Morrissey-themes essays/poems/lists/anything creative 300-1000 words

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

This thread is for creative Morrissey fandom stuff. There is a similar thread in the pigsty for you to voice your disquiet at those of us who want to be creative or to express our love or his work in a different way.

It is here http://forums.morrissey-solo.com/showthread.php?t=106155

So if you have any 'witty' retorts to make or unkind things to write, please put them over there rather than on this thread, which I hope will become something quite pretty. Thank you to the wonderful CrystalGeezer who set the ball rolling with the piece i'll copy and paste onto this thread in two moments.

This thread is for anything creative reflecting your love or other feelings for Morrissey and feedback on the pieces people post. Thanks for your consideration.

 

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

Re: Morrissey-themes essays/poems/lists/anything creative 300-1000 words. Post here.

By crystalgeezer - copied and pasted from the ruined thread in the pigsty, here:
http://forums.morrissey-solo.com/showthread.php?t=106155&page=3

In 1989 I was a freshman in High School. A particularly awkward one who preferred the outdoors and my imaginary friends to the social pressures of regimented class, but I made due. I was a fourth chair clarinetist in the marching band and one day a girl named Wendy placed a pair of walkman headphones on my head and said “Listen to this.” It was Panic by The Smiths. I was immediately drawn to the voice, sang the chorus all day for probably a week, asked her to borrow the tape, “No way, go get your own.” So I did. We lived in a rural community and I was bussed to school so had to wait until the weekend to go on an outing with my older sister who understood the NEED to buy something. I had a job at the time so a little spending money, she drove me to The Wherehouse where I bought Louder Than Bombs. It literally changed my life, the music, the pain in the voice, the words of a man looking for something that he was having trouble defining moved me. I listened to him constantly, ended up buying more tapes for my walkman, switched from classical music to this station called KROQ because I heard from a friend when I asked why nobody talked of this man with one name was told maybe I could hear his stuff on that station. In a way, Morrissey opened me up to Rock and Roll, but it was long bus rides back and forth to school everyday as the grassy hills rolled past the window, absorbing his pain, hearing his humor, puzzled by his wordplay that transfixed me for life. These words represent the beginning of my love for Morrissey which has colorfully, (some would say tragically,) grown into a symbolic pairing of ginormous proportions that would require a zillion words to describe, but my love of Morrissey was born on the bus rides to school and will last with me until the day I die.

340 words

 

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

Re: Morrissey-themes essays/poems/lists/anything creative 300-1000 words. Post here.

Feedback on above piece posted by UnderTheFloorboards:

Quote:
Originally Posted by CrystalGeezer
"It literally changed my life, the music, the pain in the voice, the words of a man looking for something that he was having trouble defining moved me."

That's so lovely...and true.

 

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

My sixth-form tribute to 'Alsatian Cousin' on YouTube

I'm afraid I'm incapable of such ravishing honesty, so instead I've scribbled down a brief piece explaining how I felt watching the video of 'Alsatian Cousin' at Hammersmith in 1991 on youtube on Christmas evening. I will post a few more things but I loved it so much, I had to share it with you all.
Here's the link to the video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuVdXIkr5oo

And here's my little thing that's neither poem nor prose nor great:

"Were you and he Lovers?"

Malevolent intent signalled. Morbid coils of Guitar scratch my spirit with fingernails. The half-light collides with limelight and creates new shades of 'intoxicating.' You stalked the stage like a predator in a silky blue shirt.

"Leather elbows on a tweed coat - Oh - is that the best you can do?"

Drums pulsate. Bass laps at the ear drums. Circular, ever-rising melodies drive municipal imaginings and ersatz affections into my empty, craving heart. Forecourts, leather elbows and desks. You live and breathe every moment.

"A note upon his desk
"P.S. Bring Me Home And Have Me!"

From a distance, the machine grinds slowly on. You take a step back and, with a quick brush of the short back-and-sides, you launch into song: and suddenly there is, for a brief moment, true meaning. The sound of my best friend, my father and my lover. My mother too.

"But on the desk is where I want you!"

The heat of bodies too numerous to count, swaying, clattering, on tip-toes and on heels. Confused and carried: sinking into the song. A jet of hot breath upon my shoulder and an uneasy exchange. I sing a couple of words and simply stare.

"On a groundsheet
Under canvas
With your tent-flap
open wide"

The angle of the microphone stand etches its silhouette somewhere in my brain like the flash of an exploding bomb. Half-remembered and vividly recalled images come immediately to mind: kissing under the iron bridge, a chair on the pavement, pretty, petty thieves. It all makes sense but only for two minutes and nineteen seconds.

"On a forecourt
On a Friday
Passing my way
Oh..."

Always passing. Always passing. Love blossoms and is just as quickly severed. The voice that has never felt peace pacifies; the man who is never touched caresses us; a voice bereft of that thing we all desire so deep and true understands. Whether true or imagined, we hold it dear and we cling to it.

"So I ask (even though I know):
Were you and he lovers?"

Lights dance upon skin like passing cars or flickering 1930s film reels projected onto pale skin. Drained colours of purple, blue and blueish white. You mock and you scowl and - for a brief moment - you reach out towards us. A hand touches yours but it isn't mine. Stuttering guitars find their droning voice and you ask (even though you know), "Were you and he lovers?"

 

[troubleluvsme]

I predict an early death for this thread.
just sayin'

 

[Girl-with-the-Thorn]

Re: Morrissey-themes essays/poems/lists/anything creative 300-1000 words. Post here.

I'm afraid I'm incapable of such ravishing honesty, so instead I've scribbled down a brief piece explaining how I felt watching the video of 'Alsatian Cousin' at Hammersmith in 1991 on youtube on Christmas evening. I will post a few more things but I loved it so much, I had to share it with you all.
Here's the link to the video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuVdXIkr5oo

And here's my little thing that's neither poem nor prose nor great:

"Were you and he Lovers?"

Malevolent intent signalled. Morbid coils of Guitar scratch my spirit with fingernails. The half-light collides with limelight and creates new shades of 'intoxicating.' You stalked the stage like a predator in a silky blue shirt.

"Leather elbows on a tweed coat - Oh - is that the best you can do?"

Drums pulsate. Bass laps at the ear drums. Circular, ever-rising melodies drive municipal imaginings and ersatz affections into my empty, craving heart. Forecourts, leather elbows and desks. You live and breathe every moment.

"A note upon his desk
"P.S. Bring Me Home And Have Me!"

From a distance, the machine grinds slowly on. You take a step back and, with a quick brush of the short back-and-sides, you launch into song: and suddenly there is, for a brief moment, true meaning. The sound of my best friend, my father and my lover. My mother too.

"But on the desk is where I want you!"

The heat of bodies too numerous to count, swaying, clattering, on tip-toes and on heels. Confused and carried: sinking into the song. A jet of hot breath upon my shoulder and an uneasy exchange. I sing a couple of words and simply stare.

"On a groundsheet
Under canvas
With your tent-flap
open wide"

The angle of the microphone stand etches its silhouette somewhere in my brain like the flash of an exploding bomb. Half-remembered and vividly recalled images come immediately to mind: kissing under the iron bridge, a chair on the pavement, pretty, petty thieves. It all makes sense but only for two minutes and nineteen seconds.

"On a forecourt
On a Friday
Passing my way
Oh..."

Always passing. Always passing. Love blossoms and is just as quickly severed. The voice that has never felt peace pacifies; the man who is never touched caresses us; a voice bereft of that thing we all desire so deep and true understands. Whether true or imagined, we hold it dear and we cling to it.

"So I ask (even though I know):
Were you and he lovers?"

Lights dance upon skin like passing cars or flickering 1930s film reels projected onto pale skin. Drained colours of purple, blue and blueish white. You mock and you scowl and - for a brief moment - you reach out towards us. A hand touches yours but it isn't mine. Stuttering guitars find their droning voice and you ask (even though you know), "Were you and he lovers?"

I have to say, I cried a little. Really well written.

 

[underthefloorboards]

' "Were you and he Lovers?"

Malevolent intent signalled. Morbid coils of Guitar scratch my spirit with fingernails. The half-light collides with limelight and creates new shades of 'intoxicating.' You stalked the stage like a predator in a silky blue shirt. '

Amazing!

 

[CrystalGeezer]

Wow, that's beautiful.

 

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

My sleeve-art for 'Mama.'

Here's some sleeve-art for my favourite song from 'Refusal,' crafted by my own fair hands. First the front shot and second the flip-side.

 

[underthefloorboards]

Re: My sleeve-art for 'Mama.'

Here's some sleeve-art for my favourite song from 'Refusal,' crafted by my own fair hands.

I like it. OMG you should TOTALLI post it in the frink thread (as if you weren't planning to already...)

Does it make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside to be playing nice now?

 

[bailiffwithbadbreath]

Re: My sleeve-art for 'Mama.'

I like it. OMG you should TOTALLI post it in the frink thread (as if you weren't planning to already...)

Does it make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside to be playing nice now?

Do you mind? This thread is dedicated to high art.

 

[underthefloorboards]

Re: My sleeve-art for 'Mama.'

Do you mind? This thread is dedicated to high art.

Pretentious swine.

 

[Stephen]

Re: My sleeve-art for 'Mama.'

If it wasn't for Morrissey I would be either happy or dead.

(But I am so happy now!??!)