If you want my ex girlfriend, she's up for grabs.
But if you sleep with her, you will get the *****.
It's possible that you may get ****** too.
Sleeping with her is a stupid thing to do.
I caught her in bed with my cousin and I thumped her.
She sleeps with a lot of men, that's why I dumped her.
I'm giving you valuable advice so you'd better listen to me.
If you ****** my ex girlfriend, you are sure to get an STD.

I’m not allergic to bee stings – I never have been, I probably never will be – but I am more afraid of bees than anything else. More afraid than heights, than fire, than opening up to others, than death by drowning. I have been stung more times than I will ever be able to count. My skin has since grown thicker, but I remember when it was soft, and I was small. I used up the entire allowance of pain I was given for life in less than four minutes.
Perhaps I should specify that it’s not bees that I am afraid of, but wasps.
When I was nine years old, much younger than I am now, I stepped on a yellow jacket nest. My bare foot went into the hole and came out covered in their little striped bodies. There was this buzzing noise that at the time I’d thought was normal, but I now know that it was the sound of the wasps that were in my ears. They had been trying to crawl down my ear canals. I wonder if they had mistaken my canals for their burrows, and had been trying to get back to their queen, but were disappointed to find my ear drums, instead.
My sister – the same age – covered in wasps alongside me, screamed and screamed, but I made no noise. By the time I even thought to cry, I had been stung so many times it would have been pointless to weep for my swollen, red toes. I remember being unable to feel the wasps’ venom running through my veins because I couldn’t even feel my veins. If I would have cried for anything, it would have been for fear that, being unable to feel them, I might have lost track of my tiny feet. They could have walked away without my body and I wouldn’t have known. They could have walked to school and back without me.
Of course, my feet could barely walk. After my initial disgust, I watched my sister run away from where we had been standing and I knew that I should run, too. I could still feel the wasps crawling, clamoring, on my skin, in my clothes, in my hair. I remember the feeling of these bees crawling around among the roots of my hair, making themselves well-acquainted with the tender skin of my scalp. I remember being unable to get them all out of my hair before I walked into the house.
I knew that I should run, and so, balanced precariously on my numbed feet, clambered after her.
I followed my screaming sister down to our farmhouse, past my stepmother who was also screaming, even louder than my sister. I don’t remember where my father was that day.
We ran down the dirt road that led from the barns to our house, removing our shirts as we went and stopping to strip down to our underwear on the front porch. I remember the honks from cars as they passed by. I remember not knowing why they were honking, but knowing that I was angry with them for honking, for ogling, rather than stopping to help. I remember not knowing how they would help, just knowing that I needed help, desperately.
The irony of our stings is that my sister, a year later, was cast in our school’s operetta, and ended up playing the part of a yellow jacket, a sort of elementary-school-gangster, part of a group of them, who wore – you guessed it – yellow jackets and stole other bugs’ lunch money. I would say that, if the wasps that attacked me had been human, they would definitely have been after the money I used to buy Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies in the lunchroom.
If I had been stung even three years later, I would have been big enough to know that one doesn’t run around in untrimmed grass with no shoes on their feet for precisely this reason. If I had been stung three years earlier, I would have been too small, and dead. So I am grateful for even the smallest of coincidences, the tiny droplet of fate that had given me those stings on that day, at that age.


I would like to talk about pain transference. In your body, nerves often run between parts of yourself you never thought would be connected. If something hurts in your elbow, it wouldn’t shock you to find that your fingers hurt as well, but if your elbow hurt and so did your lower spine? You’d be a little confused.
This is pain transference.
It’s a form of generalized pain; you can locate the pain, it’s just not coming from any one place. You can feel the pain in more than one part of your body, though there’s no reason for anything other than your elbow to ache. This is also your body’s way of protecting you from pain. It’s not that this pain is more manageable, but that it is easier to understand. Your elbow might be more hurt than the ache lets on, but you can’t tell, because your lower back is throbbing.
Now imagine your body as a hive of wasps. Imagine each of these wasps as a nerve inside of said hive-body. Imagine the queen as this hive-body’s brain. What is your body’s goal? To protect the brain. What is a hive’s goal? To protect the queen. Each wasp is born with an instinctual dedication to the queen. They must protect this individual at all costs. Your body, on the other hand, does everything it possibly can to protect the part of you that makes you so unbearably you.
Yellow jackets are social creatures. Each wasp has its own purpose in the hive, and the three different ranks within this hierarchy are the queen, the drones, and the workers. The queen (who is the only member of the colony equipped by evolution to survive the winter; every other wasp is dispensable) lays eggs and fertilizes them using stored ***** from the spermatheca. Her only purpose is to reproduce. Occasionally the queen will leave an egg unfertilized, and this egg will develop into a male drone whose only purpose is also reproduction. The female workers are arguably the most important part of the hive. They build and defend the nest.
Only female yellow jackets are capable of stinging, and wasps will only sting if their colony is disturbed. This fact is new and interesting to me. I remember thinking that it would make so much sense if the only wasps in the colony who could sting were the females. Females have a motherly, nurturing nature about them, but they are protective and willing to make sacrifices as well. Lo and behold.
The females are the nerves. They transfer the pain from the queen to themselves (and then, if disturbed, to the third-party individual who has disturbed them).
Psychics view pain transference as the transferring of pain between bodies rather than the transferring of pain between separate parts of the same body, but it works in a very similar way. Different types of energy vibrate at different frequencies; loving energy vibrates at a higher frequency than dark energy, therefore they transfer between people at different rates. Pain is simply dark energy that holds a fatalistic power over us.
According to psychics, energy can be transferred through the mind, the body, and the spirit, but pain is mostly transferred through physical touch. To transfer pain to another human being, you must touch them in a way that is not beneficial to their own or your spiritual growth.


I would like to talk about smallness. I was nine when I was stung by these yellow jackets. I was nine and the first time I’d ever been stung was at a friend’s birthday party at maybe the age of seven, behind the knee, and it’d swelled up so large I couldn’t bend my knee for two days. I knew the dangers of disturbing wasp nests; I’d watched my friends all through elementary school getting stung on the wooden playground on the premises. I, myself, stuck to swing-sets and splinters.
I was always so careful. I never went near trees if I saw a nest in its branches. My teachers had told me that I should stay away from the part of our playground made up of tires, because the hornets liked to nest in the rubber. I was terrified of being stung again after that first time because all the mud in the world didn’t seem to make a difference. The wasp’s venom, even after drying up pile after pile of soft, wet dirt, made my limb stiff and sore. I was always so careful; it seems appropriate that the one time I’d been careless, I’d been stung enough times to make up for all the times I had avoided wasps as if my life had depended on it. Maybe it had.
I was small enough when I was nine. If I had been stung at six, or three, I would have been in a lot more trouble. I would have been in a lot more pain. At nine, my stings required calamine lotion and mud for the venom, and ice baths for the swelling. At six, they might have required a trip to the hospital. At three, they would have been much more alarming, considering I had never been stung by a bee by that age.
I was careless. It was summer and I was old enough to wear denim shorts and I had kicked off my flip flops so I could feel the grass under my feet and I was careless and I was punished for it. Now I watch my cousins and my niece play outside and I have to hold my tongue, remember that I am not responsible, that I cannot prevent their being stung, their stings, no matter how badly I want to.
I would like to talk about fate. I would like to talk about how, if I hadn’t been running barefoot, I wouldn’t have gotten stung so badly. I would like to talk about how if my father had been around to tell me not to run barefoot, at least my feet would have been safe. How, if I hadn’t been too stubborn to listen to my stepmom, too, I probably would have had shoes on. How, regardless of all of these things, I probably would have been stung no matter what.
In a world where people are stung by hornets every day – where people are stung by as many as I was, at once – I would like to say that I know now that this experience is not as unique as I had previously thought it to be. I know more people than I thought I did whose trauma involves insects smaller than their pinky finger but together cover their whole body, and venom. I know people who, when I tell them I was stung by hundreds of yellow jackets at the age of nine, shrug and say nonchalantly, “Hey, me too.”
I would like to talk about smallness, and fate. I would like to talk about not only physical smallness, but the smallness one feels when they are in pain.
Belittled might be the word I am looking for. My pain wasn’t belittled, per se, but my pain belittled me.
My pain made me feel small. My pain made me feel small when I was stripping my clothes off on my front porch, cars racing by on the state highway that ran past my house. When I was running my fingers through my hair under the faucet in my kitchen sink because my sister was older and always got first dibs on the shower. As these wasps that hadn’t suffocated under my hair stung my fingers, too, until they were as swollen as my toes. My pain made me feel small when it made me pity myself.


I would like to talk about standing up for yourself as an act of causing pain.
Honeybees, when they sting, are defending themselves and their queen, but they don’t know that when they sting, it will become lodged underneath the skin of whomever they sting and it will pull them apart and they will die.
I imagine the first time a wasp stings to be a sort of power trip. Female wasps can – and will – sting repeatedly to protect the colony. I also imagine they don’t know that their relative the honeybee dies after it stings, but it must be strange for them, nonetheless.
Have you ever seen a video of a woman protecting herself and those she loves? She’s vicious. She won’t stop until the perpetrator has retreated.
When a woman stands up for herself, though, it’s as if she’s tearing herself in half.
A woman standing up for herself is a dangerous thing, both dangerous for her and for those around her. It is an act of bravery and defiance and saving grace all in one.
A few weeks ago, I overheard someone equate being female with being terminally ill, as if we have no place to go but down. As if we are dying creatures, on our last leg of life, with no will to fight for what we want.
As if the pain of the world is being transferred into us all at once.
I would like to argue that it is the exact opposite. There is nothing more alive and breathing than femaleness.I am inseparable from my femaleness. I am inseparable from the that leaks from me when I think of all of the times I have been harmed But I am not inseparable from the pain that I have caused others. I cannot forget that.


I like to imagine sometimes what my stings would have been like if I had gotten them ten years later, as well. I am much bigger. I am much stronger. I am much more capable of handling pain than my nine-year-old counterpart.
I wish I could have been the one to have to handle that pain. I wish my nine-year-old self had known better than to let her foot fall into a yellow jacket nest. I think it’s unfair that, at such an early age, I had to deal with something so terrifying and painful and traumatic. My extremities were swollen for over a week. I couldn’t write, I could close the zipper on my backpack, I couldn’t turn the pages of a book. I couldn’t go to school, and I couldn’t read in bed, so it might be enough to say that the week I was kept out of school to elevate my legs and let the swelling go down was the most boring week of my entire life.
Sometimes I look at my ankles, swollen from blood flow, from standing too long or from sitting too long or from doing anything except elevating them, and I’m reminded of this time when my ankles were much thinner and I watched them on the end of the couch, my toes pointing toward the ceiling. I remember how terrified my mom was. I imagine that phone call must have been harrowing for her – Hi, Michelle, Em’s been hurt. No, she’s fine. Just a few bee stings is all. – and for her to see me for the first time, red and splotchy and itching myself like mad must have been even more so.
I think about my father’s reaction, how I hadn’t been around to see it, but how he must have been heartbroken at knowing he wasn’t there to protect me, to prevent the bees from attacking me. I believe, however, that there was no protecting me, that there was no preventing these wasps from defending their home against me, an infiltrator. I had stepped inside of their burrow and was instantly seen as a threat. Anything I see as a threat to myself, I instantly want to rid myself of.
This is the way of the world: we see something, we determine it to be good or bad, and we either bring it into our lives or defend ourselves from it depending upon which it turns out to be. I happened to be the ultimate evil in these wasps’ lives. They were simply protecting their queen, without whom their hive would no longer exist. I was dark energy, vibrating in a way that spoke to them as threatening. I was transferring pain to them when my foot stepped into the hole, and they were transferring it back to me when they stung me. I transferred energy into the ground as my feet thumped against it. Water transferred energy into me as it helped me rinse wasps out of my hair.
From pain to protection to pity, back to pain. From bee stings to womanhood to sadness and back again. One shouldn’t be afraid to introduce the things they’ve lost to the things they’ve loved, or the things they love to the things they’re afraid of. And I am afraid of wasps. Petrified, even. The other day, driving in my car, I rolled the window down and in, immediately, flew a yellow jacket. I watched as it she flew past me and then around the back of my head. I heard her and was immediately transported back in time. I wondered what she was doing in my car, so far from her queen. I wondered what was in my car that she possibly could have wanted. But I knew that she wasn’t there to hurt me, because I hadn’t invaded her home. I hadn’t made an attack on her queen. I knew there was no sense in panicking, so I didn’t. I didn’t panic.
I am afraid of things even though they won’t **** me, but I have watched myself face these fears. I have stumbled onto a Ferris wheel and then walked confidently off. I have left candles lit without standing to check on them after every episode of The Office I watch. I have loved people I never thought I would, and I have seen the other side.

She sang the trot like she owned the narrative,
as if she was singing about her inner most secret.

-The  lady who lost her lover
The place where she met him
The Place with the Camellia flower

It was a place of summer and ray bloomed
while it matched the radiance of the two Paramour
and a reminder of their internal chest thumped in unison

In the street where they first met she stood alone
fatigued with no more breath to give
Many nights shed her tears by the Camellia flowers

Now the flower leave crumbled
The petals showed it's red bruises
and falling like the tear drops

When will the lover come back to her
To the lonely Camellia Flower
When will he come back-

The song ends with a grasp
as this German lady song ends with her whisper
To the Korean Trot song of the past

To the song "Lady Camellia!"

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered there) - 'Could one ever describe
this?' And I answered - 'I can.' It was then that
something like a smile slid across what had previously
been just a face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]

DEDICATION

Mountains fall before this grief,
A mighty river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And an anguish close to death.
Fresh winds softly blow for someone,
Gentle sunsets warm them through; we don't know this,
We are everywhere the same, listening
To the scrape and turn of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking early, as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed,
We'd meet - the dead, lifeless; the sun,
Lower every day; the Neva, mistier:
But hope still sings forever in the distance.
The verdict. Immediately a flood of tears,
Followed by a total isolation,
As if a beating heart is painfully ripped out, or,
Thumped, she lies there brutally laid out,
But she still manages to walk, hesitantly, alone.
Where are you, my unwilling friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What miracle do you see in a Siberian blizzard?
What shimmering mirage around the circle of the moon?
I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell.
[March 1940]

INTRODUCTION
[PRELUDE]

It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their release,
That Leningrad hung around its prisons
Like a worthless emblem, flapping its piece.
Shrill and sharp, the steam-whistles sang
Short songs of farewell
To the ranks of convicted, demented by suffering,
As they, in regiments, walked along -
Stars of death stood over us
As innocent Russia squirmed
Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres
Of the black marias.

I

You were taken away at dawn. I followed you
As one does when a corpse is being removed.
Children were crying in the darkened house.
A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God. . .
The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold
sweat
On your brow - I will never forget this; I will gather

To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy (1)
Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]

II

Silent flows the river Don
A yellow moon looks quietly on
Swanking about, with cap askew
It sees through the window a shadow of you
Gravely ill, all alone
The moon sees a woman lying at home
Her son is in jail, her husband is dead
Say a prayer for her instead.

III

It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't.
Not like this. Everything that has happened,
Cover it with a black cloth,
Then let the torches be removed. . .
Night.

IV

Giggling, poking fun, everyone's darling,
The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo (2)
If only you could have foreseen
What life would do with you -
That you would stand, parcel in hand,
Beneath the Crosses (3), three hundredth in
line,
Burning the new year's ice
With your hot tears.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
With not a sound - how many innocent
Blameless lives are being taken away. . .
[1938]

V

For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers
For you, my son and my horror.
Everything has become muddled forever -
I can no longer distinguish
Who is an animal, who a person, and how long
The wait can be for an execution.
There are now only dusty flowers,
The chinking of the thurible,
Tracks from somewhere into nowhere
And, staring me in the face
And threatening me with swift annihilation,
An enormous star.
[1939]

VI

Weeks fly lightly by. Even so,
I cannot understand what has arisen,
How, my son, into your prison
White nights stare so brilliantly.
Now once more they burn,
Eyes that focus like a hawk,
And, upon your cross, the talk
Is again of death.
[1939. Spring]

VII
THE VERDICT

The word landed with a stony thud
Onto my still-beating breast.
Nevermind, I was prepared,
I will manage with the rest.

I have a lot of work to do today;
I need to slaughter memory,
Turn my living soul to stone
Then teach myself to live again. . .

But how. The hot summer rustles
Like a carnival outside my window;
I have long had this premonition
Of a bright day and a deserted house.
[22 June 1939. Summer. Fontannyi Dom (4)]

VIII
TO DEATH

You will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; things have become too hard.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a shell of noxious gas. Creep up on me
Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with a typhoid exhalation,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of nausea), take me
Before the commander of the blue caps and let me
glimpse
The house administrator's terrified white face.
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Swirls on. The Pole star blazes.
The blue sparks of those much-loved eyes
Close over and cover the final horror.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi Dom]

IX

Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.

That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.

However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:

Not my son's frightening eyes -
A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms

Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

X
CRUCIFIXION

Weep not for me, mother.
I am alive in my grave.

1.
A choir of angels glorified the greatest hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To his father he said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
[1940. Fontannyi Dom]

2.
Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The favourite disciple turned to stone,
But there, where the mother stood silent,
Not one person dared to look.
[1943. Tashkent]

EPILOGUE

1.
I have learned how faces fall,
How terror can escape from lowered eyes,
How suffering can etch cruel pages
Of cuneiform-like marks upon the cheeks.
I know how dark or ash-blond strands of hair
Can suddenly turn white. I've learned to recognise
The fading smiles upon submissive lips,
The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh.
That's why I pray not for myself
But all of you who stood there with me
Through fiercest cold and scorching July heat
Under a towering, completely blind red wall.

2.
The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who resisted the long drag to the open window;
The one who could no longer feel the kick of familiar
soil beneath her feet;
The one who, with a sudden flick of her head, replied,

'I arrive here as if I've come home!'
I'd like to name you all by name, but the list
Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look.
So,
I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble
words
I overheard you use. Everywhere, forever and always,
I will never forget one single thing. Even in new
grief.
Even if they clamp shut my tormented mouth
Through which one hundred million people scream;
That's how I wish them to remember me when I am dead
On the eve of my remembrance day.
If someone someday in this country
Decides to raise a memorial to me,
I give my consent to this festivity
But only on this condition - do not build it
By the sea where I was born,
I have severed my last ties with the sea;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the hallowed stump
Where an inconsolable shadow looks for me;
Build it here where I stood for three hundred hours
And no-one slid open the bolt.
Listen, even in blissful death I fear
That I will forget the Black Marias,
Forget how hatefully the door slammed and an old woman
Howled like a wounded beast.
Let the thawing ice flow like tears
From my immovable bronze eyelids
And let the prison dove coo in the distance
While ships sail quietly along the river.
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

FOOTNOTES

1 An elite guard which rose up in rebellion
   against Peter the Great in 1698. Most were either
   executed or exiled.
2 The imperial summer residence outside St
   Petersburg where Ahmatova spent her early years.
3 A prison complex in central Leningrad near the
   Finland Station, called The Crosses because of the
   shape of two of the buildings.
4 The Leningrad house in which Ahmatova lived.


First published Sasha Soldatow Mayakovsky in Bondi
BlackWattle Press 1993 Sydney.

In a little pub in London,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Night came, a ***** black night with rain.
Mid-December, nineteen hundred and thirty nine,
Just a few months before ****** turned London's
sky black with lead.
But for now,
Moriarty drank his beer,
Sat solemnly in the candle-lit corner.
He gazed ruefully into his drink,
Like a haggard old grey ghost.
He was tired and felt strange and lost
in this faraway disgusting place.
The whorey smell of the city.
He felt a million and one miles away
from his home.
He was born in a little white cottage,
straw roof, on a small tragic island
off the West of Ireland;
Just a few stone-trows away from
the sleepy fishing village of the
village of Kinsheenlan.
Moriarty had often written letters to
his lonesome mother dearest,
but instead of tossing the letters
into gloomy London post-boxes,
he would post them into
the pub's fireplace.
Fuel for his shame.
Alas, the curse of drink had taken
over his soul and mind.
The sweet poison was now
his only pleasure,
his only softness.

So there he sat, drinking the Devil's drop,
like a mop soaks up spills on the counter-top.
And blowing out sliver smoke rings
all through those long winter nights.
Give to Moriarty to drink mandragora,
until he becomes muddied and slow.
Those rose colored glasses that he had
on for so long now,
they were not going to shield him forever.
As he transfixed his eyes on his beer,
he heard a voice,
a wondrous voice,
at first he thought it lay alone in his mind,
but it was coming from down the hallway,
the sounds of a young maiden's song,
wild and free.
It made his heart feel the substance of his life.
That fabulous blue center-light delight of song.
Sounding so alike to his sister Betty.
It shook him to his core.

Moriarty, the poor lost soul,
had not seen his sister in twenty odd years.
He recalled their last meeting.

The ship has set sail into an ocean, black and calm.
Just that morning, Moriarty got the letter from his mother,
Handwritten in felt tip, slightly stained with a tear,
Telling him to keep warm and stay safe,
To fill his stomach and fill his pockets.

As his sister stood on Dublin's docks to see him off and wish him well
She shrinks with the distance growing between and
She looks twelve and three quarter years younger than she did that day,
The little girl who Moriarty fought with all the live long day over nothing.
Now, she was the women who put up a fight over his sailing away.
Sometimes, brothers and sisters never change.

She knew that this was for the best, but she would never admit that,
Not with words,
She felt her words, weightless would have just sailed right away with him.
Moriarty wondered what she will look like if he seen her again,
Will she have received wrinkles from worrying about mother?
Will her chestnut hair have turned white as the snow burying her bare feet?
And now
Betty was all Moriarty's mother had, after Moriarty's father,
a fisherman, drowned that awful November night.

Then, just as Moriarty thought of his ghostling past,
there came the question
'Are you going home for Christmas, dear?'
Asked the barmaid,
Her words dripping like honey into Moriarty's half-empty-glass.
'Sure, I have not been to Ireland in an age, but I know for certain
that my mother is waiting for me with arms open' Moriarty answered.
But he was unsure if his own poor mother would recognize him
for it had been so long.
But just then, Moriarty heard the Christmas-bell-like-voice of
the women standing, singing in the hallway.
The past came into consciousness like a flood.
And in the corner of his eye,
there glazed, the starting of a tear.
Moriarty pushed aside his beer glass-half-full and
said to himself
'I shall be home for Christmas day'.

After two weeks, long weeks
Gone drink nor smoke,
Moriarty have sharped up enough pounds and pennies
to bring him to his home of Ireland.
And while on that train through the lands, green and beautiful,
The deeper into the West Moriarty went
the stronger he felt it,
a beat, beat, beat that thumped and rang out in his chest.
Night fell by the time Moriarty set foot in Kinsheelan,
The church bells rang true and strong sixfold.
Moriarty was unrecognized by the sailor Tomas Bawn,
As he climbed into the little white boat
to sail home across the calm, blue, winter-waters,
to that same white cottage.
Tomas Bawn heard Moriarty as he said to himself
in little more then a whisper
'Thank God above, I shall be home for Christmas day'.


In a little pub in London,
Moriarty's abode,
By the hallway door,
A letter, unread,
Laid upon the floor, It read-

'Oh dear Danny,
Our poor mother has passed.
The funeral will take place
In Kinsheelan church
After mass
On Christmas day'.




-Jamie F. Nugent

Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.

cc1210

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate,
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said.
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale;
He said, "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil--
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed one's self on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue,
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for *****;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
Your honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.

We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.

After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia. Ordinary clothes, bought for their ordinariness.

I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.

Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”

Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.”  Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.

He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.

We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.

“How’s school going?” Annick asked later, moving some of my fly-away hair out of my face - a trace of the maternal in her solicitous fussing - but I liked it.
“Easy peasy,” I said, the lie warming me like an ember or black magic.

There’s no real sibling rivalry between us. Imagine you’re Beyoncé’s sister, what are the odds that you’ll eclipse Beyoncé? Yeah, it’s ZERO.

“Ha!” she laughs, “you are such a little fibber.”
“I am NOT,” I hotly say, but my defense is ruined by my laugh. “I’m doing ok - but it’s a lot,” I say, to erase the fib.

They’re ENGAGED!
I tried not to act stunned but I doubt I was very convincing. The news thumped me like a gust of wind. Suddenly, I knew. Our yesterdays were no more substantial than a story we’d read together growing up, that you can mourn and rejoice at the same time.

Otherwise it was a family lunch, although at first I was a bit nervous around Gerard. At one point Annick says, “What are you doing?” as the table gently quivered.
I smiled wincingly, “Making circles with my ankles,” I said.
Annick smiled knowingly.

talent
I peered upon the clouds
I drive through the ocean of talent
I sat on the stage
I sank the expresses of talent
I relish the cliff of talent
I consinder the lands of talent
I rush toward the cliff of talent
I stayed on the stage
the stage became me
the commander of talent thumped my spirit
in the end I withdrew.

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.


Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.


With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ******, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.


I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'

There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight
and all of them
making me sad,

they're all of them
thumping on tubs tonight
and waving
American flags,

and it's not so much
the waving I mind,
or the sound
of tubs being thumped,

it's more the thought
that human kind
will thump them
for someone like Trump..

Dear Lover,

                    I am holding my heart in my hand, so I have decided to show it to you. Show you every pump, line, and hole. It is dark in some places but I don't think you mind. You are a lover of phrases, and a lover of my soul. I never thought I'd feel this way. You were the exact opposite of what my heart usually throbbed for. I found my nose in a permanent scrunch, kind of like the lines between your eyebrows. Ugly, stressed strings of life that pulled your face down into a constant state of negativity. I imagined you making love to me in a submissive manner and my nose almost fell off. When you kissed me that first time, I knew that there was nothing between us because you didn't even know how to kiss. I was in a state of disappointment 99% of the time because you were the exact opposite of who I wanted. My mouth betrayed me by laughing at you the other 1% of the time.
                   But that 1% quietly sneaked through every beat of my heart. It wove into the blood pumping into my lungs that helped me to breathe. I realized you were funnier than you had let on. I saw that your eyes changed during the day for I had only seen you at night. They were an endless clique ocean. Sharp and frosty, giving me a chill when you smiled at me. The one percent grew, stretching across my body until I could no longer breathe when you weren't around. I imagined you loving me and I had to sit down. When you kissed me, I knew you had been lying because my heart thumped, thumped, thumped and I was in awe, glad we were tangled together because I feared I'd vanish into your lips.
                     It hit me as you kissed me by the orange glow of the heater. So much that I had to pull away and gasp. Because I realized that I could breathe again after pulling you into my arms. It hit me when you took one of my cigarettes and smoked it whole. It hit me when you told me my eyes were beautiful and I saw your reflection in them. It hit me as you glowed like a god and I saw what beauty was. It hit me when you held me down and touched me as if I've never been touched.
                    Because I hadn't been. Before you. Dearest lover, I cannot say enough words to speak for my heart. All I can say is that I am in love with you. I am in love with the smell of alcohol on your breath because I know you will want to kiss me.The only time you yearn for my soft kisses. I am in love with the way you laugh when I say something funny. When you say those three words, I feel my ****** surfacing when it's been at bay my whole life and I am in love with you. I am in love with you even though you are crazy as ****.
                    I want to be one of the voices you hear. I want them to tell you to love me so I won't be so insecure all the time and that you think I'm ugly. I want my voice to fill your head until I am the reason you go crazy. It's ****** up, I know. And I lied when I said that I would fall in love with you if we got married. Because I was in love with you the first time you asked. I was in love with you as I read your writing and I looked for myself in them. I knew I wouldn't be in them but I was still searching, searching, searching. Seeking myself in your beautiful words and lovely phrases.
                   You see the world under a colored glass mirror and I am in love with you. I am in love with every piece of fabrication that is you. It's a scary thing, how much I love you. I know you do not love me too. So I write this letter, knowing you can read it which scares me the most. Because my feelings are scary and I know you will leave like the rest of them. But I am in love with you.
                    So, stay in the glow of the orange light so that I may memorize this sight. When I am crying, I will be able to think back and remember the night that you were a god, and I a goddess. Back to the night when I felt beautiful.
                     And I am in love with you.

                                                      With facetious chagrin, Me.

Dear Me,

The magic of holding your heart in your hand has me afraid of its power. What has given you this ability? Because I want to find it, and give it a light knock on the head so it will reconsider a gift to you that would seem great, but only endanger you.

Looking around my desk where I read your letter, I see the signs of a troubled man. Could you feel my trouble when you came down to my community and saw its signs as well? By driving down, you set a record for yourself, and you set a record for me--because I am racing at breakneck speed to love you.

But I am not fast enough, nor wise enough, to love you. I can only arrange you in your communist jacket like a Christian student still life. I can only blow into your mouth and hope you feel my lungs, half-collapsed filters for cigarette smoke and vapor. I can walk beside you, but I cannot live inside because I am restless and unchoosing.

You will get me. Put your heart back inside and ******* a kiss until we untangle the world around us. Then at the center, I hope we remain, hearts thumping healthy again.

Remember, even though you let me in I still don't know your password.

Lover

It’s hard to intervene when people fight.
Recall being thumped for “bullying” a lad
Who’d harassed ME.
So hard to tell
Who’s right or wrong.
Who made the first jibe
Or struck the first blow?

The same with global conflicts too:
Irish Catholic or Protestant?
Israel or Palestine?
Communist Country or Capitalist?
The list goes on…

Best keep out of it if you can.
Do not make judgement,
Just mediate as best you can.
Preach fairness and conciliation:
Do your best to facilitate
Peace.

Paul Butters

And I like to pretend...

I like to pretend that my
Thoughts mean nothing
That my heart's beat
Is drumming to something

I like to pretend that
The school bus
Wasn't
The first place that I
Learned to trust

I like to pretend that
This technology hasn't
Completely consumed me,
That I still have a chance
At saving or being saved,
That my soul
Isn't always running on
Empty

I like to pretend that
These skies can truly
Lift me into the clouds
That my pulse has never
Thumped so loud
That every night and
Every star isn't
Praying to tumble down

I like to pretend that
I'm a girl in a dress
Instead of the girl
In my head,
The one that's always
Swimming in a
Drug induced mess

I like to pretend that
These crayons make
Some type of valuable art
That my life hasn't
Been splattered on the
Walls from the start

I like to pretend..

I like to pretend that
The air isn't what suffocates
That the death of expression
Isn't why my heart breaks
That my thoughts have
Always found a way
To halt earth quakes

I like to pretend that
I don't know how to rhyme
And that these stupid
******* words aren't
Eating up all my time
That everything I've
Ever imagined was real
Outside the brink of my mind

I like to pretend that
The lighter's flame at night
Wraps me in faux warmth
Cozy and tight
That I've never dreamed
Of dying in spite

I like to pretend
That this world is real
That no one has ever
Taken my soul to steal
Every ounce of happiness
Away,
So that I could never again
Learn how to feel

I like to pretend
Because I never let the child
Die inside my head
And I've never let mild
Attacks boil my blistering skin
And I've never done
Anything I couldn't love
After a while

I like to pretend
Because it's all that I have
Left
Because it's the only
Thing that I've
Kept
And out the door you
Stepped
So still I pretend
Because it keeps me
Well slept

'Haddock's Eyes' or 'The Aged Aged Man' or
'Ways and Means' or 'A-Sitting On A Gate'

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please.'

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That it could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, 'Come, tell me how you live!'
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale;
He said, 'I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze.
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil--
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.'

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue;
'Come, tell me how you live,' I cried
'And what it is you do!'

He said, 'I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

'I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for *****;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that's the way' (he gave a wink)
'By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honor's noble health.'

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening long ago
A-sitting on a gate.

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread—
A trifle; if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said, "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar-Oil—
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for *****;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth—
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know—
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo—
That summer evening long ago
A-sitting on a gate.

I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.

Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.

My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.

She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.

I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.

How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.

I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.

How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.

(There’s something that I keep in my pocket, a piece of dental floss, flavourless now, chewed to a white nothing by my own mouth to wring out every strand of his DNA, but now it just tastes of me and nothing else.)

My sister was wearing a black dress made of crepe. I remember it so well, the way it scrunched up in my fingers like paper, my knuckles juxtaposed against the colour, white with tension, against a bottomless backdrop of black. I held onto that dress like a terrified child. For that moment, it was the only thing that existed for me.

gotta sit here, gotta stay, gotta sit here.

(Memories of bumblebees with their innards hanging out,
“make it start mama, make it start!” it’s a common reaction amongst children so I’m told.)

I did not feel his soul sliding past me. I didn’t feel a thing, not a single thing.
Is it the same as turning off a TV? Energy dispersing into the ether? A kettle boiling, bubbles stilling? How can he have just…stopped?

He stopped.

I have felt many things in my life. The whole spectrum, from dizzing highs to drug doped ecstasies, suicidal jaunts to white-edged nothingnesses. But I had never felt abandoned before. Not truly, sincerely, abandoned. Marooned. Bitter. Desperately bitter. Terribly, terribly frightened and deeply alone.

There’s nothing like the smell of flowers to jolt the senses.

I let go of my sister’s dress and walked – not ran -  but walked out into the daylight.
I remember that I had my head held high - I could have just been going for a smoke, going to make a phone call, going to check that the sky was still up in the air and not down on the floor like a carpet of bluebells , but when I reached the door of the church I started to run.
I ran right in front of cars – **** it! – across the road to a half deserted carpark, winding through the cars like a ******, and slunk down to the floor in front of a parked white van. I thumped my head against the cool metal of the bumper and started to shake. I remember my body feeling somehow too big and too small all at once, I remember laughing at one point because it seemed like the right thing to do. My shaved head hit my knees with a thwack.
I’m not here, I’m not real, I’m a black and white thing, I’m just a black and white thing...
But I was real, and there was no escaping it. All of it was real. The carpark was real. The flowers were real. The only thing that was not real was the thing that mattered the most.
“You ****.”
I got up. I started to kick the van, kick the wall behind me, and kick the air.
You read about it in stories and you see it in films, people losing their marbles and hitting out, heroically bleeding from the knuckles, stinging, saying ‘ah, ah.’ None of that happened for me. I hit so hard I thought I’d broken my hand, but my bones are ******* stubborn. The world is ******* stubborn. My mouth felt like it was bleeding, but it was just laced in a cobweb of spit.
“You ****! You ****! You ****!”
I took off my suit jacket and draped it over my head, pulling it tight; a black ghost in a carpark in the countryside.
I felt an arm wind its way around my waist, and the rustle of crepe.
I sobbed up my grief like catarrh, the lining of my jacket wet with spit and the inevitable chawing tempest of tears that caved in my stomach like a perfect punch.
“I’m losing my mind.”
My sister grabbed onto my hand and squeezed, hard.
“No you’re not, Arthur.” She said to me, with certainty.
“No you’re not.”

It was a beautiful rainy day.The rains showered like blessings from the sky to mother earth.The drops drizzled over several stunning creations of God. The ***** frog winked in fright when the tiny drop thumped on its peeping head which it had kept out from its water world curious to know what's happening outside.The lazy ladybird hides itself in the rug of leaves it hopped and played till then.Little dusty leaves quivered with joy as they rejoiced and celebrated the long waited bath.

      Far aloof,the village looked so spanking new than ever after it was wetted by the light rain.so modest,so composed,the radiating sun put itself out of sight making way to the pompous clouds.Besides all these petite feelings,the livid eagle gaped at the sky sniping for it had missed its daily glide over the rusty mountains.

      All these tiny things shaped out the background,while the main subject remains undescribed yet.The big fat buffalo stands aright in tranquility as if nothing new happened.Its skin so tight,shining so bright,created a beautiful sight as the raindrops tapped on it pitter patter.Its horns like engraved artifacts mirrored each other and stood still amazed at their similarity.The momentary muddy puddle covered up its hooves.

      And now comes the most interesting foreground of the picture. It’s the little cute boy!!! Small dark brown eyes...Umpteen hopes filled in them. He wore the most beautiful jewel on his face....it’s his smile gleaming with merriment. While his tiny hands held tight the wicker, his entire little body hid itself behind the huge gunny he wore to shield against the shower. He hopped over the small puddle creating beautiful waves and exquisite splashes.

      And that forms the most beautiful picture about which my dad told me.The little boy is none other than my dad. :) :) .

at the age of 6 my heart thumped and my pulse ran, trying to save itself from you.
i might’ve been young and you were too, but still my heart thumped.
i started to get the idea of your presence.
even though the memory faded and your face did too, i will never forget you.

when i reached the age of 8, i distinctly remember you asking my name. & my mind froze.
my tongue turned the other way, i had forgotten my manners but still in my mind i was responding.
even though we exchanged thoughts, and i had forgotten to tell you my name – i still remember you.
i always replayed memories we never made, sounds strange but i was only a kid, i was only subloving. my heart kept thumping.

and then when i was 10, i started to recognize the way you form your thoughts and paint them for the world to see.
i stared for hours at your masterpieces, i didn’t understand but still i wanted more.
i became addicted to your voice.
you were once hurt by words, words that cut through your skin like a thin blade. you were broken, yet you still lived.
my heart kept thumping for you. i respected that.

at 12 – beautiful age 12, i watched you as you sat on a bench sketching a tree in colors of black and white. i admired you. i liked the way you formed a smile, and i loved the passion in your eyes, and the ambition you had for life.
you gave your heart to art, and loved conversation.
even though right now we’re miles away, the memories will always stay.
we never spoke, but our eyes did, i remember us exchanging metaphors with our eye lids.
my heart has your name engraved.

then came 14, and i learned about real love. keep your cool love, don’t be scared to say **** love, express yourself even if nobody cares love, this is not forever love, you’re just a kid love.
you taught me that love.
although that love choked me, i still had that ‘i don’t care, **** it im young’ love.
you taught me to respect me, and love the ripples i feel when my heart hurts.
you deserve the thank you kinda love.
i was reluctant to embrace those feelings, but i guess right now i can hold myself down.

but my biggest mistake was forgetting 16, i started to fall in love with the way you articulated your words. your speech pattern was beyond my words.
your footsteps was all i wanted to follow.
my only wish is for you to see yourself through my eyes, through my world and you would finally understand why my heart was thumping.

im desperately waiting for 18.

i learned only one thing: nothing gold can stay. nothing lasts forever.

Dalya argues
with the German,
but she understands
nothing he says.

Fick dich?
What's that mean?
She asks me.

Best you don't know.

Is he swearing at me?

I nod.
The German walks off;
his broad shoulders swinging.

Who does
he thinks he is?

German, I guess.

She gestures
with her middle digit
at his departing back.
What did he say?
She asks.

Guess.

Sounded rude.

The German guy
has gone around a corner.
(I am glad).

We walk
to the next café
and sit at a table
near the window.

A waitress
takes our order
and walks off
to the back,
her hips swaying
her black skirt.

He was in the wrong,
Dalya says.

Guess he
didn't think so.

But he was
and his attitude stank
and he was **** ugly.

She foams at the mouth;
her eyes are bright
and full of anger.

Life's too short.

Short or long
that Square Head
was in the wrong.

I look at her
sitting there;
the hair drawn tight
in a bun
at the back
of her head;
her jaws rigid.

She smells
of cheap soap
and cigarettes.

If I was a man,
I’d have thumped him.

If you had been a man
he'd have thumped
you first.

The waitress
brings our order
and puts out
the coffees
and cream cakes,
then smiling at me,
she walks off,
swaying again.

I imagine;
thinking of
another place
and time.

Fick dich, to him, too,
she says,
stirring her coffee.

I imagine he might.

What?

Do as you request.

She looks at me,
her eyes focusing on me
like an eagle at prey.

And to think
they thought they
were a superior race.

Human error, I suppose.

They weren't;
I had relatives
gassed in Belsen.

She looks away;
her eyes watery;
lips drawn tight.

That's not down to race,
that's down
to human folly
and wickedness.
I had a friend
whose father helped
clear out Belsen;
he was in the army;
****** his head,
I say.

She says nothing;
silence descends
and caresses us
in its cold arms;
breathing in our ears.

I look at her;
eyes full of tears.

May 2013
Memorial day weekend
It was warm with promises of sun
Beautiful blue skies
And no cloud in sight
Seattle prepared for crowds
People swarming the Center
For folk music, food
Laughter and smiles shining bright

My leg, a bright red
I woke up
Burning hot with red seeping up my leg
Pain swarmed my back
Tears gathering
In corners of my eyes
As I was admitted
To the emergency room
Greeted with morphine, leaving me in a haze

*** induced haze
Lingering around the fountain
Families occupied the edge
Children running in and out
Collecting droplets of water
Along with sunburns
While groups of friends
Gathering in drum circles
Slow rhythmic thumping could be heard for miles

My son’s heartbeat
Thumped in my ears
I watched the fear
As he focused on the antibiotic drips
Invading my body
The days in clipped moments
Passing in and out
With each wave of fever
And the doctors
Tattooed my leg with sharpie

Artwork was only one thing
Found in the vendor alley
People flooded the booths
Snatching up
Brightly colored creations
As they headed to find
Dance troupes, bollywood
Inspired activities
With stomping feet, swaying arms

They placed the central line
Into my right arm
My body had clogged each IV
the doctors warned me
If the redness started
To show patterns of serrating
Then they would have to take my leg
Diazepam had me slurring out
I am fine, I am fine

Memorial Day
A time of remembrance
Services to be held
Events to commemorate
All the fallen
From a concert at Museum of Flight
To baseball game with Seattle Mariners
To appreciate, appreciate

It took ten days
For me to be released
May 2013, Memorial Day weekend
I would always remember
As the beginning
Of my growing struggle
With gradual loss of mobility

I am fine, I am fine

I'll tell thee everything I can:
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.

'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.
He said, 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please.'
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.

So having no reply to give
To what the old man said, I cried
'Come, tell me how you live!'
And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale:

He said 'I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar-Oil --
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.'

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day '
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
'Come, tell me how you live,' I cried,
'And what it is you do!'

He said, 'I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

'I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for *****:
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way' (he gave a wink)
'By which I get my wealth --
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health.'

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know --
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo-
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

Someone smoked a pipe too long
and dark tufts filled the cyan expanse,
then they rumbled and thumped too loud
startling us below, enough to crane our neck
and look above.
They must have sneezed,
and excuse them please,
for the rushing wind could have stolen
their mumbled apology.
And amidst the puffy mist,
there could have been adrift,
a downy, now wet, handkerchief.

~

There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent

To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on

My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads

She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The **** interrupted,
“Didn’t, don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort  

This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,

“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”

Perplexed she climbed upon its back,
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…

Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray

She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up

When it appeared hopping happily,
jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy

Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me

*And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…..

He sang to me on the porch step.
I watched him whimper
hitting the last note.
It thumped,
and I wished I didn't hear it.

So soft
and ridged,
like rivers
stones,
and waterfalls.
Such a happy imagination
at first glance
and a sad and
seapy
way down.
Ears on fire
notes like water
my voice slacks
in such ways.
Feel it!
Believe in it!
for voices will not
stay!

Him singing
there
like songs
are not melodies.

Such a sad way to be.

Janice you thought
prettier than Helen
more refined

whose voice
was softly spoken
as if her words

had been fresh baked
in an oven
in her mouth

and her hair fair
and well groomed
but Helen had

that down to earthiness
that brought her
closer to you

and something about
her thin framed
thick lens glasses

made her seem
more lovable
to your boyish world

and she stared at you
through them
and smiled

that shy smile
and said things
with a rough edge

as if she’d bounced
the words around
before she uttered them aloud

you can come to tea
and we’ll have bread and jam
and a big mug of tea

or if mum’s remembered
lemonade
she said at playtime

in the playground
out of hear shot
of the other boys

who kicked ball
or who swapped cards
or threw marbles

along the ground
or fought battles
with imaginary swords

or shot pretend bullets
from rat-a-tat guns
and she said

to entice you more
you can see my new doll
my dad brought back

from the store
ok
you said

sure
and she smiled
and her nose creased up

and her glasses moved
and some small place
in your chest thumped

like furniture being dropped
or a bed being bounced
in some small hotel

and you watched her
go off to play skip rope
that thin framed

thick lens glasses
working-class
school girl.

Miryam was sitting in the bar
of the base camp
outside Madrid

you sat next to her
on your second Bacardi
drawing on a smoke

she was sipping a glass
of white wine
where'd you get to last night?

she asked
thought you were going
to come to my tent?

thought your tent mate
would be there
you said

no we had a row
and she went to share
with Moaning Margaret

Miryam said
didn't know
you said

else I'd have come along
she sipped her wine
looking around the bar

spent a lonely night
she said
you exhaled smoke

and looked at her
taking in her frizzy
red hair

her eyes
her small tight ****
her tongue licking

the lips
I had that army guy
with me

you said
ex-army I should say
he got thrown out

why was that?
she asked
he didn't say

you said
and you thought on the guy
and how he went on and on

about his mother's new boyfriend
and how he felt pushed out
and the army life

was getting him down
and he did something
whatever and got

thrown out
Miryam drained her glass
I'm going now

where to?
you asked
my tent

she said
been a long day
touring around Madrid

you stumped out
your cigarette ****
in the glass ashtray

are you coming?
she asked
you looked uncertain

you don't have to
she said
I can always

sleep alone again
what if your tent mate
comes back?

you asked
she won't
Miryam said

too much was said
you drained your glass
and put it down

on the bar top
now?
don't you want to go

to the disco
in the other bar
by base camp?

no I'm tired
she said
ok

you said
see you later
later?

she moaned
I want to go to the disco
you said

she shrugged her shoulders
and stormed off
out the bar

into the night air
you went outside
and she had gone

between tents
into the darkness
disco music thumped

from the other bar
across the way
sounds of laughter

and voices calling out
and Bill waving to you
from his tent

on his way
to the other bar
his long wavy hair

caught in the breeze
and jeans with holes
or tears in the knees

and you thinking
of Miryam
in her tent alone

no longer waiting
maybe fuming
getting undressed

wanting you
not wanting to rest
and back at your tent

the army guy
lying there
full of woe

waiting for your return
to tell his tale
of life that fate

had sent
walking to
the other bar

(with Bill)
you wished you'd gone
to Miryam's tent.

a mother caught a cheating husband.
a few minutes walk from their home in a high glass building.
from below she knew which apartment it would be
a green light shined from a Victorian lamp
which she had gifted the thieving *****.
as she ascended, the start of that beating drum
thumped loudly with every step
through the empty corridors
she held her ear at every red frame
for his voice of treason
and on the seventy fifth floor
at the eight hundred eighty eighth door  
she listened on
heard voices unthinkingly in love
her heart could not bare what her ears had heard
her joints and elbows contorted inward
towards her chest where she beat it madly with her fists
she slumped all the way home
plotting a demise for he and she
allowing malevolence to poison her good hearted soul
she thought of a way to get rid of them both
climbing an endless staircase dark and poorly lit
cries and tears of a joyless woman unrequited
passed her children without a momentary glance
not a wave goodbye
no more kisses goodnight
from the rooftop
passed the eight hundred eighty eighth door
she found her cure
she leapt as she stared out into the sky
and not a tear no more she will cry

Time Volume: 1
I’m eating up the hours
one by one.
Blink.
Click.
Blink.
another screen,
more non-words
Blink.
Click.
Just letters.
Click
9000 more words
blink
and more time.
Click.
To be forgotten.


Learning to forget
The melting *** cast a boy and I ran outside,
A slime soaked goblin, a monster from the pit
Lobbing clods of mud at a harmonic sky
Whirring with dragonflies and lolloping bees.

Sun and rain prepared a day on a different earth
Where there was life in the monkey puzzles,
And scuttling battle grounds that
hid hundred-handers beneath concrete slabs.  
Gravel churned up tiny black dragons,
rotten logs, fortresses of tiny fiends.

I had a sword in my hand, I was noble.
Defender of the realm, scourge until tea,
The hero of worlds
everyone else couldn’t see.


Time volume 2**
Excalibur was stuck fast
When the new branches fell
Click.
the tips of my fingers are beginning to rot.
Blink.
Click.
If only I could
blink
stop the second
click
See the world behind glass.
blink
and dance out of time.
Click.
This snow globe,
Is not the Antarctic.


Artificiality in Imagination
Turning my back on time and space with
Bottled brains, ***** mist, powdered thought
I chiselled into old pathways.
I carved a silk road through synapse and nerve
to return to my monsters.

I saw a sickness of colouration
A lynx effect for the sky
tearing punkish streaks into the atmosphere
that were quickly blinked away.
Sunspots, cloudbursts, tussocks, grass,
Paper squares, green, red, purple, pink, blue,
pungent smoke, bugs, ripples, shivers,
polka dots and blank spots.
A storm-cloudy stomach.

The perspective of a head plastered to the soil again
saw thing for what they were,
a tiny amazon thought lost to rationality.
My heart thumped for a fear and joy
in a way forgotten by time.


Time Volume 3
Why is it called wasted when it is time well spent?
Click.
my god, my eyes hurt.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.
Click.
What would I give for a pretty girl sat under a tree.  
Click.
search * (pretty girl sat under tree)
Click.
She’s hot.
Click.
So is she.
Click.
… could always.
Click.
don’t be stupid.
Click.
Just 9000 more words.


Fantasy for a Counterpoint
I questioned what’s real when she blinked at me
and stopped existing  when she closed her eyes.
No one taught us to write in blood,
Tattoo our names into each other’s skin,
Leaving claw marks for the world not to see.

Whatever you drew was Van Gough
Whatever you said was Keats,
Whatever bruise you left was Tyson’s.

The outer layers of or skin are dead,
It’s funny whatever you touch on a person,
Is already dead.

Just before our love got lost
I noticed a thread break away from the braid
Around your head,
a small incongruity,
That made your hair a mess.

Love became what it was when you said you were
‘as constant as the northern star’,
And I replied, ‘yes - always in the dark’.


Time Volume 4
This is progress for my sake,
Just in time.
Blink.
Time is money.
Click
Time flies.
Blink
A stich in time
Click
This is a paradigm of nothing time.
Click
I’ve got so much time.
Click
And so little time to waste.
Blink
I’m a long time dead.


Hope for a handful of dust
Eventually I will while away these lonely hours.

What black rocks stir while we sleep?
What prayers rumble still, among old stones?
Do they speak the eternal city and glow civilised blue -
Or burn timeless black?

Does the probing ivy find us out
And the blunt head of a worm investigate
our most intimate parts?

Or does a spectre rise from the soil
To live under children’s beds?

When is the point that death
Becomes something breath-taking -
And the brook, my brown blood,
The dead leaves my skin,

Is it fantasy
to put something
where nothing should be?

The soft earth will **** me in
And give my brittle bones
To worms and crows
What stirs beneath the stones,
may always be worms and crows

On late the by-lanes one night,
unusual spot I green, a bottle
like any, but for words, may be,

on the label printed:
'Old wine. Hamlin. Best before: the future'

Scarred, the mouth, to fire
a rocket used, ringing in a day
when celebrating, a hero,
Goliaths thumped by a David new.

Hope, on the horizon, the word rising.

Threw it away, almost I, when
reversed comes, rolled up a parchment,
by ash burned, from the *******, a part:
a mix strange of clippings and retort.

Marked, astonished, the date, I: was it
from today, even of TV, a listings part;

'...mesmerized by the language of hope';
'Parks fill up as people gather to celebrate';
'Our democracy is alive and how'.

Of proportions messianic, news frothing
how new born, a leader is. Familiar all :
myself now, from one such, returning.

But curious, written, the words indeed:
'Monuments wear and rivers thin,
as boatmen sing the evening song,
miracle-workers and peddlers of
honey and mead, pipers at the gates
of dawn, not men of mettle and deed'

Of a piper, suddenly, as in a fantasy
a song, and heard I, helpless, wails
of mothers, a hundred .

Strained, to read, further my eye,
when tore up the piece;
Broke up green, a bottle on the street.

Someone special Della’s
mother told her. A Downs
with a lovely smile and
bright, slightly narrow eyes.

She had waited outside
the school grounds when
her mother drove up.

Sorry I’m late, her mother
said, got caught in the traffic.

Della frowned, her tongue
sitting on her lower lip.

Man said you sent him,
Della said. What man?
Man in a car. What man
in a car? Della looked at
her mother, puzzled.

Man in the car. What did
he say? Said you sent him
to pick me up. Called me
Dearie. But I’m Della.

Her mother got out of the
car and went and knelt
down beside her daughter.

You didn’t get in the car did you?
No he drove off fast when
Mrs Penbridge came over.

He said I was Dearie, but
I’m Della. Yes, you are. Not
Dearie. No not Dearie.

He smiled at me. You mustn’t
get in to a stranger’s car
unless I tell you it’s all right.

I didn’t get in. Good. He
drove off, Della said, lowering
her eyes to her new shoes.

He smiled. Yes, but that
doesn’t mean he was nice.

He seemed nice. Yes, but
men like that aren’t. Why?
Della looked at her mother.

Because he may have hurt you.
Why would he hurt me, I’m
special. Yes, you are special.

You are angry with me. No,
not with you. You’ve got
your angry voice. Not with
you. Seems angry with me.

Not you, the man. Why are
you angry with the man?
Because he may have taken
you away from me. Della
looked at her mother’s hair,
newly done. Where? Where
would he have taken me?

Away from me. Why?
Because he’s bad. Her
mother held Della to her
tightly. He didn’t look bad,
he had a nice smile. Nice
car, too. Blue. Nice blue.
Like a summer sky blue.

Never get in a stranger’s car.
Never. You are angry. Not
with you. Sounds angry.

But not with you. Not
with me? No, you are
special. Special. Yes.

Very special? Yes, very
special. Not to get in a
stranger’s car? No. Not in
a stranger’s car. I got in
your friend’s car the other day.

What friend? The man who
brings your groceries and
you and he talk and he makes
you laugh. Her mother stared.

When did you get in his car?
The other day. Why did you
get in his car? He said, you said.
Did he drive off with you? Yes.
The mother held Della out in
front of her. Where to? We
went to look at the ducks in
the pond. Why did you get
in the car? He said, you said.

But I didn’t tell him that.
He said, you said. Did he
touch you? Touch me? Did
he touch you anywhere?

He held my hand to go to
the ducks. Anywhere else?
He said I was special. You
are. Did he touch you anywhere?  
My hand. Anywhere else?

No. Just my hand to feed
the ducks. What happened
after you saw the ducks?

He said I was special. Where
did he drive you? I thought
Mrs Rice was going to pick
you up that day? I went
with your friend. Did he
touch you? He held my hand.

Anywhere else? Della shook
her head. He said I was pretty
and had nice legs. Her mother’s
heart thumped. Am I pretty?
Yes you are, but he shouldn’t
have said so. Why not? He
didn’t mean it nicely. Why?

Because he shouldn’t tell
you that. Why? Because he’s
no right to say you’re pretty.

You say I’m pretty. I love you.
He said I was pretty and had
nice legs. Did he touch your legs?
No he just looked at them.
Nice legs he said and nice eyes.

Have I got nice legs and eyes?
Yes you have but he shouldn’t
say so. You’re angry again.
Not with you. Seems like me.

It’s not. Seems like. I’m not.
Seems like. Never get in his
car again. Della looked at
the sky. I won’t. It looked like rain.

The way things were when
sunlight started to terrorize the morning
and then eventually, the evening sky.
My chest thumped at a glacial pace.
A slow hibernating thaw.
Those days I slept quite easily
whilst my mind ran away with the time.
Taking time with clowns & thieves alike.
Sponges indeed, sponges after all.
You crept in one night, hanging moons beneath your eyes.
I had exploded.
I closed.
On the loom, black lace then white cotton.
In my room, a screaming then a humming.
Cigarettes scattered the floor like sacrifices to some distant deity.
Who must have heard my prayers.
Something about all your silence
threw blankets on my lungs
and off my bed.
In your youth,
I feel soft.
Joy, I want more

I wrote another neat bundle of words
Knotted them with coarse string
Smoothed the slick label over the bow
And licked my lips in guilt.

My heart has never thumped so hollowly in my chest.

Will you forgive me?