The sound of a ceiling fan not properly installed.
The smell of steel and iron on a hot day.
The taste of salt.
Walking through a cemetery as the sun goes down.
Piano music.
Do you know why I love these things?
None of them remind me of you.

There was smoke in my eyes.
I gathered too much moss.
The sun was in my eyes.
I couldn't hear you over the music.
There was traffic because of an accident.
I overslept.
I've only got two hands.
I didn't know what to say.
Can I try again?
At life.
I promise I won't **** it up,
again.

I know you believe in these things you say.
And that's good.
For you.
I however.
I know these thoughts of yours.
They're fleeting.
In a few months you'll feel,
differently.
Indifferent.

The loneliest whale.
No one can understand you.
You've got to calm the **** down.

i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)

I'm a rambler.
When I talk about what's on my mind, it's like I can't stop sometimes.
And even when my mouth stops, my mind doesn't.
I'm always thinking about something, and there are very few rare moments when I'm not.

My mind also likes to jump from one thing to the next, so sometimes what I think and say are completely out of order.
This makes retelling of stories difficult at times, and it also makes writing down thoughts very difficult as well.

I have been trying to be better about sticking to things, such as writing poems and writing down things that have happened to me as recollections of a time I may forget one day.

I think I worry too much though.
I worry too much about if I will be relaying my message the way that I want it to be perceived.
I want to make sure that I make sense to others and not just myself, and that I am perceived that way.

There is that **** anxiety again.

One of my therapists once old me that it would be good for me to stick to a routine and have a foundation to stand on in my life.
The funny thing was that I always feel like It's impossible for me to have that foundation, and I also don't necessarily make it easy for myself either.

It's very rare that I finish something completely that I started solely for myself.
It's also very rare that I feel whole heartedly confident in something I'm doing, even if I appear to have the confidence thing down on the outside.

And I guess that's what life is really.
It's just twists and turns that you do or don't see coming, and you have to figure out how to handle them for yourself.

So I'm trying to be better.
I'm going to keep going with this.
I may not be consistent now, but in the long hall, I believe I can do it.

I can finally have a concrete foundation that will stay firm for me.

I will stick to it.