The Art of Richard Thomas Scott

TheOriginalVanGoghsEarAnthology

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Born in 1980 in USA, Richard T Scott is working between New York and Paris. Renowned painter of figurative art, he is the most faithful alumnus of Odd Nerdrum, great Norwegian painter. He kept the house of his master during two years in Maison Laffitte (FRANCE). Richard T Scott is also the best friend of Adam Miller. The main goal of the artist is to explore the depth of the human soul.

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Odd Nerdrum and Andrew Wyeth

Richard SP

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An Interview with Michael O’Keefe

TheOriginalVanGoghsEarAnthology

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Michael O’Keefe is likely best known for his roles on Caddyshack (Danny Noonan) and Roseanne (Fred). As an actor he was also Oscar nominated for Best Supporting Actor in The Great Santini, and appeared opposite George Clooney in Michael Clayton. A man of many talents he has also appeared on Broadway and in countless television shows such as M*A*S*H, The Waltons, The West Wing, Criminal Minds, and Law & Order to name a few. He was recently signed on to join the cast of Showtime’s Homeland. O’Keefe holds a MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College. His latest offering, Swimming From Under My Father is available now and he is currently working on a series of sonnets, which offer up his thoughts on life in general for his son.

What were you like as a child? What are your most fond memories from that time?

Frankly…

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An Interview with Michael Carroll

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Michael Carroll has been a Peace Corps volunteer, a waiter, a janitor, a writer’s assistant and a college instructor. His work has appeared in Boulevard, Ontario Review, Southwest Review, The Yale Review, Open City, and Animal Shelter, as well as in such anthologies as The New Penguin Book of Gay Short Stories (edited by David Leavitt and Mark Mitchell). He collaborated with Edmund White on the suspense story Excavation for Joyce Carol Oates’ New Jersey Noir. His interviews with Ann Beattie and Wells Tower were included in the recently revamped Chattahoochee Review, where his first story was published, and where he is New York Editor. His first collection, Little Reef and Other Stories, is published by the University of Wisconsin Press.

What was it like growing up in northern Florida? What were you like as a child?

The first story in Little Reef is kind of…

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“Repeat Suicide” by Ian Ayres

Ian Ayres (Nude on Tomb) Repeat Suicide

My revolver

So easy to get

Cocked in fist

On the way to the grave

Wide open for morning

Loaded and ready

Bullets to blast

My brains to the clay

Of Mother Nature’s womb

Skull full of stars

People that cross

Lost in a garden

Of slab and dirt

Hands from graves

Reach out to shake

Me up so late

Embalmed hands

Amidst the wilt

How I love the Dead

Putting down roots

Echoing whispers

By the time you get it together

You start to fall apart . . .

Skeletal, you know

A jaw drops

Moss will grow

With unknown approach

Living to die, dying to live

Tombstones scream

Or winds grow shrill

Among final faces

Of resting places

My constant family

Who embraces chill

Beneath my feet

Tripping

Naked

Among the Dead

To a bed

Where I sit

Smoking a joint

On that tomb

Sculpture of stone

Near a baby’s

Grave

A seedling

Alone

How I yearn

To hold you

Above

Your crumbling

New name

Eroded

Not even a weed

So I sing

A lullaby

And reach out

To cradle you

In my arms

With your rattle

Of bones

Watching

Birds Fall

Birds fall

From the trees

Dying

From disease

Wondering

Why

Death is

The rest of

Your life

Some call me a necrophiliac

Who bones the boneyard

Others, a ghoul

Who haunts the Dead

Whatever tickles their tulips

Licking dew drops of lust . . .

Did you know divorce kills?

Divorce kills children

For the rest of their lives

Under-aged children

Kicking the emptiness

Of a beer can

Can no longer feel

Superior over anything

Nothing but luck

Before granite claims

Years of avoidance

In unfulfilled hearts

Finding a family

Like me

In the dead of night

To dance

Headlit

In moonlight

Celebrating

Every vertebra

Of our spines

Bone

Is white dust

And soul lost

In dispersing

Atoms

Ready to be

Held

In a box

Planted

To remain

Where

I can always

Be found

Underground

Knowing dark

Caresses

My mind

Listening

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Pete Suicide

 

My revolver
So easy to get
Cocked in fist
On the way to the grave
Wide open for morning
Loaded and ready
Bullets to blast
My brains to the clay
Of Mother Nature’s womb
 
Skull full of stars
People that cross
Lost in a garden
Of slab and dirt
Hands from graves
Reach out to shake
Me up so late
Embalmed hands
Amidst the wilt
 
How I love the Dead
Putting down roots
Echoing whispers
By the time you get it together
You start to fall apart . . .
Skeletal, you know
A jaw drops
Moss will grow
With unknown approach
 
Living to die, dying to live
Tombstones scream
Or winds grow shrill
Among final faces
Of resting places
My constant family
Who embraces chill
Beneath my feet
Tripping
 
Naked
Among the Dead
To a bed
Where I sit
Smoking a joint

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