Salut et bonjour, Mon amour, Comment ça va? Fine as a silver chime, Moi aussi... Pax Romana? Miss me, Minerva? Don’t flatter yourself, You’ve shattered the dreams, Of too many beings, Pourquoi? You were Poseidon, Most of the time, Sooo, you want to make the poem rhyme? Duh, you’re not tryin’ to make it sublime.
Acting out and writing a collaborative poem for an honors assignment...not submitting this, obviously. Of course...I always get assigned with the popular guys...at least this one had some wit... *Everyone nicknames me Minerva. Lol.
For some reason or not, The softness was exposed, and like all creatures who are in danger, I found a hard shell to call my home. What else do you expect from me! When you all join in a world, So full of sorrow.
It’s a game where you’re neither the pieces or board. But authors of rules. No matter, I shall love all the same.
Works in progress for a new graphic novel about Vincent van Gogh. These are trial pieces for both a background narrative and conversational pieces.
rig was fair spiked hair big like an oil rig six foot tall square shoulders coffee-stain birthmark on his cheek the rest of him freckled too feared to be fought too sharp for the lower stream betrayed by his own intellect pacing the lino tiles like a zoo wolf wrapping tape around pins to make blow darts firing them from rolled-up worksheets sticking in smelly teenage scalps sticking in the hived cheeks of the quiet boys muttering accusations at the closeted gay english teacher total immunity guaranteed through hulk and bulk and brazen cruelty and fear and the cheer of the crowd
bevans was dark six foot one thick black brush hair face like a gnarled foot broken nose with one nostril welded shut nasal jackal yap-yap-yaps manic eyes with natural mascara thick animal brain giving the girls piggy rides to hold their sunned hockey thighs in his dinner plate hands bevans of the dark monster **** flashed around the library the dinner hall bevans and his boys pulling themselves behind the science desks wiping their *** on the curtains squawking, crying with laughter while the rest of us set fire to peanuts on tripods, with bunsen burners our pale shrivelled pride tucked away in the underpants our mothers bought us
for years rig went with a girl who looked like a pretty curly frog short and occasionally mean he once boasted to me: ‘i’ve been with her so long i’ve literally felt her **** grow in my hands’ she lived in a small village known for its golf course and when he discovered ecstasy and diazepam dissolved in buckets of lager and dumped her without warning she turned to older boys and farmers for comfort she became known as the nineteenth hole
rig and bevans were friends of mine i kept them close with quips and hoots and indifference begging each day would provide some amusement some mouse in the grass to draw their keen eyes and sharp tobacco tongues to keep their necks from twisting back to snap and bite down on the weak of the pack which happened, of course, every few days when my mother asked why my shirt was soaked in slashes of blue ink my hair was burned there were blow dart spots of dried blood on my neck and hands i told her it was a game
the day after christmas the morning after a quarrel i took my daughter for a walk setting off from my parents’ house to walk my hometown streets in the eerie damp silence of a public holiday the park was too wet and cold for play i felt bad dragging her down there she walked a few planks, slipped thought the mud was dog **** and cried a little we abandoned ship aimed towards a bar in town where we could find hot chocolate and beer as we were leaving the park a young couple arrived with a bounding labrador a boxing day stroll a breath of fresh air for the fresh young couple ten years fresher than i him, tall and willowy her, short, round hips and bottom pretty face and plaited hair wellies, jeans and fleece coats she looked warm and friendly he looked relaxed carefree they strolled past but didn't see us my daughter asked me a question but I was peering into the young couple’s lives being obvious imagining them under fresh white cotton sheets on a lazy sunday morning after a party where they each had a few drinks not too many where they sat together all night he doesn’t always smoke **** when he drinks and they never ***** they’re never too drunk for *** when she’s tipsy she rides him pulls extra *** faces she doesn’t mind him seeing her floppy ******* it excites him but the morning after it’s simple missionary his bony hips pushing up into her warm seat eyes locked a tray by the bed with bacon crusts and empty tea mugs simple pleasures if either one of them had caught my eye in the park my stares were screaming: ‘i’m having marital problems and i’m honestly scared! i want what you have!’ but they didn’t look the dog ran ahead and the girl threw a wet tennis ball but her aim was bad and she caught her lover square on the back of the head it was a soft throw it didn't hurt him but he was livid he spun around and glared at her she apologised and trotted towards him he stormed away stopped by the tennis court fence hand to the back of his head to mark the insult when she reached him he shouted at her about her lack of judgement her eyes widened and nostrils flared my daughter was still talking to me i held her cold, clammy little hands and we watched the young man shouting at the cowering young woman and i realised that there was a serious possibility that no one is happy we’re all ******* familiarity does breed contempt i threw my daughter on my shoulders and showed her the tennis shed where i used to smoke cigarettes
Y’all ever had a bad date? Man, that’s some ****. Y’all ever fall in love on a bad date? Man, that is some ****. Y’all ever fall back out of love? Ever watch it as it leaves her eyes? Falling out through fumbling lies ‘til you realize that deep down, she never loved you to begin with.
Ever sit across the table while she struggles to find the words to destroy you? And just to save her from that struggle, give her the words to excise your heart? The only words you had left. And then you watch her march away victorious, handbag in one hand and your heart in the other.
Ever give yourself so completely that she contains you? That when she walks away, she hasn’t left anybody? They say one is the loneliest number, but sometimes 2-1 is zero. So I sit here, a body without a soul, a crying shell of what used to be a person. And I ask myself,