cherry bomb: 0021

Victoria Williams: 0212

[SCRAPBOOK: In 1959, von Harden wrote an article, "Erinnerungen an Otto Dix" ("Memories of Otto Dix"), in which she described the genesis of the portrait. Dix had met her on the street, and declared:

'I must paint you! I simply must! ... You are representative of an entire epoch!'
'So, you want to paint my lacklustre eyes, my ornate ears, my long nose, my thin lips; you want to paint my long hands, my short legs, my big feet—things which can only scare people off and delight no-one?'
'You have brilliantly characterized yourself, and all that will lead to a portrait representative of an epoch concerned not with the outward beauty of a woman but rather with her psychological condition.’]

Max Moodley: 0071

New title from Dye Hard Press: fhedzi by Khulile Nxumalo

fhedzi is Khulile Nxumalo's second poetry collection.
94 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9869982-1-8

Khulile Nxumalo was born in Diepkloof, Soweto, in 1971. He finished school at Waterford Kamhlaba, Swaziland, and went to the University of Cape Town, University of Natal and Wits University. His first poetry collection, ten flapping elbows, mama, was published by Deep South in 2004. His work has appeared in several literary journals in South Africa, Canada, the UK and the US. Nxumalo has twice won the DALRO award for poetry.  He has two children.

Khulile Nxumalo is one of the few poets in South Africa using longer experimental forms. He has found a creative way of breaking up the English language and fusing it with other languages. He is also capable of intense lyrical expression. – Robert Berold

magma-burn. emotion-lava spilling out. of wounds. 
and thoughts of them expressed in ghostly words
of the divining spirit. and coming thru the smog.
and dust,blood-rained on strange children's games.
and ever The Voice, lonesome, wearied, spiralling inward...
with this one, sikhulile! – Lesego Rampolokeng

fhedzi will soon be available at bookstores countrywide, at an estimated retail price of R145. If ordered directly from the publisher, the price is R120, including postage. Contact dyehardpress@iafrica.com to order.

Eva Jackson: 0054

cherry bomb: 0020

Victoria Williams: 0211

[SCRAPBOOK: The Marquis: Suffering does not make people humane.]

D

The Monkey Does Not See by Gary Cummiskey

Eva Jackson: 0053

cherry bomb: 0019

Victoria Williams: 0210

Our uncomfortable sweated life here – we’re too warm, and we’re watching repeats of daytime TV in the late afternoon and Christmas specials in July. What can we do? The impression of breeze! Not wind-chimes, for the last time! Instead bought a couple of suet bells and strung them up from the washing line. Now the twittering and the squeak of talons on the windowsill and the tapping of the beaks... One day draw back curtain and there’s just the string there swaying and some feathers floating to the ground.

From Mimetic Punctiliousness To Imaginative Free Play

From mimetic punctiliousness to imaginative free play: a review of The Edge of Things.

Keep Your Hands To Yourself by Gary Cummiskey

Eva Jackson: 0052

A letter to Dearlord

Dear lord, please help. I keep getting involved with men who do not understand satire. Lord, please make this stop.

Dear lord, this one time I went out with a man to a bar in a richly appointed hotel lobby, lord. In Colombo. We were sipping on some drinks, me on a coconut water and him on arrak, a fermented drink made from coconuts also. Lord, he took me to task for my facebook posts which seemed to bespeak a tragic sadness. Lord, I put my hand on his shoulder and said we all get a little sad sometimes and that some of those posts were not serious. I felt stronger and better than the previous night when my sadness had seemed twisted in his tipsy analysis.

Lord, another time I posted that I had been Cured by The Cure. My ex-boyfriend replied in an immediate concerned email to say that he hoped I would feel better soon.

Lord, I have been wooed by a man playing beautiful guitar in a crowded cafe on my birthday, and he chose the song Wild World, which we all know is about a guy saying how sad he is that a girl is leaving him, and that although she is basically a small child in his eyes albeit a sexy one, he hopes she enjoys her time out there. It is not a song about a guy wishing someone a happy birthday.

Lord, in an unconnected incident, I knew and loved a man who replied to Nigerian email scamsters advising them gently about practical ways to resolve their predicaments – ways which did not involve soliciting money from people over distances. I believe I have mentioned this to you before.

Some of these encounters have not been about love but still I think you should have some kind of explanation for them. Two weeks ago I took part in a dance class where the instructor afterwards recommended me a machine to reduce the fat around my middle. Why did he do this lord? And why do you allow telemarketers, who may have similar products, to exist? I am in danger of straying into a wider indignation here, oh my lord, and will really try to hold back and stay on message, because we started out talking about other things.

Lord, a little indignation goes a long way. And I feel better. But I would ask just one thing. Don’t cloud my eyes with hazy delusions again anytime soon. I do want to confine my relationships to ones with a healthy sense of irony. Your assistance in this long-term and very intensive exercise will be appreciated. I know you're with me on this one.

cherry bomb: 0018

Victoria Williams: 0209

Shakespeare is staying on the couch, says: ‘I’ll sleep in my clothes.’ I say, ‘What’re you worried about?’ ‘Nothin’ it just takes so long, in the morning, to get my codpiece back on.'

Wisdom

Wisdom is not found in epigrams.

My Sorceress by Gary Cummiskey

Eva Jackson: 0051

cherry bomb: 0017

Trash storkin

Victoria Williams: 0208

I said, come back when you can grow a beard.