The Same Characters on the Shelf
International Cryptozoology Museum, Maine
This song came to me while I was listening to Bach’s Vikingur Olafsson’s Goldberg Variations which sounds like a pretentious mouthful. Classically trained, I’ve been playing the violin since the 3rd grade and have been running away from the grandiose facade of my upbringing my entire life—I like being messy and a bit dirty. But I have a great love and respect for classical music having spent hours repeating, parsing and playing sections on the verge of tears. I’ve found listening to classical music and playing violin are the few ways I can process emotions and really let all that energy out. This was written after a night out at the pub.
The Same Characters on the Shelf
By Ahza Rex
Started singing over Bach’s Vikingur Olafsson’s Goldberg Variations bwv988var 21 (3/4?)
(Song Below Poem)
The same characters
on the bookshelf
The archetypes—
as old as time.
These stories—
Written in dusklight.
Bound in shadows.
The return—
Again and again.
The archetypes—
as old as time.
The same characters,
again—
These stories,
Written since time began.
Archetypes—
Pale men, crooked grin,
Always watching.
Here he swoops—
a pale man.
Large frames
On his crooked nose.
As he laughs.
Hair, electrified—
Sensing whispers
in the dead of night.
His claws,
Sharpen bright
against the starry sky.
His cape,
draped across his shoulders…
As he swoops,
Hairs stiffen.
Quick hands,
Claws running
across your shoulders.
How he smiles.
Holding out his hand.
A laugh—
A little giggle… (raise)
Oh how he pierces,
Your gaze.
Uncertain—
you take his hand.
He swoops in—
His mouth across your face.
And how he whispers,
His breath hot against your skin.
“You’re a FUCKIN PUSSY.”
“PUSSY”
he laughs—
In delight.
Now he dances off,
Vodka in hand.
He’ll say later,
He’s just a little tipsy.
Just an imp,
As he dances
In the starry night.
What was that?
You wonder.
Does he see—
Right through me?
Does he know—
How I’m afraid?
Has he seen—
What I’ve tried
so so hard to hide?
Oh—
I how I get lost,
In my—
own
mind.
And his breath,
Still clings to me,
As the dawn,
Arrives.
The same characters,
again—
These stories,
written—
Since time began.
An ever loop,
Will I escape?
Oh when will my
Sisyphus, smile—
Again?
I see her dancing,
Into the twilight,
A gentle petal,
A glowing, delight.
Maybe tomorrow,
I’ll ask her hand,
A gentle dance,
An easy smile.
Maybe tomorrow,
I’ll hold her tight.
Maybe tomorrow,
I’ll present her—
to the moon light.
The same characters,
again—
Waiting to be written.
So for tomorrow,
I’ll write—
So tomorrow,
I’ll write,
Oh yes tomorrow,
I’ll write,
And maybe—
Tomorrow,
I’ll see her dancing,
In the twilight.
———SONG———
My attempt at scansion hahaha
The Same Characters on the Shelf
By Ahza Rex
(Sung in (3/4?))
The same / cha-rac- / ters
on the/ bookshelf
The ar- /che-types—
as old/ as time.
These sto- / ries—writ- / ten in /dusk-light,
Bound in / sha-dows.
The re-/ turn—
a-gain/ and a- / gain.
The ar- / che-types—
as old/ as time.
The same / cha-rac-/ ters a-/gain—
These sto -/ ries writ-/ ten since/ time be -/ gan.
Ar-che -/ types—
Pale men,/ croo-ked /grin,
Al-ways / watch-ing.
Here he swoops—
a pale man.
Large frames on
his croo - ked nose.
As he laughs.
Hair, elec - trified—
Sensing whis - pers
in the dead of night.
His claws,
Sharpen bright
a - gainst the star - ry sky.
His cape
draped a - cross
his shoul - ders…
As he swoops,
Hairs stif - fen.
Quick hands,
Claws— run - ning
a - cross your shoulders.
How he smiles.
Hold - ing out his hand.
A laugh—
A lit - tle giggle… (raise)
Oh how he pier - ces,
You — r g— aze.
Un - certain—
you take his hand.
He swoops in—
His mouth a - cross your face.
And how he whis - pers,
His breath,
hot a-gainst
your skin.
“You’re - a FU - CKIN PUSSY.”
“PUS - SY”
he laughs—
In de - light.
Now he dan - ces off,
Vod - ka in hand.
He’ll say later,
He’s just a little tip - sy.
Just an imp,
As he dan - ces
In the star - ry night.
What was that?
You won - der.
Does he see—
Right through me?
Does he know—
How I’m a - fraid?
Has he seen—
What I’ve tried
so so hard to hide?
Oh—
I how I get lost,
In my—
own
mind.
And his breath,
Still clings to me,
As the dawn,
Arrives.
The same ch - arac - ters,
again—
These stor - ies,
writ - ten—
Since time began.
An ever loop,
Will I e - scape?
Oh when will my
Sisy - phus, smile—
Again- ?
I see her dan - cing,
Into the twilight,
A gentle pe-tal,
A glow-ing, delight.
Maybe tomor-row,
I’ll ask her hand,
A gen-tle dance,
An easy smile.
Maybe tomor-row,
I’ll hold her tight.
Maybe tomor-row,
I’ll pre-sent her—
to the mo-on light.
The same cha-rac-ters,
again—
Wait-ing to be writ-ten.
For for tomor-row,
I’ll write—
Yes, tomor-row,
I’ll write,
Oh yes tomor-row,
I’ll write…
And maybe—
Tomor-row,
I’ll see her danc-ing,
In the twi-light—.
For for tomor-row,
I’ll write—
Yes, tomor-row,
I’ll write,
Oh yes tomor-row,
I’ll write…