No photo's allowed - said the spider

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Slammin'
There's a Slam poetry event coming here, actually here!
Thats what got me started on this whole performance poetry kick anwyays - with OMG-series (TheOralStage). and I found out Sharanya's involved in it.
Let's keep to the spirit of honesty and say ->What!?!
I'm fully glad she's involved in something like this and she's bloody great at what she does and I think she'll blow everyone's away ... but I thought it could have been my thing. At least I would somehow be involved in this in some way.
I guess not.

A thousand words.
I'm no good.
I can't take a freakin' decent picture, ever. All the darn shots we did for promo's and front-of-house for the 'Screwed' production - all pretty much unusable.
It takes forever to sift through the mountains and years (I don't take my own pics much, coz well ... I don't) of photographs to find a decent one.
Apparently, I dont do so well if I can't move.
Non-animated seems to be my worst feature.

Deciding Melodia.
I want to write songs.
Am I being ambitious ... or simply just naturally curious.
Its going to swallow me up again, I can feel the churning of the muscles, along the feeding orifice of an overwhelming glut.
I want to try.
And I don't mean, write a diddle, piddle, pot and leave it on a scrap someplace or a whistling tune in a memory - but have it performed, sounded, sung ... by anyone!
:: You can cross-dress the sun to a moon, but you'll never hide the flaming queen ::

Buergoning
I'm reminded of 'Renaissance'.
Where every idea must be attempted. Every thought must be practised. A delicious study of science and rationality as applied to the creative flight and fancies of arts.
Perhaps I am borne to a period that does not need me.
Perhaps I was borne out of time.
Out of place.

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Prose

The passing flit and flow of time stopped for a moment. Its swayed uncertain in the doorway, hesitant but blossoming with piqued interest. It had to know. It must know.
So they entered.
Time crept in slow but swift, silent but announcing. And I knew I had it.
It was a flame's shadow away but subconsciously I knew it was further. It was further than the chimes of the grand-clock in the hallway, next door, across the room of the mansion beyond the gates, far into the lands next to mine.
Far from my heart.
Its what dreams are like.
They seem hesitant, but truly they are not. They never were, even in the face of fear. They face the same whether it be horror or delight. Master and slaves find meaning but no names to cling upon. The chains shackling the hands of time are called so because they have to be to exist. There's more, but only the blind and deaf know of them. The mute becomes its prophets.
They lay on the fringe of my mind.
The flickering edges, the faded corners,, it sleeps.
Comfort, it drew away from me. Its curiosity sated, its curse passed to me.
And I draw without, toward and distant until I pass a doorway.
And I am hesitant but sure.
I want to go inside.
I must know.