- Hearts on Fire
In Ghost Colours
Cut Copy - Hearts on Fire
I Am Lisa Frank
I am Lisa Frank.
I am rainbow-maned, rainbow-dusted, rainbow-blooded,
razor-finned, sunset-eating, tail-curling,
flamingo-skied, vinyl-scented, whipped-creamed and sprinkled.
I am radical Arizonan kawaii.
I am a dolphin breaching and birthing
above and under orange waves,
an impossible musical note,
a candy-coloured Charybdis.
and I am Lisa Frank.
My diaries hold secrets behind cats’ eyes,
Hold secrets behind butterflies,
Do not open, For Girls Only, beware the unicorn.
I am a Trapper and a Keeper.
I am rage.
A note hastily scrawled on a torn off page,
Pressed into a palm from a leaving train,
says “You are Lisa Simpson”—
but I am Lisa Frank.
I am cuddled masses yearning to breathe free;
I refuse to let this teeming shore
Horror vacui, the fear of empty space,
has no power here; my space is filled with stars,
and on each star, a panda bear,
every millimetre accounted for,
and on the seventh day, no rest,
because I am Lisa Frank.
I am the CEO of a failing company and I am Lisa Frank;
I am three years in a divorce court suing my former husband to get back my failing company and I am Lisa Frank,
Shuttering my Tucson storefront, archives sent to the airlock.
Unicorn horns filed down to stubs, cosmic beachballs deflated,
Iridescence turned convalescence,
But two roads diverged in a rainbow wood, and I—
I took the one with a hot pink sky,
And that has made all the difference,
for I am Lisa Frank.
I am a little gay boy on the edge of the playground and I am Lisa Frank;
I am a skirter of the abyss of the vast feminine and I am Lisa Frank;
I am a collector and concealer, hiding a lisp under a patchy preteen beard,
seeing my eyes reflected in those of gigantic kittens and in the surface sheen of bubbles.
I am one who was told that I needed thicker skin but maybe I didn’t want my skin to be thicker but neoner,
My heart not to harden but to float and multiply and shimmer,
Not to change my stripes but fill the spaces in between them,
To look at these landscapes and know that if a banana split belongs on the beach then so can I,
that if forty-seven hearts can fit onto a page then so can mine,
and to be able to say, one day
that I am Lisa Frank.
Two prime ministers and a president appear to have taken a photo of themselves this morning at the memorial service for Nelson Mandela in Johannesburg. First Lady Michelle Obama is Rihanna-level unmoved. This image quickly became the most important thing on the Internet. What does it mean? Is a selfie in a group not a selfie at all, but a groupie? (The Oxford English Dictionary named selfie Word of the Year and defines it as “a photograph that one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website.”) These people don’t work for the dictionary, though; the dictionary works for them.
Read more. [Image: Roberto Schmidt/AFP/Getty Images]
Now I think I’ve seen everything.
Sandro Botticelli. The Birth of Venus. 1486. Tempera on canvas.
When everything else in the world is bleak and depressing, there are always SHINee’s adorkable Japanese music videos to make you feel better.