The L-Space Web: Filks


From: anon

Plots, uncompleted, rob me of my sleep:
Plots, endless plots, within my mind are teeming:
Plots, feather-light, from drowning temples creep,
And bear my soul to Osric while I'm dreaming!

When you're lying in bed with a fire in your head, and the story's momentum is gathering,
I suppose you should try to make notes on the fly, even though you may simply be blathering,
For the words are elusive and naught is conclusive -- your thoughts have quicksilver velocity
And they scatter and go in the gathering glow of your parasupernal verbosity.

So you write on the sheet and the words fall like sleet on a cold rainy morning in Lancre,
While the moon is on high making ghosts in the sky which is growing continually danker.
And you blink weary eyes while the dialogue flies as another great epic is written,
Then your hands start to cramp and feel clammy and damp and you long for some ice in a mitten.

Next your consciousness fades, and you're haunted by shades of a Thing from the Dungeon Dimensions
With a face like a weevil but slightly more evil and crusted with scaly extensions.
So the dream gathers force and heads off on a course to the wonders of infinite distance,
Showing scenes from a world where a drama unfurled known to some as the Polish resistance.

As the scenes flicker by in a lunatic sky you forget Borgle's soups, stews and gumbos,
For you can't even think for the sound (and the stink) of a thousand incontinent Jumbos!
Then you spy in the dark a disconsolate shark swimming slowly around in the water
(He's had nothing to eat but a bit of cold meat since he finished the fisherman's daughter)

As you flee in the gloom from selachian doom and your heart starts to go through its paces,
Then you're suddenly stood on a bent piece of wood which is part of the chariot races.
The sound of their neighing combines with the swaying and seasickness rises internally,
So the world starts to spin, and you realise you're in a strange boat that is sailing eternally

With a skeletal crew grinning wildly at you and a albatross hung on the Mariner;
And you try to break free, but the nightmare with glee drags you off to a place even barrener,
Where you stand on the sand of a land that is bland and the Things there are swarming and heaving
Round the hole you just dug in the tapestry rug of Reality, just by Believing.

Then you're back in the glory of planning your story and Ankh-Morpork blazes around you,
For you cannot control your convivial soul when the Wild Idea has found you.
And all you can hear is the resonant cheer as the audience stamp in the Odium
While the fireworks rising spell out advertising that places your name on the podium

As the Man with the Vision who conquered derision to write "Blown Away" and be lauded.
Then just as the crowd cry your title aloud -- you awake with sheets rumpled and corded --

And you scribble it down, with a terrified frown,
for you fear that your dream wasn't all it might seem,
and though bursting with pride, still you're screaming inside,
for it might all be true, (or is it just you);
but the plot is fantastic, the scenes orgiastic --
he show Must Go On, time for doubt is long gone,
so the click will be made, and then shown and displayed
in the city where legends are dawning;

But you long for the day when you just had a tray
and sold stuff inna bun -- hell, it used to be fun! --
and you wonder just *what* you've been spawning!


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