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cheering up leon werthTo Léon Werthcheering up leon werth by `zebrazebrazebra
I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold, he needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children-although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:
To Léon Werth, When he was a little boy
dear teen meDear Sarah,dear teen me by `zebrazebrazebra
Remember that time you tried to top yourself by hiding under the covers? That was hilarious. I remember you tugging at the edges of the blanket and praying, without a shred of scientific evidence, that the lack of oxygen would be enough to kill you. You sat under there for something like fifteen minutes before you gave up and went to make a sandwich. But while you were under there, choking a little on your pillow because you never washed your sheets, I remember you thought someone was watching. Someone who understood your suffering. Someone who understood you.
Kid, that was me. And I've got two words for you: man up. Life can get a whole lot harder than this. Before too much longer, it's going to. And by the time you get to my age, you're going to be glad.
Why were you
descentour love is an old bikedescent by `zebrazebrazebra
dodging cars in the summer,
built of rust and dirt and spin
and two spoked stars:
kisses falling into the long lope
between hills and heat,
the height of the seat,
your face like a kid with a bell
or the swell of a shout,
the flash of a wheel as the sun
hits it, or both brakes squealing
as the wind skims down
to meet us, hands in your hair:
and we take the slope
like kings in the swing
of things, arms out, heads high
even as the dip rolls dry.
metamorphosisHe's caught the green bugmetamorphosis by `zebrazebrazebra
and the shape of him stumbles,
wound up and resounding like a spring;
a tumbling flower, or a man in heat deseated
who's caught the green bug like rain on the tongue.
Now he's coiled tit to thigh, skin twitching like a gadfly
and shaping a rare round amen to the sob of it,
the sheer glorious throb of it: the dirty thumb
pressing on the seeds in spring, the storms
and showers working hour to hour
at the nonsense of being
while down in the garden
his body becomes a boyish stamen
and aiming between the eyes of the sky
he splits himself, spitting aphids and sucking
at the ground, the euclidian sway of his petals
houn
motivation, earthmotivation, earth by `zebrazebrazebra
I.
in the months between
those autumns and this
I am since become
a summer girl -
become the unrushing,
the lazy pace of that heat
and the air of it
clustered and smooth -
I am since become a summer girl,
slipped in the slope of celsius rising
and folded into the day -
I am
Origami Dollarsometimes iOrigami Dollar by ~Molly-Snicklefritz
turn away and fold
inward like an
origami dollar.
One Uninterrupted, Incomprehensible SensationA pig named Bill ate a chocolate-covered nut.One Uninterrupted, Incomprehensible Sensation by ~pereubuisjesus
When Bill pooped out the chocolate-covered nut in poo form, a Zebra named Larry ate it.
When Larry pooped out the poop, a chimpanzee named Oliver ate it.
Oliver had been tracking the nut for the last 20 years. The chimpanzee version of the Academy Awards gave him an Oscar for the poop he had eaten. The chimpanzee Oscar is in the shape of a chimpanzee rather than a human.
When Oliver won, Bill came forward with the ant law firm, Ant, Ant, and Ant, claiming that since the chocolate-covered nut had dissolved in his stomach, he deserved part of the chimpanzee Oscar instead.
Larry didn’t c
On The School TourWe used to get the tube in London sometimes,On The School Tour by ~oddlyaromatic
and the lady on the Tannoy would say, Mind
the Gap! — pushing out the syllables with her tongue
the way you'd push the stone from a peach.
In our minds she licked our necks,
slid her tongue into our ears and whispered to us.
She was a nibbling, biting, throbbing sex-fiend, that one.
We all knew it, but we couldn't prove a thing.
How could you? It was just a recording. Just an accent.
She was probably somebody's mother,
but if she was, we all thought, then she was a serious MILF,
dripping those syrupy words on our lips,
sliding her hands down the backs of our jeans
to pull us in
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— Translated articles for LEAP and Frontiers of Literary Studies in China, tweets for Ai Weiwei in English, and literature for Pathlight, as well as an excerpt from Zhang Wei's You Are On The Highland and a few bits and pieces by the spectacular Fei Dao;
— Had poetry appear in Hunger Mountain, Corvus, Storm Cellar, Bluestem and Going Down Swinging, as well as an article entitled "Translation and Writing: Bringing The Two Halves Together" in this year's The Emerging Writer;
— Interned at Asymptote Journal, acting as copywriter and social media manager, before my health sadly forced me to step down.
— Celebrated my 27th birthday in Hong Kong;
— Took the HSK for the first time since 2009;
— Sang at an ANZAC Day dawn service;
— Started learning Yang-style taijiquan;
— Rescued a pair of kittens from the bin.
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