Her virgin ears... They were stolen.
Her wrists... Have scars from the ropes that had bound them.
Her legs... They had been spread open from the men that were to selfish even to notice her scream.
At age 9 she accidentally made this her identity.
Her stomach... No one can see it has blood streaked across it, from the knife that took away her pain.
At age 13 her chains kept building.
The secret of what happened still weighed heavy.
The men... They had kept coming.
Not knowing what to do, she turned to porn hoping that the satisfaction would come through.
Her knife keeps producing scars that mark her skin.
This, once again, accidentally became her identity.
Scars kept coming.
She couldn't trust anybody.
At age 14 her chains still weighed heavy, but something has changed.
A person... Sees the hurt that no one else can see.
A person... that has come from a similar past.
A person... Tells her it will be okay.
A person... Tells her not to be afraid.
A person... Tells her she is loved.
A person... vowed to help her find her voice.
However, the girl couldn't believe those words of truth.
- but still.. A person kept on trying.
This is her past, what about her present?
At age 15 her wounds begin healing - the words have broken through.
She has found... A person to finally trust.
She puts down the knife.
She can finally run free.
A life she can live, free from anxiety.
They call me crazy
Because I used to cut
They call me crazy
Because I hate them
They call me crazy
Because of all my anger
They say I've gone insane
That I'm a cyopath
Well I can tell them this
You want to see insane?
You want to see a cyopath?
Sorry I'm not him
You lucked out here
I'm done with the cutting
Yeah I have a lot of anger and hate
But nobody sees it
Because I hide it
So am I insane?
Hell yeah I'm insane
But not how they think
Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flees their minds,
As selfish life fulfills these swines.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Do take a look at what they see,
And what they see is “A bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion, foresee what befalls
Upon them, too, as they soon explore,
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid,
Whose sex and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of irrelevance and mystery:
Their wisdom calls most urgently.
As this kid sees a life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with the fuss and mess,
Which most adults do not confess
To what they cause and what they bring,
Most taken in by their offspring;
And as one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss,
Dear vengeful killer, Oedipus,
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
And leave one there to squirm and rot,
Like a lobster boiling in a pot,
And free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die,
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, who feels must reign;
Nor the obliged one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl,
That turns, and turns, and turns, and turns
While greedy capitalists more they yearn.
Within this cycle is little choice,
Hetero-normatively sans a screaming voice,
For a true language for some not made;
Virile chest-pounds place a shade
Upon the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be,
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one,
Who mostly governs with a gun;
And how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting sex the kid can't choose,
As in every win, each sex does lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see,
That to just one sex they must belong,
As 'genitalia proves feelings wrong.'
This funny theory most credits Freud;
By collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done',
For those who are all, but yet are none.
Great gender points makes Butler de Judith
While her female likes are out to proveth,
That she is wrong within her stance
‘Only female unity will give rise to chance'
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First, not Second or Third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other sex does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all the foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.
Repost for Nelson Mandela
In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country
He watches the school bus turn off and out of sight. He'd see Elaine get off at her stop with her sister and others. She didn't look up at him as the bus drew away. Preoccupied, deep thought, maybe. Some one had a called out, see you Frumpy. She didn't respond or didn’t hear. That Tidy kid, probably; mouth on him like a horse. John walks up the side of the road towards the cottage. he thinks of her, her slow walk along the aisle, looking away from him. Shy probably after that kiss on the sports field, lunch time. Or annoyed. He doubted, shy more like. He sighs. Cars whiz by. Too fast. He wonders what she made of the kiss. Lips to lips, touching just on. Brushing soft. Didn't want to press on her. Hand on her arm, gently, holding. His other hand; what had that been? Touched her back, felt bra strap, just there beneath fingers. He enters the front gate, closes carefully. Click of metal lock. The garden has been freshly dug. His father dug yesterday, carefully, back into it, machine like. I helped, not really my scene. Did my bit. He opens the back door and enters in. His mother is at the wood stove, cooking dinner, dark haired, blue of eyes, flush of skin, heat and rush. He says his greetings; she asks of his day at school; he smells the cooking, smiles, passes by, and up the stairs to his room. He closes the door. Peaceful. He goes to the window and peers down at the garden. Small orchard of apple trees to his left, hedges surrounding. He sits on his bed, looks around the room. Few books by the window, boyhood favourites; Roby Roy, Treasure Island. Ivanhoe, others. A sheet of paper with a list of birds seen recently. Some unticked, rare. He hadn't expected to kiss her. Wasn't planned. He was just going to talk and get to know her. Better, more. Instead he kissed her lips. Brushed softly with his. Skin on skin. Exchange of juices. He licks his lips. Wonder if part of her is here still? He licks again. Tongue over lips, bottom, top. He picks up the list of birds. Unticked are rare. Did she touch him with her hands as he had her? He can't recall. Too suddenly done, unplanned. He felt her bra strap. Fingered it, briefly. The whole afternoon spent on thinking of her and the kiss and her lips. He sensed, when he drew her near to him, her breasts, cushiony, soft. Unintended. Some birds were from foreign climes. Unticked, but not forgotten. The book of birds is by his bed, well read, thumbed bruised. Something stirred in him when he kissed. A buzz along the wire of his nerves. Buzz in his groin. He turns the page over, birds ticked, more common, some more so. Odd that male birds had the beauty, females dull as mud. What did she think after the kiss? He had to go off as the bell rang across the sports field, needed to see what happened to him, as he kissed and after. Down below, dampish, unusual. In the boys' bog, he noticed damp stickiness, odd, unknown. All through afternoon lessons his mind was on her. Couldn't close her out. Lips seemed numb. Licks them now. Tongue over top and lower. Frumpish they called her, others. The glasses did her no favours. Her dark hair untidy, her eyes large and watery. Her lips partly open, teeth, smallish, white. Ears hidden by her hair, but just visible. She smelt of countryside: apples, hay, horses. She was shy, blushed after the kiss. As he had crossed the field, after the kiss, towards the school, his legs seemed jellied, wobbly. Tomorrow he would see her again, then what? Even on the school bus home, he avoided looking over his seat, to where she sat with her sister. He was tempted. Have a quick look, gaze casually, but he hadn't. Regrets now, too late. Should have. Just one peep. Goldfinch chattered almost the
all way home, sitting next to him, showing him cards, talking of school. Teachers. That teacher you like, that one who said, you'll be a writer one day? Yes, he had said. Been dismissed. Took kids home with him, in his lunch time, did things, they say. Oh, he had said, hard to believe, but there you go. All sorts. He'd not gone. Boys or girls? He had asked. Boys mostly, Goldfinch had said. A new teacher now. He should have looked and seen her. Her sister was loud and sparkled. Not his type. Kissed and then what? He puts the sheet of paper back. He takes some small binoculars off the shelf, and peers through the window. Scans the sky. Some one downstairs puts on the radio. His sister, probably, twisting the knobs, getting a station, music on and off, loud, soft. Elaine's nails, bitten down, ink-stained fingers. They played together the fingers. Nerves, twisting over each other. He noticed. Saw them. He was about to say about a butterfly he'd seen, over by the science lab, fluttering by. Fragile wings. Thin, God made, wonder they fly. Kissed her. Lips on lips. His heart thumped hard as a drum in a brass band. A blue tit over by the hedge. Two of them. Goldfinch, the bird, not the boy, was one of his favourites. Bullfinch, that too. He sensed her tongue as he kissed, tip of, not the whole thing. Some big boy had told him and others, one lunch hour, in the playground, about a girl he'd had, up in the woods, off the playing field. None had seen. Good quick go, the big kid had said, like entering a bloody cave it was, warm and hollow. A sparrow on the fence, two three of them. They sit and flutter wings. The big kid hadn't said what was quick or like a cave. The girl was bit of a slapper, the big kid had said. He puts down the binoculars, kicks off his shoes, and lies down on his bed. Closes his eyes. Eyes shut. Sees her, lips pursed, eyes open, large eyes like brown stones, through glasses. His lips make a kissing sound. Pretends to kiss again. Keeps his lips there. Not pressing, just touching, soft silk soft, hardly brushing, dust off a moth's wing soft. His heart thumps, he can feel it with his fingers, pressing. He wonders, odd for him, what she looks like, undressing.
each nun my mother sees is shorter than the one after it. this too shall pass? name what came before. my father’s nightmare pregnancy. a baby so tiny it set sail on the lid of a toy dog’s battery pack belly. do tell. a baby so depressed it broke from the tractor beam and angered a normally whimsical race.
lost at land.
Jaws glanced the floor
as you made the scene
at hale and hearty
where food reigned
and laughter spilt,
raucous we flocked
amid moist meat
lavished in hot spice
whetting our whistles
on good spirits.
on glass screens
to feel the unseen
a master of the art
pulling me flush to your flank
as screaming ribs
expelled shooting stars
in lightning flashes
that arced to my blood red sky
while conscious hips fought
with unwitting urges
and lost to a straddling sea
of other-worldly delights.....
The barman glared
and we the raucous
stopped and stared
as she lost her grip
and supper hit the decks,
exposed in our coloured
intoxication he calls time;
some walk in a war of words
under hitched hems
toward a blaze of
hot leather 'neath
that paved my path to sleep.
In the light of the new morning,
He opens his eyes,
The Devil gets his warning,
And the heavens start to cry.
She utters a quick prayer
To always keep him safe
The Devil weeps in despair,
And a smile warps his face.
He was always quiet,
He was always kind,
At a young age the Devil tried to find,
But his mother’s prayer always declined.
One day she began to cough red,
The same day she breathed,
And the same breath she bled.
He clenched her on the bed,
She said her finals words and fled
The heavens began to dread,
The day the Devil would enter his head.
She looks beautiful walking down the aisle,
He greets her on the stand with a smile,
The priest begins the trial,
On Sunday the heavens sleep a while,
The Devil creeps out of denial.
She watches her son from above,
A tear rolls down her cheek,
She hears the Devil speak,
She tries to warn him,
But the heavens silence her screech.
The clock ticks,
He looks into its eyes,
His heart stops,
And the heavens start to cry.
He kisses her on the lips,
He cries his tears of wine,
The Devil feels fine,
Such an act must be sign.
He runs his fingers across the blade,
He looks into its eyes
He remembers his mother’s prayer
And his conscience begins to cry,
The tears of heaven begin to dry,
Like cancer it spreads across his mind,
While he begs the Devil to make him blind.
He looks all around,
His mind is deranged,
The Devil knew this was bound,
The heavens start to change.
He looks down at what could have been
He looks down at his biggest sin
The Devil only laughs,
While his world no longer spins
She comes home and it feels colder inside,
The man she loved has died,
And the Devil has taken his side.
She sees herself in the pool of red,
She sees it motionless on the bed,
She screams her scream of silent pain,
As the Devil slowly opens her vein
The wind is swooshing outside,
His heart is the Devil and his conscience is the Eye,
He gets up, weak with age,
The Devil cries his tears of sage.
His life is slipping away,
He goes and lies down in his grave,
He covers himself in his own pain,
The heavens begin to obey,
All in all, in the Devil’s cave.
The hopeless romantic plays the role of hoping for romance
While the worthless beggar begs for worthless change
Spark belief that we can be more than the eye sees
It strikes me, brief, that I don't want what I can't see
Can't see, so I can't believe; it's insane, to dream
Drink from the bottle, it's hollow after we swallow
Smash the bottle in my face, I'm smashed, so I space
Shards of glass cut my heart, It's hard to see, it's so dark
I stumble and I bleed, these streams of my being
The hopeless romantic plays the role of hoping for romance
While the frantic take away all that they can manage
Smiles stolen like kisses in the night, hold on for your life
Like a car crossing lanes, I'm panicked til' we hit the brakes
Break our necks in the race, let our souls explore outer space
Where I'll try to align the stars, to catch your eye
Beautifully catching the light, reflecting hopes and dreams
Of the hopeless romantic buried inside of me
She unwraps the bandage slowly
Careful not to disturb the damaged skin frayed on the edges
Sees the pool of blood already begin to spill down her arm
Notices the stain forming on her sheets
Curses their names, everyone who never did anything to help
Tears another piece of her gentle skin
Slashes away at her arms, stomach, legs before falling back into the bed