Die Antwoord - Evil Boy
Bored at Work Poems
I’ve been writing poems while at work when I have nothing to do. Here they are. More to come, I’ll just keep editing this post.
#50 of 51
Dear you -
D.I.D did a # on me, excuse me.
Doctor prescribed me w/ empathy
because we lack gall.
Remember the 3 seeds I spit at you?
1) turned into lies
2) turned into hushed snow
3) became a prayer.
Inside that pumpkin patch is where I sweetly adopted you.
I miss you on the swing I swat for you.
Combing through these memories w/ no hair,
or lashes or whips,
I’m done w/ the old me, we all are.
Signed, Memaw.
***
Book Review: Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl
Considering how widely assigned this book is, I almost feel I don’t have anything to say about it. But unlike a majority of high-schoolers, I’d never read it until recently. I can’t not talk about it, because I feel its an important book to me. It’s even a thematic part of what will become my first novel. Anyway, I’ll try my best to keep this interesting.
Getting the well-known history out of the way: The Frank family lived in Holland, having emigrated from Germany to escape persecution, but soon enough Holland allowed their Jewish citizens to be hauled up and sent to concentration camp deaths. So Otto, Anne’s father, moved his family and another, the Van Daan’s, to a hidden Annex above his work offices. The employees there, Dutch non-jews, helped the Franks and Van Daans by bringing them food and occasionally keeping them company. Another resident, a dentist named Mr. Dussel, joined them later.
Arvo Pärt - Sanctus
Patrick Swayze Elegy
In 1995 I am
wondering who you
are as your face
is rendered pail-snace
on my computer screen
I am trying
to download a
picture of your face for art
class. on the picture:
superimposed a slogan
‘nobody puts baby in a corner’
but your pixelated visage
is limited
by my dial-up speed
It’s stuckon your eyebrows and
the text above
your head:
‘nobody
ceantumblrcean, I would like to take the opportunity to say that I love you and all that you do.
Dustmite Goddess: Pas de Deux II
I never thought I’d see him in it again, but he’s wearing his soldier costume. That is the only constant between this moment and the moment the curtain rose to unveil us and the two kids standing in a familial embrace. The…
Dustmite Goddess: Pas de Deux
As he lowers me from a high sobresaut, the stage lights blind me temporarily. I can’t see the audience, can’t see the camera, can’t see the edge of the stage in front of me.
He guides me with his hands around my waist. Two Chenné turns. Chassé. Jump right into his arms. Roll onto his shoulders….
Deerhunter - Agoraphobia
Novel in Progress: Landon Rode
The image - Garçon à la Pipe - belongs to Picasso. Editing and text overlay by me.
—
Contents (click):
Landon Rode, Chapter 1
Notes: There may be changes in the future. The prologue is here. I could really use feedback, to have something in mind as I write the rest. Please share your reactions if you read.
—
Chapter 1: “Friend”
1
Landon emerges from the tunnel hole and falls onto his back. He stays where he is and spends minutes wincing, then lifts his head and sees a deep corridor that turns into shadow before an end. On each wall is an elaborate, realistic painting of a neighborhood. Closest to Landon is a rendering of a yellow house beyond a road. On the other wall is a tree with tire swings and a running dog. The paintings each continue into the distance, sandwiched between a ceiling dotted with light-bulbs and a cement floor covered in chalk drawings.
Smoke appears from behind followed by Em’s hand. Em shouts “Back again?” and pulls Landon up by the collar. Landon pushes him away and sneers. “I already know that I’ve been here before,” he thinks to himself. He lowers his head and thinks something else: “Go away, you’ve done your job,” as Em stands patient and upright. Landon considers his words carefully. When he decides on something to say, “Leave,” he’s stopped with a finger to his lips as they begin to form. Em’s other finger is pointing down the hall. Under the last visible light is a shaded figure with long hair seated on a stool. “It’s Adeline,” Em says.
Landon Rode: Entrance
Landon Rode by Brady Roybal
—
Entrance
Landon is sliding downward. There’s no rush and no friction, his body whispers across the surface. He exits suddenly and lands under a tunnel hole, padded from the fall by a heavy blue coat and a satchel. From his back he sees a corner of the new room: it’s dark and the walls are covered in words. Landon weeps.
A hand swoops down and pierces his mouth with a cigarette. A tongue flicks across the outward end, somehow lighting it with a quick glint of red. Landon pulls the flame closer to his lips, breathes in and looks at the person above. Another boy. Dark hair and warm tongue. He’s dressed like Landon: A heavy coat, green instead of blue, beat-up jeans, sneakers. The boy exhales smoke and says “Get up.”
