tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Young Krishna and his brother, Balarama, happen to be playing by the sacred river Yamuna. The river had become infertile, overrun by poisonous waters because the great serpent lord Kaliya had nested there with his snake wives.

The cowherds and the gopis were frightened to go near the water, the plants and trees around the river became barren and died, and disrupted all life. Krishna climbed to the top of a tree, the only one left alive, and plunged himself into the water, a splash that shook the abyss. Kaliya awoke and attacked Krishna, and they wrestled thus. Krishna was under water in the serpent's coils for a very long time, the life being squeezed out of him, until Balarama, himself the avatar of Ananta, called out to the struggling Krishna, “Krishna! Remember that you are a god!”

Krishna then remembered his divine nature. His strength renewed by this realization, Krishna freed himself and rose up to dance upon the serpent's hundred heads.
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Apologies for disappearing. RL went tits up.
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
I'm broken-hearted with all that this entails
It takes some concentrated drinking to keep me on the rails

I have to hide my face, I have to hide my shame
I don't wait til I'm sober til I get drunk again

I drink at home, I drink out
I drink in cocktail bars
Falling down, seeing stars

It suits me, it suits me
Falling apart in bars
I like to suffer for my art
Just one more before we part

My oh my, we can't compete
It's only heavy drinking
That keeps us on our feet
And my oh my, we can't complain
If it weren't for heavy drinking
We'd never play Sweet Jane

And my my my my, the days go by
I'll never quite forget her
But goodness how I try

Believe me
Believe me
Going astray
When all the bars from here to Mandelay
They never close, we never pay

Don't like to think about how much I drink
It's a habit that's out of control
Oh yeah, hope I never get dry before I get old

Well my oh my, we can't compete
It's only heavy drinking
That keeps us on our feet
And my oh my, we can't complain
If it weren't for heavy drinking
We'd never play Sweet Jane

My my my my, the days go by
I'll never quite forget her
But goodness how I try

Believe me, believe me
Falling apart in bars
I like to suffer for my art
Just one more before we part

Don't like to think about how much I drink
It's a habit that's out of control
Oh yeah, hope I never get dry
Hope I never get dry now
Hope I never get dry before I get old
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)

I have come back to you broken
take me home
And my body bears this trouble
take me home
Take me back to my beginning
Before the hell of night set in
And I came to this border
take me home

I have toured the endless starlight
take me home
I have shattered under midnight
take me home
There are no vultures in this clearing
Except the ones who brought me here
And I'll no longer feed them
take me home

Kingdom come, their will was done
And now the earth is far away
from any kind of heaven
Hallowed be these frozen fields
And every single one of us
still left in want of mercy
Take us home

Now the bells stand still and hollow
take me home
And no one has come to mourn me
take me home
Find me where I close my eyes
Beneath this sky of powerlines
And let me see us clearly
take me home

Kingdom come, their will was done
And now the earth is far away
from any kind of heaven
Hallowed be these frozen fields
And every single one of us
Still left in want of mercy
Take us home...

[NOTE: this song by the Wailin' Jennys was written about the treatment of aboriginal people in Saskatchewan. My use of it here out of context is not intended to deflect from this or other incidences of racism.]
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
"A fundamental idea of Aztec religion was that the gods sacrificed themselves in order to benefit humankind. In one myth the gods threw themselves into a huge fire to create the sun; in another they spilled their own blood in order to create people. These myths established a debtor relationship between humankind and the gods - a debt that could be repaid only through offerings of human blood." - Michael E. Smith

"How the gods had their beginning, and where they began is not well known. But this is plain, [that] there at Teotihuacan...when yet there was darkness, there all the gods gathered themselves together, and they debated who would bear the burden, who would carry on his back - who would become - the sun. And when the sun came to arise, then all [the gods] died that the sun might come unto being.... And thus the ancient ones thought it to be." - Bernandino de Sahagun, Florentine Codex
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
The Devil's Paintbrush Road (Annabelle Chvostek/The Wailin' Jennys)

I held on for so long
Dusty quaint old song
Things attach with glue
Live and die and gone

June flowers are so bold
On the devil's paintbrush road
The devil paints a double life
And there I dare not go

Live and die and gone
Live and die and gone
The devil paints a double life
Live and die and gone

I'm not the cheating kind
It snuck up from behind
Kicked in the door to someday
I can't get her off my mind

All or nothing now
Might as well be true
Leave the dream of hearth and home
That never will come true

Live and die and gone
Live and die and gone
Leave the dream of hearth and home
Live and die and gone

Sweet wild road ahead
Sweet wild road ahead
If I lied and said that all was well
I might as well be dead

Single I was born
And single I will die
I'll marry myself to the whole wide world
And never make her cry

Live and die and gone
Live and die and gone
I'll marry myself to the whole wide world
Live and die and gone

Live and die and gone
Live and die and gone
The devil paints a double life
Live and die and gone

(Get it here.)
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A Being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast;
In doubt his mind and body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much;
Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.

- Alexander Pope
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

Translated by Robert Bly

Pablo Neruda

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío

No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.

No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.

Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Lancelot rode on a swayback mare
he won in a card game up north somewhere
he was bottom-out lonesome, he was too tired to care,
keepin' one step ahead of the rain

well, he blew into Broken Bow late last year,
talkin' up the vision of his lost Guinevere
but he couldn't tell a grail from a glass of beer
so he settled for Lady Elaine

singin' "yodelayhee, i ain't no untarnished Galahad
down from Arcadia like a dream in your head
but gentle lady lend me the true heart i never had
and i'll wash the years from your bed
with all the salt tears i have shed," Lancelot said

well, mornin' came sleepy and mornin' came slow
and the mirror revealed a face she didn't know
and the last autumn robin was packin' to go
as another year slipped by the way

so she rose and she dressed and she pushed back the night
she put up her hair by the dawn's early light
and the man in her bed was an eagle in flight
and a crooked old crow in the hay

singin' "yodelayhee, i ain't no untarnished Galahad
down from Arcadia like a dream in your head
but gentle lady lend me the true heart i never had
and i'll stain the lavenders red,
with all of the good blood i've shed," Lancelot said

now bugles blow golden and banners fly blue
but these days the castle's just drywall and glue
and tiltin' at windmills is the best you can do
with the black knight of time on your lawn

so i wouldn't know if he left or he stayed,
prospered or starved by the promise he made
or maybe he straggled or maybe he strayed
and the bright world went barrellin' on

singin "yodelayhee, i ain't no untarnished Galahad,
down from Arcadia like a dream in your head
but gentle lady lend me the pure heart i never had,
and i'll bring you roses and bread
and we'll fashion gold out of lead,
with all the illusions we shed," Lancelot said

(download it here)

Canto XII

Aug. 9th, 2008 06:20 pm
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Arise to birth with me, my brother.
Give me your hand out of the depths
sown by your sorrows.
You will not return from these stone fastnesses.
You will not emerge from subterranean time.
Your rasping voice will not come back,
nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.

Look at me from the depths of the earth,
tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeweler with crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter wasted among his clays--
bring to the cup of this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem was dull or because the earth
failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,
the wood they used to crucify your body.
Strike the old flints
to kindle ancient lamps, light up the whips
glued to your wounds throughout the centuries
and light the axes gleaming with your blood.

I come to speak for your dead mouths.

Throughout the earth
let dead lips congregate,
out of the depths spin this long night to me
as if I rode at anchor here with you.

And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,
and link by link, and step by step;
sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,
thrust them into my breast, into my hands,
like a torrent of sunbursts,
an Amazon of buried jaguars,
and leave me cry: hours, days and years,
blind ages, stellar centuries.

And give me silence, give me water, hope.

Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.

Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.

Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.

Speak through my speech, and through my blood.

[Pablo Neruda, The Heights of Macchu Picchu
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
Well I'll take two shots said the devil to the man
and layed a little book on the bar
well lord knows the devil he only talks shit
and only drinks whiskey from the jar
and his hands were raw and his eyes were cold
and his breath was pure alcohol and the sound of his voice it never got old
and he talked and talked and talked through the night
kept sippin his shine till the mornin' light
tumbled in through the shades and as he started to go
i put three bullets in his back.

well the devils bleedin' crude oil from a hole in his chest
and its panging on the bedpan drippin through the bedsheets
and all the businessmen are putting pails beneath his wounds
and pawnin the oil at the market
well his heart ain't made of nothin but piss and vinegar
and his boots have trampled more than you would know
and his breath has split open the thermometer on the sill
its so fucking cold in here since you brought in the snow

Black heart leaking oil in the pan,
dealin' insults with his free hand
in this hospital bed bleedin'
Black heart you shot the plan to hell and the apathy ate you up inside

Like slivers of lead inside your food
he's the poison inside you
and you eat until you're full
and you eat until youre full
he lit the fires inside your belly full of medicine and whiskey
the aspirin, valium, codiene pills and silver rum

someone say a hail mary for this house
bless the corners and burn the devil out.

Devil in Mexico - Murder By Death
tezcatl_ipoca: (Default)
A better person would feel worse about having this in his head as the soundtrack to today's RPing.... (feel free to download!)

- snakey
tezcatl_ipoca: (mask)
I shouldn't have come here. Something in the air here is waking things I'd long forgotten - long buried -a nd have no desire to remember. The night wind itself whispers to me.

Necoc Yaotl.
Tloque Nahuaque.
Yohualli Eecatl.

Tezcatl Ipoca.

I would cover my ears, but it makes no difference. Something here in Excolo wants me to remember what I was, and this time of year is the worst: just past Toxcatl, another year (year upon year upon year) in which no avatar has died for me, no heart been offered upon the temple steps.

I was worshipped, once.

Something here is trying to sway me, to tempt me, to win me to its side. I know that story of old; I have told it myself, a hundred thousand times. But my temptation was always a testing, not simply a corruption.

Let whoever is trying to wake this in me remember that I am also and still Necocyaotl, ever the Enemy of Both Sides, possessor of the Sky and Earth. It is My choice, always and only, whether I tempt humans into self-destruction or absolve them of their guilt.

I will not be swayed.

And yet, the night wind calls, and something bloody uncoils within me.

[Day 2]

Mar. 23rd, 2008 11:52 pm
tezcatl_ipoca: (tez face)
Swinging myself down from the truck into the morning light I stumble a bit. I spent too much of the night walking up and down upon the earth, and now the foot I have left aches to match the phantom pain of the one that's gone. Too proud to limp, last night, to show any sign of mortal weakness. Well, I'm paying for that now.

I had slept in the back of the truck for once. It was airless, but there had been something about the night that made me want walls around me - and no matter how thin these walls might be, they were warded with everything I had. Yet dreams had still stolen in, and I woke exhausted.

The truck; I had bought it (bought and paid for, for once, without trickery or bartering, as all magical things should be) from some kind of mechanical hedge sorcerer down south, and unlike so many vehicles now it still ran, after a fashion. She told me that it would run on anything that had life or spirit to it, and in my time I'd filled the tank with grain alcohol, cooking oil, swamp water, whatever came to hand, and still it groans along. No gasoline - in these days it's dearer than blood, and more closely guarded. (It'll run on blood, if need be, and has. Anything with life or spirit.)

The backlot's stirring around me, full of morning sounds and scents. Every one of them makes my head ache worse. May the day bring better fortune than my restless sleep.

tezcatl_ipoca: (poster)
Vive esta historia en cada barrio

Por la calle de vieira
Viene ya Don Palabras
Recitando poesía
Viene canta que canta

Cierto día don palabras
Me contó una extraña historia
De cómo nacen las cosas
Cada vez que uno las nombra

El tiempo vive en la memoria

Una noche lo encontré
Había llovido, lo recuerdo bien
Se acercaba a los autos
Cuando les tocaba el alto

A través de la ventana lo escuchaban hablar
Con su voz apasionada
Volver casi real un olvidado amor
Un antiguo dolor que ni el tiempo borró

Vive esta historia en cada barrio

Dichosos los poetas pobres
De ellos será el reino de los suelos
Así empezaba nuestro amigo
Su andar en la ciudad sin sueños

Caminando a su lado todo puede pasar
Un señor adormilado
Puede ser un Don Juan
Dispuesto a enamorar
A la güera del pan como princesa

De boca en boca, viajando en sueños

Miles de historias en cada barrio

Por la calle de vieira
Viene ya don palabras
Recitando poesía
Viene canta que canta

(Live this story in every neighbourhood

Across Viera street
Here comes Lord Words
Declaiming poetry
Here comes singing over and over

One day Lord Words
Told me an eerie story
About the way things are born
Every time we name them

Time lives within our memory

One night I run into him
It had rained, I remember clearly,
He approached the cars
At the red light

Through the window they could hear him talking
With his passionate voice
Render almost palpable a forgotten love
An ancient sorrow time couldn’t wipe away

Live this story in every neighbourhood

Blessed the poets who live in poverty
For theirs shall be the kingdom of the grounds
Thus our friend set in motion
His wandering through the dreamless city

Walking by his side, anything might happen
A drowsy looking gentleman
Can hide a Don Juan
Ready to woo
The grocer's girl as a princess

From mouth to ear, travelling in dreams

Thousands of tales in every neighbourhood

Across Viera street
Here comes Lord Words
Declaiming poetry
Here he comes singing over and over)
tezcatl_ipoca: (poster)
holy fire down in my belly and brimstone in my eyes
everything that a woman might need and the need just might arise
I'm a light-bringer and a soul-singer
I'm a snake-handlin' man

six-foot cottonmouth hangin from a tree on a sultry summer night
sling that serpent around my neck and I take him for a ride
baby I would
hey, baby, you know I can

'cause I got a heart that shines in the dark like the road to the pearly gates
you come creepin' up the slow lane baby but you know I just can't wait
I'm a fire-walker and a straight-talker
I'm a snake-handlin' man

mix that poison up good and strong and lift it to my lips
I'll go preachin' in the pale moonlight with a viper in my grip
baby I would
hey, baby, you know I can


[Day 1]

Mar. 19th, 2008 03:07 pm
tezcatl_ipoca: (tez face)
It's coming on to evening, and the magician who calls himself Tez is sitting in the shadows in the backlot of the carny, a golden coin flick-flick-flicking between his fingers. Since it's his downtime he's left the prosthetic foot he wears for the show in the truck, and the low late sun catches on his outstretched feet, glinting on one silver-buckled boot and one blackened metal stump.

Take a look at Tez, now. You can't see much of him in the shadows: a worn old canvas jacket, skin red-brown as adobe mud (and is that his own colour, or just the burn of too many long days in the sun?), thick black hair caught back at the nape of his neck. Not a pretty man, with that jut of nose like the edge of an axe-blade, but intriguing; black eyes glint at you out of the dimness.

The coin dancing between his fingers turns and turns again, twisting between sun and shadow. If it stopped moving for a moment you'd see that it was old, older than old, a gold doubloon worn so thin that it must have come over with the conquistadors so very long ago. But it never stops moving, flick-flick-flicking between quick fingers, catching the last of the fading light.
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