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Messages - Andalus

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LIFE / Re: LIFE Demo Release
« on: November 30, 2015, 06:35:13 PM »
I diddeded it!


It was fun to play, if a bit short as yet. Didn't encounter any real bugs, but I do have a little feedback:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Also curious: will species have any impact in the longer game?

You can take your precious curds and whey and stick fish fingers in it for all I care.[/quote]


Say what you like about Russel T Davies: at least Humpty Dumpty died a proper death.

When it happens, I want the final ever episode of Doctor Who to end with "A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down." [rocks fall, everybody dies]

A Game of Colleges: Total War / Re: UNIT PREVIEW II: SCIENCE!
« on: April 10, 2013, 02:49:49 PM »

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: March 06, 2013, 04:32:28 PM »

the children of the swamp know songs
no other dares to utter here
the daughter of the marsh is bold
and strides out where her brothers fear
the mother of the fens is still
and silent where she waiting hides
the father of the bog lies down
and while the time grows dark he bides

to snare a wayless traveller
who finds no trail through fickle ground
with feet that seek a deeper road
and lead no way but ever down

down to the children of the swamp
who tie his feet with playful games
down to the daughter of the marsh
who gleeful calls her brothers' names
down to the mother of the fens
who girds him in a damp disguise
and down to the father of the bog
who clamps dark hands over his cries

and gone is the frightened traveller
whose way is found beneath the ground
with feet that shudder and are still
and silent where he's ever bound

bound by the children of the swamp
who steal his eyes for marbles bright
bound by the daughter of the marsh
laughing while her brothers fight
bound by the mother of the fens
who lays him to a peaceless rest
and bound by the father of the bog
who heaves the breath out of his chest

and found is the swamp-drowned traveller
by none who follow after there
except for those who trail too close
and meet the same fate in this lair

lair of the children of the swamp
daughter of the marsh, and brothers too
the mother of the fens, with open arms
and father of the bog, who waits for you

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: January 24, 2013, 08:14:42 PM »
Min Klatretreet

I sit enthroned at the crown of the tree,
My secret retreat in the canopy,
Seated high above all that I survey;
The strange world below I've climbed to escape.

My trunk leans against the ancient tree's spine,
A high-backed branch of proud Corsican pine.
We rule together, my pine throne and I;
Old bark and young bone in one kingdom allied.

We are one, my tail-bone fused to the bark,
The tail we apes lost in prehistory's dark,
And yet still in the trees we find our peace;
Security here, safe from forest floor beasts.

So this ape sitting here in his old ape tree
Retreats from the world, clinging to his safety.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: January 16, 2013, 04:33:59 PM »

I found my soul
behind my right earhole
and placed it on a flat rock,
and watched it flail,
lifted it by the tail
and beat its head on that rock;
I found a knife,
opened it with a slice
and filleted it on the rock
and then I saw
that what I thought before
was a soul was just a rock

a shimmer in its shape,
shining for the sun
and grinning with a pearly gape.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: January 09, 2013, 04:10:42 PM »
Naked in the thunderstorm,

arms lifted cloudward to draw closer
the falling silver to my fingertips,
muscles frail beneath the roaring sky,
a pale canvas framed in electric exposure,

sears of light across crumbling grey walls,
their shining dust running down my nakedness,
seeking channels through golden forests
of beard and lock and over skeleton hills,

ribs that refuse to shiver in the storm,
as though they ribbed the keel of a dragon
that writhes under the shattering waves,
offered to the whim of Thor and Njord,

battling the tempest on its home seas,
stalwart until the away shore is reached.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Jubal's poems
« on: January 07, 2013, 06:05:25 PM »

Also very much I would recomend the Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.

A thousand times this. Such a breath of fresh air (no pun intended). Just finished reading the sequel, The Wise Man's Fear and very much looking forward to day three.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: November 13, 2012, 04:36:08 PM »
On one level, yes.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: November 12, 2012, 04:31:14 PM »
Don't read this if you just had dinner.


In the misconceived mosaicked chamber
like a side-chapel to decadence,
I vomited out my brains for Old Pliny's ink,
the stench of myself rising to my nostrils
and bone hooks heaving out the rest -
a sneezing mouth to purge the stink
and sweeten the lining of my skull
and stomach. Bowing to decorum,
chest over knees, soul in the sink,
retching out what wretched me was left
before returning to the revel
to pretend I could remember how to think.

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: November 05, 2012, 04:30:40 PM »
Garden Centre Gods


In the tangles of a roman jungle,
wilderness at a turning from the A44,
with pale carven gods arrayed among
creeping vines and flowering flora,
the faun sits alone, trapped in stone,
playing his pipes with a windless tune,
his lips pursed on the note forever.


Great decorated urns give birth to massive palms,
as giants sprung from the wombs of demure goddesses,
whose busts too are standing erect, their dresses
askew, trying to hide a nip-slip behind a fern's tresses.


A lonesome head of Buddha lies on the ground,
an eastern conquest brought west and graven
into this shape to pollute the budding enclave
and entertain the garden's enslaved gods.
Pruned from his body, Siddhartha's smiling head
lies misunderstood, a toe-stubber among the shrubs.


In the field over the next gate,
the dark ghost of Bucephalus
gently trims the weeds and scrub.

Competition Arena / Re: Oulipo - the wonderful O (Cancelled)
« on: October 26, 2012, 09:43:46 PM »
Yeah, I kinda got stuck on mine and didn't have the energy to finish it. I could still post the 300 words I wrote, if you want... then your awesome piece gets the gold it deserves. ;D

Poetry and Artistic Writing / Re: Andalus' poetry
« on: October 22, 2012, 04:30:09 PM »
The Spearman's Vow

A man stood at the crown of a mountain,
Holding an old ash spear in his hand.
He bent the weapon against his knee
And broke it so it would not mend.
Into three shards he snapped the thing
And cursed it with his wind-cut breath:
"Too much life this blade has taken
And sent down to bitter, broken death."

"My warring days are over, and this I vow,
Since I am grey in mane and eye and bone,
This blade shall never draw blood again,
Or where I stand may I turn to stone."
He threw the three pieces from the peak,
And they flew apart and far and wide,
And where each broken fragment landed
Burned like a beacon in his weak eyes.

The base of the spear fell nearest,
Only halfway down the rocky slope.
No further than the border of the trees,
Caught in the root of a knotted oak.
There it stuck fast and fell no more,
As around its place, the forest grew.
And that the broken spear was hidden
In this grove, no man ever knew.

The middle of the shaft fell further,
To rest at the high mountain's feet,
And lay there in the valley's grass
Among flocks of grazing sheep.
The herder soon came by that spot,
Gathering fuel to feed his flame,
And so the ancient ashwood shaft
A draught of softer ash became.

The third part of the broken spear,
That held the battered steel head,
Flew furthest yet and far beyond
Its brothers - on the wind it fled,
And fell at last into the current
Of the valley-carving river's water,
Then carried away downstream to sea
And washed up on the shore there.

Sand-grains of many colours itched
In the edge of still-sharp steel.
A child came dancing by the waves
And found it glinting by his heel.
As innocent fingers reached to grasp
This shining prize, a child's new toy,
Too late rang out a mother's warning;
A cry of pain sprang from the boy.

The stinging blade fell to the sand,
This time the colours only red.
Tears were splashed into the salt,
As mother bound the hand that bled.
And far away, upon a mountain's crown,
There stood a granite pillar all alone,
Where the spear-breaker had made his vow,
A six-foot cairn of forlorn red stone.

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