Mythologise Anything

A recent exhibition of the work
of American artist Jeff Koons was
called Everything’s Here. I subscribe to that
worldview: you can live on “lipgloss and
cigarettes”. There are more references to
TV shows and showbiz entertainers

in my songs than references to the
Greek myths but it’s all valid. You can
mythologise anything if you put
your mind to it. In a way it’s more fun
to look for profundity in something
that’s not designed to have it. Or maybe

that’s just awkwardness on my part – I do
have a tendency towards that. When I
was nine years old, we were learning how to
draw bar charts at school when the teacher
decided to construct one based on the
times we got up in the morning to get

ready for school. For some reason I was
determined to have a bar on the graph
all to myself and so claimed to rise at
6am every morning (which was an
obvious lie as I was usually at
least five minutes late each day). The teacher

was sceptical but let it go and, much
to my satisfaction, I got my own
exclusive bar. I don’t know why I was
so determined to be different from all
the other members of my class, but it
felt important to me. Perhaps it still

is. But I’d like to think that it was more
than mere cussedness on my part, that it
was the start of a sensibility,
a desire to look in the less obvious
places – less obvious because they were
right under your nose. Pulp was the perfect

name for the band because this was an attempt
to find meaning in the mass-produced and
throwaway world that was, after all, what
we were surrounded by on a daily
basis. To sift through and find some beauty
in it all. Take a look – it is there.

From Jarvis Cocker: the secrets of Pulp’s songs. By Marika Rose.

Doubles

I miss you. I hark back to the friendship
we used to have, impromptu adventures,
knowing the everyday details of each
other’s lives, nights in watching trashy TV.

I’ve been there at 3am when you’ve clutched
my hand and explained he’s dependable
and he’ll make a great father. I want to
tell you that it’s the 21st century

but you don’t listen to me any more.
I am impeccably polite. I put on
a rictus grin when you spend an hour
discussing your wedding plans. I am

becoming a souvenir of your past life,
to be gradually discarded for
women you can play doubles tennis with.
I’m happy for you. But I wish you’d call.

From What I’m really thinking: the single friend.

What We Should Be Doing

We ought to be reading
poetry too
of course
and nonfiction

We should read
instruction manuals
legal documents
restaurant reviews and corporate newsletters

We should follow weird people
on Twitter
and go to lots of parties
and have lots of intense
and ridiculous
conversations with drunk people

We should go
home for the holidays
and argue with our families
and we ought to
listen
to lots of music
and we ought to watch
plenty of television

We should eavesdrop
and we should gossip

We should probably be in therapy

We should probably drink
more coffee.

From Most contemporary literary fiction is terrible. By Wesley Brown.

Before the end came

Death is so intimate –
more intimate than first love.

I could hold his hand, 

gaze into his eyes, 

stare 

unhindered 

at his tender face, 

stroke 

his frosty hair.

He was very thin,
skin the colour 

of a dried corn husk. 


His mouth 

a dark tunnel. 

The jagged mountain ranges 

of his ruined teeth.


The petrified forests
of his hair.

The failing locomotive of his breath.
The sadness of the black bobbled socks on his calves.

Yet he was
irreducibly
who he had always been. 


From My father’s final moments. By Ailsa Holland.

Dead pianos

The Knabe baby grand
did a cartwheel and landed
on its back,
legs poking into the air.

A Lester upright
thudded onto its side
with a final groan of strings,
a death-rattling chord.

After ten pianos were dumped,
a small yellow loader
with a claw in front scuttled
in like a vicious beetle,

crushing keyboards,
soundboards
and cases

into a pile.

From For More Pianos, Last Note Is Thud in the Dump. Submitted by J.R. Solonche.

The Shooter

“We do this every night.
We go to a house,
we fuck with some people,
and we leave.”

He’s got a gun within reach.
He’s a threat … in that second
I shot him, two times in the forehead.

Bap! Bap!

The second time as he’s going down.
He crumpled to the floor in front of his bed
and I hit him again.

Bap!

Same place … he was dead. Not moving.
His tongue was out. I watched him take
his last breaths, just a reflex.

And I remember as I watched him
breathe out the last part of air, I thought:
is this the best thing I’ve ever done, or the worst?

From ‘I killed him’: US Navy Seal who fired the shot that killed Osama bin Laden breaks his silence.

Wasted art

I was drinking a coffee the other day
Watching several adolescent girls at another table.
Suddenly, they launched
Into snapping one another
And thereafter progressed
To taking self portraits.

This style of vain,
Self-absorbed activity
Is the lowest level
Taking photos can probably
Descend to.

Considering that,
If you are the only
Truly worthwhile point
Of interest,
In all of life’s
Rich tapestry,
Then you might have failed
To detect a few essential
Hints
In the path of learning
What life is
Ultimately about.

From The Advantages Of Photography As A Hobby. By Cami Hernandez.

Paired birds of Franciscan brown

If Brother Julian was gardening in front of the friary,
Brother Adrian weeded in the back.
If Adrian was driving the van, Julian sat by his side.
Preparing the altar for chapel,
chopping wood for kindling,
exulting in ice cream at the Twist & Shake:
the twins were together, always.

Workers, not teachers, so ever-present as to be unseen.
Taken for granted, like the rushing hush
of the Allegheny River at the university’s edge,
or the back-and-forth of birdsong.

Brother Julian became the sacristan,
Brother Adrian the chauffeur,
but they also built the bookshelves,
maintained the garden, cleared the shrines in the woods
and rarely spoke unless invited.

How they adorned the friary trees with birdhouses.
How they toured the campus on identical bicycles.
How they often sat in prayer in the chapel,
so still that you might not know they were there.

From For Franciscan Twins, Simple Lives Had Depth (NYT). By Angi Holden.