A writing portfolio
My brother plays a video game where you drive a car and get screamed at-
A guy who sounds like a soldier tells you to put the pedal to the metal
and something explodes every five seconds. There are guns involved.
I don’t understand.
Why does my brother need to spend $80+ on getting screamed at while you drive?
If I wanted to get screamed at while driving a car, for a lot less, I would take Mum
and go at twice the speed limit and tell her that I was a lesbian.
This was a mistake
that was, unfortunately,
deleted. Damn it.
unbelievably,
today was quite wonderful.
my fingers are crossed
You were an art piece who lived like a glow,
Your life was a wild, messy splash of paint on the canvasses of all that loved you.
Even closing in on death, I remember, you told me to smile at your funeral, to carry a red balloon for you.
I nodded, unable to speak, already beginning to cry at the thought of you ceasing to exist, at the thought of you passing when you were just a teenager.
Most would slow in their activities when they knew they were going to die. But you?
You painted even more. Yesterday I saw your last painting, done in hospital.
A starkly simple piece of an African woman wearing a bright orange headscarf holding a dying bird lovingly, her lips pressed to its tiny head.
Stupidly, I wanted to ask if you were the woman or the bird. Suddenly remembering you were dead, I bit my fist to avoid crying in public.
At your funeral, Good Good Day by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds played. I remember you said it wanted to be for the irony, but we were all too sad to laugh at this.
I remember you said you wanted it to be a message to be happy despite your death, but none of us could imagine it.
You, with your engaging personality, beautiful laugh and brave acceptance.
You, in all your perfection, made it so much harder
to live with your death.
With a cigarette,
He tells me why we just can’t;
And I am in like.
I would be by Iggy Pop. And I would hope it would be
a wild, crashing few minutes with microphone static and
his raw, bold voice.
If I was a song I would talk about trees and hair, I would only swear when appropriate (Fuck, I nearly forgot how to spell that) and I would take you on a story with my lyrics.
If I was a song I would have a violin, somewhere, and it would be lonely. I would have a guitar and I would never leave it alone, my hands would have callouses from playing it all the time.
If I was song, I would be from the 60’s.
