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Skylar R Oct 2020
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.
Langdale Blair Dec 2014
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
Langdale Blair Dec 2014
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
Justin Cochran Nov 2014
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,

Who Am I?

— The End —