Sawdust in the air

I was sawing some planks into pieces today, and this started playing in my head to the tune of Walking in the air, composed by Howard Blake.

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

My lungs are full of it, as well as are my eyes

 

I already lost my sight

And it burns like hell, it’s true

The sky, it now looks brown, for me not perfect blue

 

The fungi and the mold

Have found their brand new home in me

Took over everything, from forehead to my knee

 

I cough blood in the night and I scratch my eyes

My throat is dry, my sheets are red, a wonderful surprise

 

Sawdust in the air

My head feels so very light

The noises far away, the lamps always so bright

 

The doctors say, it’s too late, what happens now, we know

I don’t believe, this is real, it can’t be my time yet to go

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

Like the sawdust did for me, the clouds are passing by

The best in life

You know when you laugh so hard you can’t stop?

So hard that your lungs feel like they’re gonna pop,

Tears stream down your wobbling cheeks,

Down to your jaw in two wet streaks.

That feeling right there is what it’s about,

The reason why I live, there is no doubt.

Afterward it hurts and I’m gasping for air

I don’t even care that I fell off of my chair.

When the giggles die down and I settle down,

My mind is clear and my brow has a frown,

As I try not to think about what made me laugh,

Fail, and fall down like a newborn calf.

Rinse and repeat or half an hour or so,

The world is pure as with fresh, white snow.

 

This was caused by a YouTube video where a man reads out loud misspellings of the word pregnant for two minutes. The video title is “how is pragent formed”, if someone wants to cackle like a hyena.

 

Selective complaining

Take a bullet in the face and walk away fine,

Saving and loading when playing offline,

NPC’s standing in their shops all day,

Heroes that never have anything to say.

“I don’t see a thing to complain on this list,

When I play, these things don’t make me pissed,

But sound in space and I’m outraged!

The hero’s too old, she should be teenaged!

That’s totally not how afterburners work!

The detail’s all wrong, it’s a dagger, not a dirk!

Game devs are dumb, dumb or just asses

They should take some physics and history classes!”

Fans discussing games is often like this,

Selective complaining, a communal hiss.

I don’t find it fun, but I hope they do

Otherwise it’s a useless indignation stew.

Memories of my death

I can remember that I was held under

Long enough for my lungs to tear themselves asunder.

I can remember trying to fight back,

Without any breath, my body just a sack.

I can remember that I screamed and screamed,

Screamed so long I thought I dreamed

The time without screaming, the drowning and pain,

Screamed until I broke, I was no longer sane.

Then, if I’m right, I think I died,

I… I think I actually died.

If I died… Then am I a ghost?

Doomed to wander this bleak coast.

I remember my death. What now?

I can’t stay, I must move on? But how?

X-men powers

What would I do if I had x-men powers?

I wouldn’t hesitate or think for hours.

Cyclops’ laser eyes are handy for cooking,

No need for a stove, I’d just do some looking

And the onions would be sautéed to perfection,

Later to be eaten by objects of my affection.

Wolverine’s claws could open all the letters,

Persuasion +10 when chased by debtors.

Also, good for chopping up an onion

Chopping them cleanly, like trees with Paul Bunyan.

Being telepathic, like Professor X,

Could stop an international annex.

Also, I’d know if onions are ok to cook

For my guests without asking, just a quick look.

In summary I’d say, the powers would be pretty cool

All of them help polish that culinary jewel.

The race

I downloaded a rather sizable patch for a game, during which the download speed stuttered and leaped in an unforeseeable manner. It reminded me of a race.

 

There goes the signal and the race is on!

The contestants are away, vanished, gone!

#1 takes the lead with gigantic leaps

#3 is advancing in graceful sweeps.

#2 left stuttering behind in the dust,

#4 still at the start line, thinking, nonplussed.

#1 cruises on, victory secure

The only thing left now is to ensure-

At the start line, a flash of light!

#4 disappeared, completely out of sight!

The crowd goes crazy!? Where is #4?

At the finish line already? Hear them roar!

The download contest is done, winner: #4!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new high score!

Sheep on the field

Just your average bicycle ride,

See some sheep, very woolly, two-eyed.

Come to a halt for a nice, quick pause

Observe the sheep and their chewing jaws.

That one over there is just ruminating

Chewing with the intent of swallow-for-sating.

The small one is rolling around in the grass,

Fluffy and white, its cuteness first-class.

And that one there is… in a white lab coat?

Holding a wrench and making a note?

That thing that it’s building, hold on…

Is that a rocket made of wood and nylon?

Defense against wolves and political aggression?

That raises one, and just one question:

How does one use a wrench with hooves?

One of the most complex of fine-motor moves.

Energy revolution

Our energy board was quite inventive

As we needed a new clean energy incentive.

The think-tank took only thirteen days,

Lots of coffee and a very secluded place.

They realized a new power source

Completely untapped of course.

Acne or zits, as we them know

Could be harnessed for hot water flow.

A new business emerged overnight

Zit extraction sites popped up left and right.

Unemployment sank, emissions as well,

The worst side was an unpleasant smell.

People benefited from their defective genes,

And finally, an actual use for teens.

Woodillac

My shed is equipped with tools and power,

My secret, personal hickory tower.

I’m there more than unconscious in bed,

Creating with my hands is my mental bread.

Converting branches into spatulas and spoons,

Stumps into chairs with inlays of moons.

I listen to the wood, it tells me what to do,

Or at least gives me an opaque, grainy clue.

Sometimes simple, like a spatula from birch,

Or a bit harder, an oaken observatory perch.

This last project, though, it got me confused,

When racking my brain, I think it got bruised.

A car you can drive? Excuse me P. O. Wood?

Shouldn’t it be metal? I think it should.

But it couldn’t hurt, and I like the work,

Now I have a car but I’m going berserk.

I have to decide on how to name the bloody thing.

Woodillac? R.M.S. Teak-tanic. The Oax-wing?

Wolf pack

On my first day, I was pretty nervous.

My first day of entering binding service.

I find the location and look around,

When somebody comes to greet this poor, lost clown.

“Welcome to the Wolf Pack,

I’ll show you the ropes.

Hunting with us is a knack,

But I have high hopes.

Our formation has a hole,

Just jump right in.

Our target is a foal,

Rip and tear at its shin.

Followed by communal eating.

Scenery very panoramic.

Then, a feedback meeting

Improving the group dynamic.

Welcome aboard again.

Our motto: Fangs and brain.”

World of dust

Don’t get curious when you’re cleaning.

Hazardous, that, if you get my meaning.

My little brother, he was only eight,

He’s very little, not packing much weight.

On the powerful vacuum so fascinating,

He did some too thorough eye-investigating.

It sucked him right in, with a loud hiss.

When mother came she saw something was amiss.

She looked under the couch and above the refrigerator

She looked high and low, a real investigator.

No sign of little brother, none whatsoever.

A disaster like this, it’s not enough to be clever.

My baby brother now lives among the dust

In a world without a sun. now he must

Find his way out if he is ever able

In the dark, with a stick, a piece of a cable.

Spring fauna

The spring sun now shines all the way down.

I can feel it on my brown arm and my frown.

The night is losing its endless fight,

Time spent awake no longer too tight.

Especially because of the local fauna,

Going crazy in the morning like Madonna.

Screeching and chirping at 5 am,

It’s not like I never want to hear them,

But, as you know, sleep is nice,

And 5-ish hours do not suffice.

So, any birds reading this right now,

Mating calls only after nine would be wow.