Post by Travis Pierce on May 3, 2013 9:43:40 GMT -5
Fade in on Travis sitting in front of a bookshelf, a blanket over his lap, an open book in his hand, from which he reads.
Fade out...
Once upon a deadline dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Whilst I pondered how JK could be such a bore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my studio door—
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my studio door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the wet and rainy May;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the dumb Cyclone—
For the rare and foolish douchebag whom the Aussies name Cyclone—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my studio door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my studio door;—
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my studio door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Cyclone?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Cyclone!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the studio turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Cyclone of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my studio door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my studio door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this Aussie dolt beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no Pierce,
Ghastly grim and ancient Pierce wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Canadian shore!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fool to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing wind above his studio door—
Man or flatulence upon the sculptured bust above his studio door,
With such name as "Forevermore."
But the King, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a burp then he belched—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the wind said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the Dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—forevermore.'"
But the King still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of storm, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous gas of yore
Meant in croaking "Norevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl wind whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, forevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by pendulum whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Cyclone;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Cyclone!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if fart or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if gas or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a stupid jerk whom the Aussies name Cyclone—
Clasp a rare and rancid dumbass whom the Aussies name Cyclone."
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, fart or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Canadian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy gas from out my nose, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
And the King, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my studio door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—forevermore!
Whilst I pondered how JK could be such a bore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my studio door—
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my studio door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the wet and rainy May;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the dumb Cyclone—
For the rare and foolish douchebag whom the Aussies name Cyclone—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my studio door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my studio door;—
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my studio door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Cyclone?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Cyclone!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the studio turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Cyclone of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my studio door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my studio door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this Aussie dolt beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no Pierce,
Ghastly grim and ancient Pierce wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Canadian shore!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fool to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing wind above his studio door—
Man or flatulence upon the sculptured bust above his studio door,
With such name as "Forevermore."
But the King, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a burp then he belched—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the wind said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the Dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—forevermore.'"
But the King still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of storm, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous gas of yore
Meant in croaking "Norevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl wind whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, forevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by pendulum whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Cyclone;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Cyclone!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if fart or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if gas or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a stupid jerk whom the Aussies name Cyclone—
Clasp a rare and rancid dumbass whom the Aussies name Cyclone."
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, fart or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Canadian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy gas from out my nose, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Pierce "Forevermore."
And the King, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my studio door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—forevermore!
Fade out...
2013, '18, '23 
2013 
