Is Richard Siken a Samgirl or a Deangirl?

[whynot]

motherlessguns, you guys! It's like gid_hanasheh but for Winchesters. That is to say*, a comm for posting poems that remind you of Winchesters, and poems that you wrote about Winchesters. Come join! SPAM IT WITH SIKEN.

'Kay, so we got a heaven poetry comm, an earth poetry comm. To round things off, we need a hell poetry comm for poems about Ruby and Alastair. y/n?

*Can we popularize the acronym TITS already?


I uploaded some songs from SinoSikat?'s debut album for some people, and I'm gonna throw the links up here too because SinoSikat? are pretty sexy, lemme tell ya. They're from Manila, and they got this badass soul-jazz-groove thing going on.

So Blue - the single. The music video is also pretty cool.
Praning - the 'tude
Akin Ka - the jazz


Item the third, I watched My Bloody Valentine. What an emotionally complex and intellectually satisfying movie that was! The decapitation-by-shovel scene was such a nuanced commentary on the duality of man, and the naked girl titty-bouncing in the parking lot moved me to my very core.

Okay seriously now, where is the Dean/Tom fic.

[originally posted at http://whynot.dreamwidth.org/25740.html | comments]

Comments

[nyoka.livejournal.com]

Haha, more poetry comms. I love it. The bestie and I fight over Siken all the time, about whether he's penning the epic love story of Sam/Dean or the epic love story of Dean/Cas. Good times, I tell you. "Wishbone" is my ultimate Sam/Dean poem.

[mrinalinee.livejournal.com]

SIKEN! <3333

I postulate that Siken identifies as a Winchestersgirl but is secretly a Samgirl but sometimes gets confused. My evidence is as follows:

1
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone.


Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.


2
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.


3
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.


4
He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him—
green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool-
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it's summer, so it's suicide,
so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.


5
It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorways we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.


6
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the roads around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out
of lullabies.
But damn if there isn't anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.

[zempasuchil.livejournal.com]

lol lass I do not know if they got it, they are all posting poems in your comments instead XD jk, jk, thanks to your pimping it'll grow! hm, maybe I should make it prettier, then it'll attract more poems. (it needs prettifying for sure. *goes a-hunting for graphics*)

[amonitrate.livejournal.com]

i felt so cheated by My Bloody Valentine. Such a tantalizing glimpse of EVIL JENSEN and yet it was all packed into like, five minutes. After like, two boring hours.

I mean, possibly my expectations were too high for a movie titled MY BLOODY VALENTINE where like, the valentine thing made absolutely no sense. But I was surprised by Evil!Jensen!

They should really give us Possessed!Dean someday, dammit.

[marycontraire.livejournal.com]

Not entirely on-topic. But, Lass, it has been strange/amusing to watch your journal go from I-don't-watch-SPN to ALL-WINCHESTERS-ALL-THE-TIME in a ridiculously short period of time.