the centre cannot hold

  • the falcon: *cannot hear the falconer*
  • things: *fall apart*
  • the centre: *cannot hold*
  • mere anarchy: *is loosed upon the world*
  • the blood-dimmed tide: *is loosed*
  • the ceremony of innocence: *is drowned*
  • the best: *lack all conviction*
  • the worst: *are full of passionate intensity*
  • some revelation: *is at hand*
  • the second coming: *is at hand*
Five Last Lines Meme

I was tagged by @annaofaza, thank you! <3

Cite the final line of five of your fics - your favourites or the most recent ones. Tag five writers who should do this next.

So I’m choosing 5 of my favorites. :-)


And Then One Fine Morning

Harry smiles. “Welcome to Kingsman, Eggsy.”

All the Wonders That Remain

“Oi.” Eggsy shies away. “I ain’t brushed my teeth yet, and we had all that garlic at dinner.”

Harry could care less about that, but he surrenders anyway. “All right,” he says.

Eggsy heads for the bathroom. “I’ll be right out,” he says.

Harry starts to turn down the bed. “Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

the centre cannot hold

When he wakes, Eggsy is still lying next to him, sleeping peacefully. Harry gazes at him for a long moment as he slowly assembles the pertinent facts.

It’s Tuesday. It’s raining. And today is the first day of the rest of his life with Eggsy Unwin.

Once Upon a Different Lifetime

“Just don’t expect me to wear no apron,” Eggsy says. “I got a reputation to maintain, and all.”

Harry chuckles. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He heads for the refrigerator, but as he reaches the place where Eggsy stands, he slows down and gives Eggsy a kiss before moving on.

Yeah, Eggsy thinks. This is the life for him.

And All the Days to Come

With a smile, Harry closes his eyes again. He turns his head so he can rest his cheek on the softness of Eggsy’s hair. This is what he was missing all those weeks when they slept on opposite sides of the bed, when his own mind came between them and kept them apart.

He knows he can never do without it again.

Best of all, he knows he’ll never have to.


Tagging: @listentotheshityousay @venvephe @deepdarkwaters @onemuseleft @sineala @alchemyalice @anarchycox and anyone else who wants to play

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
   The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
   Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
   Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
   The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
   The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
   The best lack all conviction, while the worst
   Are full of passionate intensity.

   Surely some revelation is at hand;
   Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
   The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
   When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
   Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
   A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
   A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
   Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
   Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

   The darkness drops again but now I know
   That twenty centuries of stony sleep
   Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
   And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
   Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

—  The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats
Exclusive Mondale Poem

New poem written only and exclusively by me (great lord Vice-President Walter Mondale)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats

The Second Coming - WB Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.  
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out  
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert  
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,  
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,  
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it  
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.  
The darkness drops again; but now I know  
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;


The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity

—  W.B. Yeats
wastrel analyses, ep i

i’m going to be analyzing a bunch of wastrel lines and examining how they fit into the world of we happy few! here’s the first example: “things fall apart; the center cannot hold, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned” as well as “what rough beast slouches towards the house of bread?”

analysis under the cut for length!

Keep reading

a 2nd era tribunal summit
  • vivec: aurbis is a wheel
  • sotha sil: you’re wrong. aurbis is a cog
  • almalexia: uh
  • vivec: you’re wrong. aurbis is a wheel, the eight known worlds are its spokes and the sixteen realms of oblivion the spaces in between, and lorkhan is the centre that cannot hold
  • sotha si: no, youre wrong, the known worlds and oblivion are part of the body, and the centre that cannot hold is simply the hole through which an axle is threaded
  • almalexia: guys i think–
  • vivec: a cog needs to be interlocked with other things to fulfil its purpose, but aurbis is the whole! by naming aurbis a cog you suggest that its purpose is one that cannot be fulfiled, when the opposite is undeniably true!
  • sotha sil: your field of vision is too narrow. aurbis is interlocked with the kalpa before and the kalpa behind, they spin as cogs spin. aurbis is a cog.
  • almalexia: so you both recognize that akavir is invading us and we gotta–
  • vivec: but that suggests the kalpa before and the kalpa behind are in the same shape as aurbis! and you don’t account for the towers, where do the towers fit? only a faulty cog has protrusions but the towers are essential!!!
  • sotha sil: cogs may come in more shape than one and operate in more dimension than one. you think of a cog as a two-dimensional thing, but the truth is anything but that. your ignorance betrays you here, brother-sister. aurbis is a cog.
  • almalexia: i. ok. you know what, forget it, i’m just gonna go summon wulfharth, skyrim can deal with this, i give up

Happiest of New Years!

Tomorrow begins year LII, Anno Satanas.

This past year has been extraordinary for the vibrant members who manifest the Church of Satan. With the release of significant books, stimulating podcasts, intriguing music, evocative literature, vivid art, potent performances and other acts of creative brilliance, we can readily view the reality of Satanism as it exists in this 21st Century.

Our Walpurgisnacht Conclave brought an international gathering to the Hudson Valley, celebrating the vitality of the 50 year existence of our organization. Here, inspirational presentations by productive, talented and world-shaking individuals demonstrated to their peers that the philosophy of Satanism is one that is timely, effective and eminently practical for moving the world according to their wills, their essential tool towards continually attaining deep satisfaction. They have heeded Irish poet John Anster’s freely translated lines from Goethe’s FAUST:

Seize this very minute. What you can do, or dream you can, begin it—boldness has genius, power, and magic in it!

Only engage, and then the mind grows heated—begin it, and the work will be completed!

And a fitting coda to this celebratory year came with the exhibition, performances, book and CD releases of THE DEVILS REIGN: PSYCHEDELIC BLASPHEMY, signifying the use by intrepid individuals of the ongoing energy generated by a half century of Satanism in action.

While our well-earned festivities were inwardly focussed, we diabolists are vigilant of the context we inhabit, observing the machinations of society with ardent attention. We find that W. B. Yeats prophetic verses again resonate as we survey this passing year, a time fraught with despair wrought by ongoing terrorism, economic privations, widespread irrationalism and totalitarian upsurges:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.

And yet, we Satanists take this as a challenge. We understand our lives are limited and thus eminently precious to us. We do not stand idly by in witness, but move the world from the pivot-point that is the seat of our power: our own individual sovereign consciousnesses. By understanding ourselves, our strengths and weakness, and setting daunting, yet achievable, ends, the means we have at hand to effectuate our visions are in self-transformation. Our essential individual evolution incarnates our ambitions, and thus we alter our own worlds and in that process enhance those fortunate enough to be our comrades, allies and friends. Thus the course of the world-at-large may be directed by those exemplars who are not caught in the tides of herd-think, but shatter such strictures with audacious projections then wrestled into existence. I am proud of the diverse visionaries who have cast their lot as Citizens of our Infernal Empire, for your élan is energizing to myself and all who inhabit this Devil’s fane.

So, from our lair in the Haunted Hudson Valley to all of yours, High Priestess Nadramia and I offer our blessings to you admirable individuals who enkindle our excitement!

As is our tradition, we raise our glasses to our kind—Satanists, fellow secularists, advocates of the best qualities of our species—marking the dawn of a New Year of health and prosperity to be filled with a surfeit of delight:



“Here’s to champagne for our real friends, and real pain for our sham friends!”



Joy to the flesh—forever!



Shemhamforash! Hail Satan!



—Magus Peter H. Gilmore

2

Turning and turning in the widening gyre. The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned.The best lack all conviction, while the worst. Are full of passionate intensity.

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.”

           (From Yeats “The Second Coming”)

****************************************************************************************************

I’m on a beach, or I think it’s a beach.  I’m lying on sand at least.  I can see the stars from here, but they look wrong, like they’re in the wrong place or someone moved them around or something, but that’s ridiculous.

This sand is nice.  It’s so soft and… sandy.  

I really need this sand right now.  My whole body hurts, like I just fought a war all by myself.  Well, not entirely by myself, but without much help. The point is I ache all over.  You know how, when you have that overwhelming kind of hurt, it sort of fades like the tide going out?  

Speaking of hurt, did I lose anything?  Staff?  Still here. Sword?  Always.  Other sword? That too.  Shield?  ….Shield? Oh dear, I’ve lost my shield.

Ring?  Do I still have the ring?

Yes, at least I still have that…

I must be on a beach.  I hear waves.  

Of course it would be a beach,

why would it be anything different after all this time? Once, a very long time ago a friend and I built a sandcastle on a beach.  I forget why. I think someone told us to, an adult probably.  We made it as perfect as we could with strong walls and tall towers.  It went really well until the tide came in.  The walls melted and towers fell to the gentle persistence of the tide.  Sand doesn’t hold up well to the ocean, but that didn’t stop us.  As soon as the water went away we rebuilt.  The walls were muddier, but we still rebuilt the castle for the adults.  That went on for a long time.  We’d build the castle, the tide would come in, and we’d rebuild it again.  It went on like a gyre for a very long time.

I think I’ll stay here for a while.  What’s the worst that could happen?  It can’t be worse than what I’ve been through.  The ding of blade against blade, the heat of the flame, the shattering of white scales… no, nothing on this beach can bother me.

And where else would I even go?  Where would I even go?  I can’t go home.  I’ll just have to wait here for something to happen.

 

Ohhh… of course…

…the stars…

 

I wonder who I’ll meet here.  I wonder what kind of people they are.  Do they draw the curtains over the setting sun?  Do they wash their dishes and linens?  Do they take their lover’s hand and descend the stair?  Do they sing to each other

under the moon,

or the sun,

or at all?

Do they curse in day, or in candlelight?  Do they kindle their flames?  Do they embrace each other with ice cold knives, or with warmth and a drink?  What will they think of me?

But how could I blame them for whatever, or whoever they are here?  

After all, the stars aren’t in the wrong place.  

I am.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
   The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
   Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
   Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
   The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
   The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
   The best lack all conviction, while the worst
   Are full of passionate intensity.
—  Yeats

I’ve been trying to work out what fascinates me so much about the Silver/Flint relationship and why, despite Silver being the one who actually gives a jackshit about the men of their crew, I still always fall into caring more about Flint

and I think it’s because in a story about the power of stories Flint is the deconstruction of a villain and Silver is the construction of one

Keep reading

the centre cannot hold

requested by anonymous

au in which kane hurts philip during the finale

aka little different set up than the climax scene but its fic so i can do what i want ay


Lukas’ eyes are sending the message to his brain. He can see the spot of blood blooming. His ears are, too. The shot is still ringing in his head, banging against his skull. His knees are saying, we hurt we hurt we hurt where they’re digging into the rocks.

He wants to ignore the messages. He needs to ignore them.

He can’t.

Philip was shot. Shot, as in with a gun. A bullet from a gun.

The world is black and white and the only color is the red seeping into the front of Philip’s gray shirt. Kane is talking, saying something, but Lukas can’t hear him anymore.

He needs to get to him. He needs to do something.

He shoves himself to his feet, letting a cry of pain as the stitches in his side split apart. The noise pulls Kane’s attention back to him, and he turns, finger slipping over the trigger. He lifts the gun, but Lukas doesn’t falter.

He doesn’t care about the gun. He cares about Philip. Philip, dying, his blood painting the gravel red.

Keep reading

Dominic West reads
The Second Coming
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

It Keeps Me Awake - Mabill Oneshot

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
-W.B. Yeats 

Hey! This is my contribution to day four of Mabill week. The prompt was ‘other au’s’, so I went with a pirate AU.

Summary: She never dreamed she would be taken from her home, that things change so rapidly. One moment she’s walking through town, making jokes, the next she’s waking in bed, and the world’s on fire.

Rating: Teen (Warning, implied non-con, no details just implied.)

Keep reading

Peregrine Falcon–The Second Coming, Kachemak Bay, Homer, Alaska, July 22. 2016

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned. (William Butler Yeats)