scrutiny of death,
  so that they could report
         justice done,
                 and mark it down
    in those thick old ledgers, one for the books -
   that despite the thronging of voices of love
and the pleas of the nations
    to step out of darkness,
          that blind executioner's mask that hides
    the face of hatred and of revenge
   in spite of eight thousand
    and thirty-six days
      of doubt,

     the Great State of Georgia
killed an innocent man tonight.


Sep. 12th, 2011 08:28 pm
noli_me_tangere: (castiel)
Finally finished this picture of Castiel, from Supernatural.
Just having some conceptual fun.

noli_me_tangere: (empty)
You are waiting
       under the noise of engines
 and a ghost of dust
          the echo of a stagnant air
       that smells of oil and hormones and faintly
                                              of rust,

 the static on the television
   the alien little tune it plays
              the anarchic whine of flies
                         the shouting from the nearby yard
                                   the trembling ignition that builds to a thrum,
         but then dies--

inert. if you could call
            the heat closer, tune it like a radio
      from suffocate to boil to rage
a wire in your nerve, vibrating to the right pitch
                     beyond the still thick syrup of the night,
        the becalmed cage

the weatherman in his sweat-stained
               shirtsleeves, poking at the screen
                        from left to right, a significant rise
    in his voice, from staid and steady
                  will note:  
  a rumbling miles away at sea, inching across latitudes
                                          and tides,

to a curious pinpoint -  a room
       stifled in lassitude and mildness,
                                                       encumbered by balance, a universe languishing at rest
                          and not awake,
                                                 it's there, in answer to a prayer-- 
        for some peak or valley in the unbroken plateau--
                                                                                                that all the fury of the hurricane will break. 


Aug. 30th, 2011 05:31 pm
noli_me_tangere: (write)
[The muses of writing are fucking with me. Therefore, I'm really unsure about this poem. Constructive criticism welcomed.]

Digging )
noli_me_tangere: (kinky)
So, for whatever reason, I just signed myself up to be part of [ profile] torchwood_fest. It's got a nice long deadline and you can request fics or art as well as give them.

HOWEVER. Looking at my pairings and my list of kinks versus everyone else's pairings and Yikes. I kinda feel like the creepy old uncle in the corner at the family reunion.

What kinks are you comfortable writing? )
noli_me_tangere: (empty)
Not to lose the day
          hold back the golden curtain
 proudly on your balcony,
                  of some iron-masted
riding down the slope of the hours
                     the wind of memory
                         comes through open windows.

Sharpen your knives.
Quill your pens.
                Bottle-black feathers deep
              like a shadow under a hill
   and quick:
                    breeze-caught, free of you
       where they might go, so many wings fluttering
    So many soft, repeating cries
    echo chasing an echo
    down the wide orange road.

                Don't startle so fast after,
  toes and fingers slipping on ledges
                 too eager, too rushing,
                 a never-silent stumbling
     and teasing riddles out of common tongue
      or sit staring, all hollow with echoes,
until your mouth goes dry
until you are the dust of the afternoon

                  Scraping the day's dishes in the sink,
                  Or walking the primrose border
                  not dreaming of any wild scent or sight
                  Or flipping through the pages of a book,
  that library taste suddenly arising,
                  Or turning on the television and turning it off,
                                     they will return,

quick and halting like deep-eyed deer

or trembling just in reach like a feather caught
                       on a branch

or slow and pondering like rain across the mountain

or sharp as a breath underwater
                     or spreading like the stain of dawn on the horizon

swimming back to you against the future's current,
      coiled glistening in your eyes and teeth
                  as though they never left.
noli_me_tangere: (Default)
Just a couple of photos of my first time gunning during a battle sail on the Lady Washington


One more under the cut )
noli_me_tangere: (write)
I really, really want to write something right now, and nothing is coming. I've tried Word, LJ, poetry notebook, regular notebook, journal, sitting down, standing up, music, no music, outside, inside...

I think I'm gonna freak out.
noli_me_tangere: (suby love)
Getting high and watching "The Universe." Is it weird that I get a boner every time they say "supermassive black hole?"
noli_me_tangere: (what?)
So here's the new Russell T. Davies interview about Torchwood 4: Miracle Day (read carefully, as there are spoilers at the end):

and now for spoilery discussion time...have I said the word 'spoilers' enough? )
noli_me_tangere: (castiel)
Here ya go, something I actually scanned. Not that that keeps it from looking like crap.

Title: "Caught"
Rating: PG
Media: Pencil, GIMP
Fandom: Supernatural

noli_me_tangere: (Default)
Title: The Final Battle
Artist: Shane
Fic Title: Devil May Care
Author: [ profile] sagestreet

I was so inspired by [ profile] sagestreet 's awesome fic "Devil May Care" that I made a comic-style sequence of the excellently-written dogfight scene in the beginning. Posted with author's permission...enjoy! (And definitely check out the fic!)

P.S. Apologies for the unprofessional quality of the scans...I don't have a scanner so had to take pictures of the art with my digital camera, ghetto-style.

Click the previews to see the pages:

noli_me_tangere: (castiel)
Title: Mercy of the Fallen
Author: Sgt. Mayhem
Pairing/Characters: Castiel, implied Castiel/Dean
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Season 6, episode 10
Warnings: None
Notes: Many beta thanks to [ profile] nanoochka. Title is taken from a Dar Williams song.
Wordcount: 1,916
Summary: Castiel returns to the prison after the events of 6x10.

Perhaps he will hear the voice of God... )
noli_me_tangere: (Default)
Title: Alleluia, Amen.
Author: Shane Mayhem, Maintopman.
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R for descriptions of sex and some sex-related violence. Implied character death.
Notes: Unbeta’ed. My first foray into Supernatural fanfic, so please concrit!
Spoilers: Seasons 4 and 5; AU end of Season 5. (Specific Episodes: 4x01, “Lazarus Rising,” 4x16, “On the Head of a Pin,” 5x03, “Free to Be You and Me,” 5x22, “Swan Song”)
Summary: Dean remembers times that Castiel has touched him.

something of you knew him before he even walked in the door. )
noli_me_tangere: (no day)
Title: That I Might Fly Away Where the Ships
Author: Shane
Rating: PG
Warnings/Notes: You know how sometimes you get inspired by a poem and you have to compose a fic around that theme? This one comes from the poem "Wings" by Susan Stewart, which I highly recommend. Feedback is greatly desired, either in comment or at the.antirazor at gmail dot com, because I'm not sure if I've done what I wanted to do. Probably doesn't help that this is unbeta'ed, but I still owe thanks to [ profile] captinexile for giving it a look before bed.
Summary: Sometimes the thing that hurts you the most is worth it, for the flying.

The boy who would one day call himself Jack Harkness was thirteen years old when he let go of his little brother's hand in the screaming madness of an aerial attack. )
noli_me_tangere: (fly away)
Title: Let Us To The Battle
Author: Shane Mayhem
Rating: PG-13 for some swearing and drug use.
Notes: Beta'ed by the crazy-awesome [ profile] neifile7. Gee-whiz info: title is the motto of the 133 Eagle Squadron.
Summary: One month before he will meet James Harper at the Ritz, this is where Jack's life has led him.

He fought his way through a nightmare of white and black, thunder in his skull, narrowing tunnels of light before his eyes, and couldn't remember what day it was. )
noli_me_tangere: (grin)
So this one time, [ profile] copperbadge, [ profile] 51stcenturyfox and I started writing a Jack/Ten fic in a comment thread, and then we wrote it all proper-like and posted it.

Title: At the Still Point
Authors: [ profile] sam_storyteller, [ profile] 51stcenturyfox, and [ profile] shane_mayhem
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Jack
Summary: On the eve of regeneration, the Doctor has one last gift for Jack. Spoilers through End of Time pt II.
Notes: Beta credit to [ profile] neifile7 for making it SPARKLY. This began on Shane's idea, Sam wrote a bit, Foxy wrote a bit, Shane wrote a bit, and somehow we made a fic. Yay!

Alonso -- that's the story he tells Gwen, when he gets back to Earth.
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