Snow Angel

Do you want to be a ghost in the machine?
I'll hide my tail if you show your wings
We are stuck between angels and animals
But there's a spectrum between us

Children in the meadow, making snow angels
Are just amateur artists, crafting portraits of you
Snow angel, fall into my arms
And I'll pretend that I know what to do

Do you want to be a ghost in the machine?
I'll hide my horns if you show your halo
Relax into the tentative euphoria
That'll keep me warm in the winter

Children in the meadow, making snow angels
Are amateur artists, crafting pictures of you
Snow angel, fall in to my arms
And I promise that I'll follow through

Elephant Graveyard

Well it smells like desperation
Another mime trapped inside invisble walls
A reptilian serenade to break down the barricades
Propping up dominoes to watch them fall

Yeah, oh yeah, the penitent criminal can do no wrong
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard, I won't be long

Well I haven't heard any escape plan
The claustrophobia becomes a chore
Animal laughter from mechanical actors
Fortune on his damn quarrel showed like a rebel's whore

And I'm ready...

Yeah, oh yeah, the penitent criminal can do no wrong
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard I won't be long
Yeah, oh yeah, the clocks ticking somebody's song
Yeah, oh yeah, elephant graveyard, I won't belong

Junk Drawer

A lighter, translucent blue, half full of kerosene. It prompted my parents to assume I had developed a drug habit, when in reality it was a result of my brief stint in adolescent pyromania. After I nearly lit my room ablaze while setting bank statements on fire, I realized that I wasn't really cut out for the casual creation of conflagrations.

Three balls and a CD-Rom labelled Juggling 101. This has been in my junk drawer for the better part of six years. It was a Christmas gift that I had at first attempted to use, then upon recognizing my apalling lack of dexterity, abandoned. I still feel guilty about never really pursuing that skill set, and to this day, I can't juggle to save my life.

Small fan, square shaped, broken. Bequeathed to me during a particularly humid summer, the fan quickly proved to be delapidated, with the wire apparently connected by wax and duct tape. In its more finicky moods, it required more effort than the fan could compensate for just to generate a soft breeze. As the weather grew cooler, the fan entered my junk drawer and hasn't left since.

iPod box containing the following: An assurance that I'll only be fifteen once, a shark tooth, what I think are a Mongolian yen and two German francs, a silver chain, a rechargable battery that later turned out not to be rechargable, and eight flat bolts, of whose origins I am unaware.

Japanese pronunciation guide: I had bought this several months prior to my visit to Japan, but despite the advance oppurtunity for linguistic study, my laziness prevented anything of value from being learned. All I can recall now is the phrase "Toki doki mashurumus oyarimas" which translates roughly to "I smoke mushrooms occassionally." For some reason, when I was ten I thought that this was the pinnacle of comedy, and I'm still strangely amused by the recitation of that phrase.

The Science of Harry Potter: An unsolicited addition to my library, this was given to me by my godmother for my birthday. I remember the awkwardness resulting from my assertion that the present could not be a book due to its rounded edges, something I was happy about as at the time I was of the opinion that they made for bad gifts. I was forced into a Reaganesque shift in policy when I realized that it was indeed a book. A book in which the author claims that teleportation is possible with a purple-haired clone, and that the fictitious animals of Harry Potter are in fact dinosaurs. I don't think I need to explain why this is in my junk drawer...

There are other things, other random objects of charming uselessness, collectively forming a delegation of junk. Every one of these things has a story. That's why they're still in my junk drawer.

The Corporation #2: Breakneck

My name is G.L. Devlin. While I delight in telling people my initials stand for greased lighning, the unfortunate reality is that it stands for Gerard Lionel. I was disappointed when I found out too. I was born immediately outside the quarantine zone of the Former British Empire, in a derelict Irish shantytown. The streets were a cobwebbed tapestry of ashphalt, and the alleys were sepulchral veins which led directly to the heart of the city. It was there that I practiced my craft. My parents, Sean and Veronique were thieves by trade, and I was inducted into this criminal lifestyle at the tender age of eight. I was immediately adept at pickpocketing, and quickly mastered major cons. I would pretend to be an orphan from the infected zone, garnering sympathy from the blissfully ignorant affluent. While this was a simple grift, I took pride in it. It was when I was thirteen that my...abilities first manifested. At this point I had graduated to minor bank robbery, and during the comission of just such an act, my getaway left me three miles inside the Empire. I was bewildered by my surroundings, unsure of how I had come to them, but I knew that it was no place to be. The plaguehounds were abound, and their eyes glowed a ferocious red in the perpetual night. I began to run in terror, and within seconds, I was back at the bank. Unfortunately for me, so were ten armed guards, anxiously anticipating my return. Legs aching brutally, I wearily resigned myself to police custody. It was at the holding cell that I was approached by the Corporation. One of their representatives spoke to me about the potential benefits of membership; wealth, understaning of my powers and general infamy were discussed. I concede that I was unhealthily narcissicistic at that age. Actually...I still am. When the discussion was concluded, I thought nothing of my parents. After all, they had raised me to be a sociopath, and in that respect, they were successful parents. That day marked the first in the Corporation's employ. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They christened me Breakneck.

She

She is a wildflower, blooming from a landmine
A Summer night on the precipice of mankind
Words are on my tongue, taken captive by my cowardice
Her radiance glows, while my inaction leaves me powerless

She is the guarded hope, that fleeting one percent
I'm the other ninety-nine, that gnawing doubt is subsequent
The ticking seconds are a treasure to be taken granted
The tides have turned and now the crashing waves have left me stranded

She is the Autumn moon, there is fire in her eyes
And to tell the truth, I'm just a liar in disguise
She is a solar flare, when I warrant half a glance
The rest is an eclipse, and I'd tell her if I had the chance

The Night

Panorama of the darkened skyline
Lit by the gentle radiance of the moon
Stars glint mischievously, perforating the blank obsidian of the night
Massed, as if for a revolution

Rude Awakenings

Zatarro the Magnificent was monumentally inebriated. Indubitably intoxicated. In other words, he was undeniably drunk. He lay on a dusty calico tapestry, unsure of his surroundings. He was resplendent in a tattered satin waistcoat, colored alternately in the vibrant scarlet of an eclipsed moon and the dark ebony of a summer midnight. The hues were, however, dimmed by a light coating of faintly aromatic ash. As the gaunt magician struggled to grasp the faint stream of consciousness whirling in his mind, he merely collapsed into a deep slumber.

Upon a rude awakening prompted by the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight through grimy windows, the illusionist grew increasingly concerned; the room he had woken in was not his own. The room was defined by its antediluvian tone, harbouring floral wallpaper, brass ornaments and portraits of Queen Victoria. His attempts to move were futile, reminiscent of a broken marionette, with its invisible puppeteer cursing at its tangled strings. Managing to stand, he was soon struck by the sheer gravity of his predicament.

"Oh God." he moaned, massaging his temples frantically. A look out the sooty windows revealed horse-drawn carriages cantering over cobblestones under the tangerine glow of gaslights. "FUCK!" he bellowed in enraged dismay. The walls, resplendent in their floral embellishment and dead monarchy trembled at the outburst. Exiting the room, he descended a flight of rickety wooden stairs, coming to an ornate door. He stumbled into the night, breaking free from the brick facade of the tenement he had woken in. He mentally retraced a series of events in his mind with the fervent conviction of a paranoid schizophrenic.

Memories of a disastrous performance at a senior's centre in which a keen-eyed octogenarian had exposed the fraudulence of his craft flooded his mind. So too did memories of his subsequent tour of various liquor stores. When he had returned to his apartment, it was in a state of liquid determination. He had found a tome, bound in black leather, stamped in fool's gold. This book had been abandoned since his ill-fated dabblings in "real" magic, but now he dusted its wrinkled cover, opened it, and begun to drunkenly leap over the hurdles of its ornate scripture.

With the pagan sacrifice of his sobriety and a copious ammount of burnt rosemary, he had miraculously summoned a Daemon Prince of the Third Realm. With slurred incantations, he bade the demon grant him legitimate magical powers, no, profound mystical abilities. He should have known better; demons are not to be trusted, forcefully subjugated, or fucked with in any other manner. So, when he woke to an evaporating sense of satisfaction and the sound of hooves striking stone, he was not surprised. He was merely confused, and now, even this was beginning to make sense.

In this day, made archaic within even a century, the mere contents of his pockets were Godly. The technological contraptions housed within the confines of his dapper regalia would outshine any contemporary illusionist. There was nothing he couldn't do. Grinning now, manically, previous comparisons of marionette and schizophrenic still wholly applicable, he walked to a nearby corner. It was occupied by a pale lady, who adorned a pale corset, altogether ghostly in the pale moonlight. "Evening ma'am." said Jack Zatarro, lascivious grin lurking at the furled corners of his mouth. She only smiled back...