travis-frank
Daejeon, South Korea
My name is Travis Frank and I am an English teacher from South Africa. I currently live in South Korea and I enjoy writing poetry, short stories, novellas, memoirs, diaries and journals. I also love reading, skateboarding, photography, traveling, and hanging out with friends.
“What is he doing here?” was the first thing I heard
Upon entering John Lennon’s home once more,
Deciding in the end to pitch for the party,
Sleepers still being repaired and no trains running still.
The challenge came from Wendy the Witch,
Ex-recipient of roses,
Now thorny-tongued
And egged on by Lennon’s kid, the sneering host.
My bruised ego now vanishing the gift of speech,
Jane Seymour arrived with her medicine bag,
Taking me out under the dark, solitary tree
To take in some air and shop for stars.
“I wouldn’t worry about them much.
Their children will suffer for their occupancy of the womb of death.
You don’t have to, though – get out while you still can.
Now, open wide.” I felt better already.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
June was upon us once again,
Signaling the approaching low roar
Of vrooming vans coming to set up apparatuses
Designed solely to lift the cracks of
Dismembered and swollen youth,
Replacing the wear and tear with three days of lekker bliss.
I never missed a day.
On Friday, I saw the remnants of the monster’s mangled victim –
A patron of the Terminator was hurled high into the grapefruit sky,
The pink and orange hurl telling a tale
Of after-lunch airborne woe and chemistry.
Hell, man! – what did you eat? Gross.
Next day I was shipped out to Vietnam,
Where I saw brother consumer brother
In a wave of splashing paintballs
Whilst I pondered what to engrave on the tombstones.
Poor, artless souls –
Why not settle scores on the dartboard and win a teddy bear?
Fair’s final day dawned.
I rode, roamed and remembered
Above all else what matters most –
Rides come and go,
But carnival candy floss from foreign fields
Comes but once a year.
I smacked the beautifully basted schwarma first before picking season.
Oh, the joy!
Pink and white swabs turned into sweet acid
On my wet tongue which begged for more and more
Sugared garments
As I suddenly realised I needed new uniforms for next term.
Take me with you, cotton candy – I can’t stay here.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
Along came twelve.
Most girls by then were well on their way to being women.
Greg and I took a different route,
Sharpening the first sparks and flints of manhood into something beastly
Only to be shared secretly between us.
He would come to the house every now and then,
Cheery Goodie dropping him off in her blue and VW Golf
And wishing us a good afternoon, carefully reminding in parting:
“Be good. Play nicely.”
I tried to – Greg had other plans.
With lunch done and SABC 2 re-runs boring us to another life,
We went to my room.
“We’re going to play a game,” the cutting voice told me.
“We’ll take turns – I’ll punch you, you then me,
But no happy family – winner takes glory.” I lost.
Adding proverbial insult to injury,
Lennon’s kin summoned me to the bathroom,
Myself being the esteemed guest to a ***** hair bonfire
Followed by a hard-on measurement contest.
Hugh Hefner outinched me on my own turf.
Who knows what you’re up to now, *******
Last I heard, you went off to Rhodes
And got yourself an Honours degree in Finance and Economics.
Your marks and career prospects probably outshone mine –
Triple victory. But you didn’t have to be a **** about it.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Three lay fast asleep
Thirteen levels floating above
The surface where sorrowful screams were
Drowned out by wanton festivity,
Drunken ****** burning wet flames.
Numbered amongst the dormant,
I licked the thick, dark liquorice of night,
Summoning the sweet, milked serenity
That peels the stretched skin of insomnia.
Two fish reminisced of home islands.
Licquorice ice blocks now inked out into the milk glass,
Passage into the lush land
Of the half-dead was now made.
Over the heavenly white nimbus mass
Flew in the Ebony Queen in her floral pinafore.
Slight, steady slips of worn garments
Produced a passport to mocha *******
Perky and round as Brazil nuts,
Prodding and rubbing against banana nether,
A servile *** now grasped by curious hands.
The sting of liquorish now lifted,
I peered under the sheets,
Oblivious and curious as to how the milk
Spilled all over my lap.
What is this strange tingling burn?
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
Sifting through the mangled mundaneness
Of routine and pitiful patterns,
I sought to retain only a divine diversion
To mark the end of a day
Marred by the devoid bleakness of black and white.
In a silent, sun-lit room,
Canvasses monitored the seismic activity
Of boiling multi-colour hot springs of paint
Neatly circled across a white rectangular mountain plain,
Inviting the weary of foot and heart to bathe in its magic mud.
Blue button shirts now rapidly rent
And grey shorts peeled with impatience,
Leaping, I laughed,
Splashing into the mirth of self-expression’s liberty,
Cindering all thoughts of menials awaiting me at the mountain’s foot.
No towel in sight –
Only a pan of brackish water and a protruded paintbrush.
Clenched with a dripping crimson hand, the brush met the canvas
Like a tangoist, the paint nearly scalding the board.
Hopping from pool to pool, tango practice concluded with the abstract.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
Stretched out on the wedged wall
Of derailment and debris,
We saw the dull bell
Extend its pendant arms,
Lifting a beckoning finger to finish food and lengthen lines.
Parting ways with unfinished and sandwiched beans,
I rose, packed, walked.
In a spattering flutter
Like a mercenary helicopter,
Larry greeted me, flashing his wings’ grotesque geography.
“Long time,” his crisp, short introduction
Gnawed. Knowest thee I? – Methinks not.
“Au contraire, frère,” dismissed ***** Larry.
“The siren of your soul seeks my submission still
Unto your need to conquer me – the burning oil of your will.”
The Chronos crawl of the gargoyle giant unearthed me
In trespassing onto my once fertile fields of courage,
Making the **** of my ripened harvest with chomping company.
Mouth full of green beans, he warned, “Conquer me –
Or we’ll devour the frozen fields of your future.”
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Trying to fit into their ways in answer
To the imploding impulses that daily
That daily scatter and course violently through my veins
Like rats on a riotous rampage,
I revolted against the raging tide separating me from romance.
Armed only with an obstinate oar,
I waded and spun in absent, bereft waters,
Scrolling loveless letters lost in illusion,
Fondling friends and family like a fiery foe,
Offering only cheap chocolates as comforting condolences.
Riddled with rejection,
Two testing alternatives availed:
Find refuge in the land of the plutonic
Or challenge death alone on the choppy deluge.
Here’s to being the best friend a woman could ask for.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
Wisped back from the ocean overlooking
Highway scenery separating bliss from bruises,
The Rock and I headed hillside,
Back to the fold of familiarity and frowning faces.
“When I was your age, we used to shoot pigeons,” he recalled.
“Something for fun – nothing more.”
Foul feelings furrowed far, leapt from the heart into the mind’s field.
I retorted, “Killing for fun? So, you might as well **** men for fun –
They’re as numerous as pigeons!”
Shocked, he shot a searing sideward glance,
Rock to rude boy.
He took hold of his seed with a summoning to silence.
Touring the tides of truth,
I was tossed in the current of straight-talk, pounding against the cliff face.
Fearing not Libra’s blindness in her determination
That the injustice of my tongue has tipped moral scales.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
Grinding along its age-old axis which knows of approaching death,
The world pivots on a baby’s breath.
The Rock beholds his baby as a plinth,
Its lungs lamenting the loss of a leisurely labyrinth.
Highwaymen hit the open road in rattling carriages,
Bibbed and drooling with mouths welcoming meat wedges.
In the mind’s meandering pathway
And the incubator cot’s cold corridors,
I sought to take away
Routine’s rasp and all of its bores.
No toy to be found. The whirling wheels left vapors
On highway tracks, chafing the skin of tarmac like sandpaper.
Only as the Old Bull lifted me from my minute home
And took me for a restful roam
Did I see the tempting toy in Guy’s den.
Now ground to a refueling halt, I skated to the highwaymen.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationary, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.
Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.
Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.
Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.
Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:38 AM UTC