Bethany Cherry15 February 2018
in these crumpled bricks of homes
holding whips of thoughts in domes
passed by ten thousand garden gnomes
fear is crawling in my bones
no more than drowned apostles,
or burnt moths.
you are simply a colour
i can never touch again.
He thought of his wicked tutor Dan, those evil ticket inspectors, those bothersome essays. Such a cold and uncaring world. But then he paused. He stopped and he thought. How he wished he could leave, pursued by no care. But he did care. He now cared for this world. He thought of Chloe, his friendship, the laughter and joy. He thought of Professor David and the comedy show he performed. Such warmth and love this world did possess. ‘Twas a mingled yarn, with good and ill together.
On the cover was a quotation from a play he’ll one day write. To be or not to be. It sounded good, so good he ingrained it in his mind and noted to one day use it at a later time. But then he wondered, if he saw it first on paper and didn’t form it in his mind, then who originally wrote it? He wondered if anyone wrote it or if it was crafted by the Gods on scrolls of parchment and thrown into the world of mortal coils. He didn’t want to read his plays anymore. He wanted to be proud of his future work as work of his own.
As Shakespeare scurried out from the Baillieu, a deluge of unpleasantness swarmed against him in the form of many knaves carrying flyers, all in colourful dress. He was in a melancholic mood and found their pressing behaviour worsened his state. He learnt a new expression from Chloe that day that he found quite effective. He told them to fuck the fuck off.
It was almost summer and it was lighter for longer these days. The dying heat of the day wafted off the asphalt, bringing the evening down to a temperature where one could comfortably go without shoes. Nicholas didn’t have the luxury of a balcony, so instead he sat on his windowsill with his suit pants loosely rolled above his hairy ankles, dangling his sockless feet over the last of the evening traffic below.
Shakespeare stood in front of the mirror sans a shirt. He had hair on his nipples. He clutched a stumpy device and rubbed it under his arms, for odorous fumes he was told he exuded. He’d fallen in failure’s arms the semester prior, and he was bracing his mind for the semester to come. The bard pinched some waxy cream and rubbed it about his pate. His brown locks were now pointed, dipping down upon his brow.
The living room looked out over Elgin Street. Her flat was flanked by an Indian restaurant and a car park. The boobs the chalk were referencing could only be hers. She flung open the window and leant out, as if the scent of the chalk writer still hung on the air and she could sniff them out.
Shakespeare looked at his laptop. He shifted uncomfortably and read once more the task he had to end: to write 15 lines of poetry for his creative writing subject. He hadn’t written much; he was sort of gazing at the wall and remarking how pale and white it was. He looked back at his screen to read what he’d writ. From. An excellent word for an hour of work.
where trichor flown from bitten tongue lands
emnous remnants a toothsome luxury
cthonia induced by friend nor foe alike;
Orange painted sunsets and
a depth of grey,
A canvas of molten
Sigh of smoke spilling
from her lips;
Mi Goreng—the saviour of every university student. I first discovered this versatile dish after a friend gave me 12 packets. While she’s since moved on to bigger, better and presumably healthier things, Mi Goreng has become a staple in my pantry.
The wind will read your palm like a dessert menu.
Your blood will be determined, though not by
letter but by norm.
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