Akira fan art by http://jonasdero.deviantart.com/
LAURA SWEARINGEN-STEADWELL
Akira as Sibling Rivalry
Tetsuo
Red leather jacket
holy, holy bike,
my brother so radiant
it made him blind:
he never saw me coming.
Stalking bars and noodle shops
that gushed neon into night
like open wounds,
leering in the tired light,
learning how streetwalkers lie,
the pop of riot cop and bomb.
I became the ugly
sun. Fucked.
Skin grimy, soot
soaking the creases
of my clothes,
the rot in my eyes
apparent. You find
that funny? They did.
They split me open
like an atom.
Kaneda
Our gang was flawless.
Light rippled off our contours,
tailed our breathless run
along the exaltant asphalt
that craved to eat us.
But we were fearless.
With power, you can move so fast,
the air itself might flense you –
but you gotta use it if you got it:
slowing down makes you
a target for any clown with a chain.
Survival sometimes means
dropping the other guy first.
Beating him is almost easy
when you've mastered what he loves.
Akira as Sibling Rivalry
Tetsuo
Red leather jacket
holy, holy bike,
my brother so radiant
it made him blind:
he never saw me coming.
Stalking bars and noodle shops
that gushed neon into night
like open wounds,
leering in the tired light,
learning how streetwalkers lie,
the pop of riot cop and bomb.
I became the ugly
sun. Fucked.
Skin grimy, soot
soaking the creases
of my clothes,
the rot in my eyes
apparent. You find
that funny? They did.
They split me open
like an atom.
Kaneda
Our gang was flawless.
Light rippled off our contours,
tailed our breathless run
along the exaltant asphalt
that craved to eat us.
But we were fearless.
With power, you can move so fast,
the air itself might flense you –
but you gotta use it if you got it:
slowing down makes you
a target for any clown with a chain.
Survival sometimes means
dropping the other guy first.
Beating him is almost easy
when you've mastered what he loves.
Dashavatara
Their limbs flurry into fans or split
wide as the petals of an overripe lily.
Their bulk thunders over tile.
Contortionists of every measure
at prayer, holy in impossible bodies,
beasts conducting orchestras of charge,
they cast tyrant lizards into fire,
eat mushrooms, grow big, save the day.
They collect coin, flowers and stars,
they rock a blue mohawk.
So quick, the world can't keep up.
They foxy. They fly.
Three lives, thirty, more
than you can count.
If you rip apart the old gods
with your bare hands,
you become one.
I am the new gods in all their array,
my body made of light.
Their limbs flurry into fans or split
wide as the petals of an overripe lily.
Their bulk thunders over tile.
Contortionists of every measure
at prayer, holy in impossible bodies,
beasts conducting orchestras of charge,
they cast tyrant lizards into fire,
eat mushrooms, grow big, save the day.
They collect coin, flowers and stars,
they rock a blue mohawk.
So quick, the world can't keep up.
They foxy. They fly.
Three lives, thirty, more
than you can count.
If you rip apart the old gods
with your bare hands,
you become one.
I am the new gods in all their array,
my body made of light.
Laura Swearingen-Steadwell is a graduate from Warren Wilson's MFA program. She's going to beat Galaga one of these days.