PERSONIFICATIONS.

Boys.            Girls.
  January.                February.
  March.                  April.
  July.                   May.
  August.                 June.
  October.                September.
  December.               November.

  Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and
  Nestlings.

  Various Flowers, Fruits, etc.

  Scene: A Cottage with its Grounds.


[A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning on
the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have
been left standing. January discovered seated by the
fire.]


          January.

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,
Dim the day until the cold dark night.

                    [Stirs the fire.

Crackle, sparkle, *****; embers glow:
Some one may be plodding through the snow
Longing for a light,
For the light that you and I can show.
If no one else should come,
Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb,
And never troublesome:
Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb?


  Here's butter for my hunch of bread,
    And sugar for your crumb;
  Here's room upon the hearthrug,
    If you'll only come.

  In your scarlet waistcoat,
    With your keen bright eye,
  Where are you loitering?
    Wings were made to fly!

  Make haste to breakfast,
    Come and fetch your crumb,
  For I'm as glad to see you
    As you are glad to come.


[Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at
the lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in,
hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar
thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal,
when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a
guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who
appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.]

          January.

Good-morrow, sister.

          February.

            Brother, joy to you!
I've brought some snowdrops; only just a few,
But quite enough to prove the world awake,
Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew
And for the pale sun's sake.

[She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires
into the background. While February stands arranging
the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the
window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside.
She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with
other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards
her.]

          February.

O you, you little wonder, come--come in,
You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb:
You panting mother ewe, come too,
And lead that tottering twin
Safe in:
Bring all your bleating kith and kin,
Except the ***** ram.

[February opens a second door in the background, and the
little flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartment
out of sight.]

  The lambkin tottering in its walk
    With just a fleece to wear;
  The snowdrop drooping on its stalk
      So slender,--
  Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,
  Braving the cold for our delight,
      Both white,
      Both tender.

[A rattling of doors and windows; branches seen without,
tossing violently to and fro.]

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!
Here's brother March comes whirling on his way
With winds that eddy and sing.

[She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and
discloses March hastening up, both hands full of violets
and anemones.]

          February.

Come, show me what you bring;
For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,
And must away.

          March.

[Stopping short on the threshold.]

    I blow an arouse
    Through the world's wide house
  To quicken the torpid earth:
    Grappling I fling
    Each feeble thing,
  But bring strong life to the birth.
    I wrestle and frown,
    And topple down;
  I wrench, I rend, I uproot;
    Yet the violet
    Is born where I set
  The sole of my flying foot,

[Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into
the background.]

    And in my wake
    Frail wind-flowers quake,
  And the catkins promise fruit.
    I drive ocean ashore
    With rush and roar,
  And he cannot say me nay:
    My harpstrings all
    Are the forests tall,
  Making music when I play.
    And as others perforce,
    So I on my course
  Run and needs must run,
    With sap on the mount
    And buds past count
  And rivers and clouds and sun,
    With seasons and breath
    And time and death
  And all that has yet begun.

[Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching
accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes
along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish
her song.]

          April.

[Outside.]

  Pretty little three
  Sparrows in a tree,
    Light upon the wing;
    Though you cannot sing
    You can chirp of Spring:
  Chirp of Spring to me,
  Sparrows, from your tree.

  Never mind the showers,
  Chirp about the flowers
    While you build a nest:
    Straws from east and west,
    Feathers from your breast,
  Make the snuggest bowers
  In a world of flowers.

  You must dart away
  From the chosen spray,
    You intrusive third
    Extra little bird;
    Join the unwedded herd!
  These have done with play,
  And must work to-day.

          April.

[Appearing at the open door.]

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,
Of all the flying months you're the most flying.

          March.

You're hope and sweetness, April.

          April.

            Birth means dying,
As wings and wind mean flying;
So you and I and all things fly or die;
And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.
But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers,
And a lapful of flowers,
And these dear nestlings aged three hours;
And here's their mother sitting,
Their father's merely flitting
To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

[As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers
and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the
grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over
the hungry nestlings watching them.]

          April.

  What beaks you have, you funny things,
    What voices shrill and weak;
  Who'd think that anything that sings
    Could sing through such a beak?
  Yet you'll be nightingales one day,
    And charm the country-side,
  When I'm away and far away
    And May is queen and bride.

[May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss.
April starts and looks round.]

          April.

Ah May, good-morrow May, and so good-bye.

          May.

That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh:
Your sorrow's half in fun,
Begun and done
And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.
I've gathered flowers all as I came along,
At every step a flower
Fed by your last bright shower,--

[She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who
strolls away through the garden.]

          May.

And gathering flowers I listened to the song
Of every bird in bower.
    The world and I are far too full of bliss
    To think or plan or toil or care;
      The sun is waxing strong,
      The days are waxing long,
        And all that is,
          Is fair.

    Here are my buds of lily and of rose,
    And here's my namesake-blossom, may;
      And from a watery spot
      See here forget-me-not,
        With all that blows
          To-day.

    Hark to my linnets from the hedges green,
    Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove,
      And every nightingale
      And cuckoo tells its tale,
        And all they mean
          Is love.

[June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly
towards May, who, seeing her, exclaims]

          May.

Surely you're come too early, sister June.

          June.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon
To round your young May moon
And set the world a-gasping at my noon.
Yet come I must. So here are strawberries
Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;
And here are full-blown roses by the score,
More roses, and yet more.

[May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds.]

          June.

The sun does all my long day's work for me,
  Raises and ripens everything;
I need but sit beneath a leafy tree
    And watch and sing.

[Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.

Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee,
  Or lulled by noontide's silence deep,
I need but nestle down beneath my tree
    And drop asleep.

[June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July,
who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling.]

          July.

     [Behind the scenes.]

Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,
Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled!
Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,
Each in its way has not a fellow.

[Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises slung upon his
shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate
piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals
up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.]

          June.

What, here already?

          July.

                  Nay, my tryst is kept;
The longest day slipped by you while you slept.
I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

                        [Hands her the plate.

Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees,
As downy, bask and boom
In sunshine and in gloom of trees.
But get you in, a storm is at my heels;
The whirlwind whistles and wheels,
Lightning flashes and thunder peals,
Flying and following hard upon my heels.

[June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor.]

          July.

  The roar of a storm sweeps up
    From the east to the lurid west,
  The darkening sky, like a cup,
    Is filled with rain to the brink;

  The sky is purple and fire,
    Blackness and noise and unrest;
  The earth, parched with desire,
      Opens her mouth to drink.

  Send forth thy thunder and fire,
    Turn over thy brimming cup,
  O sky, appease the desire
    Of earth in her parched unrest;
  Pour out drink to her thirst,
    Her famishing life lift up;
  Make thyself fair as at first,
      With a rainbow for thy crest.

  Have done with thunder and fire,
    O sky with the rainbow crest;
  O earth, have done with desire,
    Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

[Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of
grain.]

          July.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm
And scatheless from my storm.
Your hands are full of corn, I see,
As full as hands can be:

And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm
In their recovered calm,
And that they owe to me.

[July retires into a shrubbery.]

          August.

  Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
    Barley bows a graceful head,
  Short and small shoots up canary,
    Each of these is some one's bread;
  Bread for man or bread for beast,
      Or at very least
      A bird's savory feast.

  Men are brethren of each other,
    One in flesh and one in food;
  And a sort of foster brother
    Is the litter, or the brood,
  Of that folk in fur or feather,
      Who, with men together,
      Breast the wind and weather.

[August descries September toiling across the lawn.]

          August.

My harvest home is ended; and I spy
September drawing nigh
With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
And the first sigh
Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

[September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped
high with fruit]


          September.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
Plums and these pears for you,
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two
Melons, some figs all bursting through
Their skins, and pearled with dew
These damsons violet-blue.

[While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the
ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along
the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.]

      

For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns—
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.

IV. TO HERMES (582 lines)

(ll. 1-29) Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord
of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing
messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed
nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess,
for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within
a deep, shady cave.  There the son of Cronos used to lie with the
rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at
dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera
fast.  And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven,
she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass.  For then
she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a
cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds
among the deathless gods.  Born with the dawning, at mid-day he
played on the lyre, and in the evening he stole the cattle of
far-shooting Apollo on the fourth day of the month; for on that
day queenly Maia bare him.  So soon as he had leaped from his
mother's heavenly womb, he lay not long waiting in his holy
cradle, but he sprang up and sought the oxen of Apollo.  But as
he stepped over the threshold of the high-roofed cave, he found a
tortoise there and gained endless delight.  For it was Hermes who
first made the tortoise a singer.  The creature fell in his way
at the courtyard gate, where it was feeding on the rich grass
before the dwelling, waddling along.  When be saw it, the luck-
bringing son of Zeus laughed and said:

(ll. 30-38) 'An omen of great luck for me so soon!  I do not
slight it.  Hail, comrade of the feast, lovely in shape, sounding
at the dance!  With joy I meet you!  Where got you that rich gaud
for covering, that spangled shell -- a tortoise living in the
mountains?  But I will take and carry you within: you shall help
me and I will do you no disgrace, though first of all you must
profit me.  It is better to be at home: harm may come out of
doors.  Living, you shall be a spell against mischievous
witchcraft (13); but if you die, then you shall make sweetest
song.

(ll. 39-61) Thus speaking, he took up the tortoise in both hands
and went back into the house carrying his charming toy.  Then he
cut off its limbs and scooped out the marrow of the mountain-
tortoise with a scoop of grey iron.  As a swift thought darts
through the heart of a man when thronging cares haunt him, or as
bright glances flash from the eye, so glorious Hermes planned
both thought and deed at once.  He cut stalks of reed to measure
and fixed them, fastening their ends across the back and through
the shell of the tortoise, and then stretched ox hide all over it
by his skill.  Also he put in the horns and fitted a cross-piece
upon the two of them, and stretched seven strings of sheep-gut.
But when he had made it he proved each string in turn with the
key, as he held the lovely thing.  At the touch of his hand it
sounded marvellously; and, as he tried it, the god sang sweet
random snatches, even as youths bandy taunts at festivals.  He
sang of Zeus the son of Cronos and neat-shod Maia, the converse
which they had before in the comradeship of love, telling all the
glorious tale of his own begetting.  He celebrated, too, the
handmaids of the nymph, and her bright home, and the tripods all
about the house, and the abundant cauldrons.

(ll. 62-67) But while he was singing of all these, his heart was
bent on other matters.  And he took the hollow lyre and laid it
in his sacred cradle, and sprang from the sweet-smelling hall to
a watch-place, pondering sheet trickery in his heart -- deeds
such as knavish folk pursue in the dark night-time; for he longed
to taste flesh.

(ll. 68-86) The Sun was going down beneath the earth towards
Ocean with his horses and chariot when Hermes came hurrying to
the shadowy mountains of Pieria, where the divine cattle of the
blessed gods had their steads and grazed the pleasant, unmown
meadows.  Of these the Son of Maia, the sharp-eyed slayer of
Argus then cut off from the herd fifty loud-lowing kine, and
drove them straggling-wise across a sandy place, turning their
hoof-prints aside.  Also, he bethought him of a crafty ruse and
reversed the marks of their hoofs, making the front behind and
the hind before, while he himself walked the other way (14).
Then he wove sandals with wicker-work by the sand of the sea,
wonderful things, unthought of, unimagined; for he mixed together
tamarisk and myrtle-twigs, fastening together an armful of their
fresh, young wood, and tied them, leaves and all securely under
his feet as light sandals.  The brushwood the glorious Slayer of
Argus plucked in Pieria as he was preparing for his journey,
making shift (15) as one making haste for a long journey.

(ll. 87-89) But an old man tilling his flowering vineyard saw him
as he was hurrying down the plain through grassy Onchestus.  So
the Son of Maia began and said to him:

(ll. 90-93) 'Old man, digging about your vines with bowed
shoulders, surely you shall have much wine when all these bear
fruit, if you obey me and strictly remember not to have seen what
you have seen, and not to have heard what you have heard, and to
keep silent when nothing of your own is harmed.'

(ll. 94-114) When he had said this much, he hurried the strong
cattle on together: through many shadowy mountains and echoing
gorges and flowery plains glorious Hermes drove them.  And now
the divine night, his dark ally, was mostly passed, and dawn that
sets folk to work was quickly coming on, while bright Selene,
daughter of the lord Pallas, Megamedes' son, had just climbed her
watch-post, when the strong Son of Zeus drove the wide-browed
cattle of Phoebus Apollo to the river Alpheus.  And they came
unwearied to the high-roofed byres and the drinking-troughs that
were before the noble meadow.  Then, after he had well-fed the
loud-bellowing cattle with fodder and driven them into the byre,
close-packed and chewing lotus and began to seek the art of fire.

He chose a stout laurel branch and trimmed it with the knife....
((LACUNA)) (16)
....held firmly in his hand: and the hot smoke rose up.  For it
was Hermes who first invented fire-sticks and fire.  Next he took
many dried sticks and piled them thick and plenty in a sunken
trench: and flame began to glow, spreading afar the blast of
fierce-burning fire.

(ll. 115-137) And while the strength of glorious Hephaestus was
beginning to kindle the fire, he dragged out two lowing, horned
cows close to the fire; for great strength was with him.  He
threw them both panting upon their backs on the ground, and
rolled them on their sides, bending their necks over (17), and
pierced their vital chord.  Then he went on from task to task:
first he cut up the rich, fatted meat, and pierced it with wooden
spits, and roasted flesh and the honourable chine and the paunch
full of dark blood all together.  He laid them there upon the
ground, and spread out the hides on a rugged rock: and so they
are still there many ages afterwards, a long, long time after all
this, and are continually (18).  Next glad-hearted Hermes dragged
the rich meats he had prepared and put them on a smooth, flat
stone, and divided them into twelve portions distributed by lot,
making each portion wholly honourable.  Then glorious Hermes
longed for the sacrificial meat, for the sweet savour wearied
him, god though he was; nevertheless his proud heart was not
prevailed upon to devour the flesh, although he greatly desired
(19).  But he put away the fat and all the flesh in the high-
roofed byre, placing them high up to be a token of his youthful
theft.  And after that he gathered dry sticks and utterly
destroyed with fire all the hoofs and all the heads.

(ll. 138-154) And when the god had duly finished all, he threw
his sandals into deep-eddying Alpheus, and quenched the embers,
covering the black ashes with sand, and so spent the night while
Selene's soft light shone down.  Then the god went straight back
again at dawn to the bright crests of Cyllene, and no one met him
on the long journey either of the blessed gods or mortal men, nor
did any dog bark.  And luck-bringing Hermes, the son of Zeus,
passed edgeways through the key-hole of the hall like the autumn
breeze, even as mist: straight through the cave he went and came
to the rich inner chamber, walking softly, and making no noise as
one might upon the floor.  Then glorious Hermes went hurriedly to
his cradle, wrapping his swaddling clothes about his shoulders as
though he were a feeble babe, and lay playing with the covering
about his knees; but at his left hand he kept close his sweet
lyre.

(ll. 155-161) But the god did not pass unseen by the goddess his
mother; but she said to him: 'How now, you rogue!  Whence come
you back so at night-time, you that wear shamelessness as a
garment?  And now I surely believe the son of Leto will soon have
you forth out of doors with unbreakable cords about your ribs, or
you will live a rogue's life in the glens robbing by whiles.  Go
to, then; your father got you to be a great worry to mortal men
and deathless gods.'

(ll. 162-181) Then Hermes answered her with crafty words:
'Mother, why do you seek to frighten me like a feeble child whose
heart knows few words of blame, a fearful babe that fears its
mother's scolding?  Nay, but I will try whatever plan is best,
and so feed myself and you continually.  We will not be content
to remain here, as you bid, alone of all the gods unfee'd with
offerings and prayers.  Better to live in fellowship with the
deathless gods continually, rich, wealthy, and enjoying stories
of grain, than to sit always in a gloomy cave: and, as regards
honour, I too will enter upon the rite that Apollo has.  If my
father will not give it to me, I will seek -- and I am able -- to
be a prince of robbers.  And if Leto's most glorious son shall
seek me out, I think another and a greater loss will befall him.
For I will go to Pytho to break into his great house, and will
plunder therefrom splendid tripods, and cauldrons, and gold, and
plenty of bright iron, and much apparel; and you shall see it if
you will.'

(ll. 182-189) With such words they spoke together, the son of
Zeus who holds the aegis, and the lady Maia.  Now Eros the early
born was rising from deep-flowing Ocean, bringing light to men,
when Apollo, as he went, came to Onchestus, the lovely grove and
sacred place of the loud-roaring Holder of the Earth.  There he
found an old man grazing his beast along the pathway from his
court-yard fence, and the all-glorious Son of Leto began and said
to him.

(ll. 190-200) 'Old man, weeder (20) of grassy Onchestus, I am
come here from Pieria seeking cattle, cows all of them, all with
curving horns, from my herd.  The black bull was grazing alone
away from the rest, but fierce-eyed hounds followed the cows,
four of them, all of one mind, like men.  These were left behind,
the dogs and the bull -- which is great marvel; but the cows
strayed out of the soft meadow, away from the pasture when the
sun was just going down.  Now tell me this, old man born long
ago: have you seen one passing along behind those cows?'

(ll. 201-211) Then the old man answered him and said: 'My son, it
is hard to tell all that one's eyes see; for many wayfarers pass
to and fro this way, some bent on much evil, and some on good: it
is difficult to know each one.  However, I was digging about my
plot of vineyard all day long until the sun went down, and I
thought, good sir, but I do not know for certain, that I marked a
child, whoever the child was, that followed long-horned cattle --
an infant who had a staff and kept walking from side to side: he
was driving them backwards way, with their heads toward him.'

(ll. 212-218) So said the old man.  And when Apollo heard this
report, he went yet more quickly on his way, and presently,
seeing a long-winged bird, he knew at once by that omen that
thief was the child of Zeus the son of Cronos.  So the lord
Apollo, son of Zeus, hurried on to goodly Pylos seeking his
shambling oxen, and he had his broad shoulders covered with a
dark cloud.  But when the Far-Shooter perceived the tracks, he
cried:

(ll. 219-226) 'Oh, oh!  Truly this is a great marvel that my eyes
behold!  These are indeed the tracks of straight-horned oxen, but
they are turned backwards towards the flowery meadow.  But these
others are not the footprints of man or woman or grey wolves or
bears or lions, nor do I think they are the tracks of a rough-
maned Centaur -- whoever it be that with swift feet makes such
monstrous footprints; wonderful are the tracks on this side of
the way, but yet more wonderfully are those on that.'

(ll. 227-234) When he had so said, the lord Apollo, the Son of
Zeus hastened on and came to the forest-clad mountain of Cyllene
and the deep-shadowed cave in the rock where the divine nymph
brought forth the child of Zeus who is the son of Cronos.  A
sweet odour spread over the lovely hill, and many thin-shanked
sheep were grazing on the grass.  Then far-shooting Apollo
himself stepped down in haste over the stone threshold into the
dusky cave.

(ll. 235-253) Now when the Son of Zeus and Maia saw Apollo in a
rage about his cattle, he snuggled down in his fragrant
swaddling-clothes; and as wood-ash covers over the deep embers of
tree-stumps, so Hermes cuddled himself up when he saw the Far-
Shooter.  He squeezed head and hands and feet together in a small
space, like a new born child seeking sweet sleep, though in truth
he was wide awake, and he kept his lyre under his armpit.  But
the Son of Leto was aware and failed not to perceive the
beautiful mountain-nymph and her dear son, albeit a little child
and swathed so craftily.  He peered in ever corner of the great
dwelling and, taking a bright key, he opened three closets full
of nectar and lovely ambrosia.  And much gold and silver was
stored in them, and many garments of the nymph, some purple and
some silvery white, such as are kept in the sacred houses of the
blessed gods.  Then, after the Son of Leto had searched out the
recesses of the great house, he spake to glorious Hermes:

(ll. 254-259) 'Child, lying in the cradle, make haste and tell me
of my cattle, or we two will soon fall out angrily.  For I will
take and cast you into dusty Tartarus and awful hopeless
darkness, and neither your mother nor your father shall free you
or bring you up again to the light, but you will wander under the
earth and be the leader amongst little folk.' (21)

(ll. 260-277) Then Hermes answered him with crafty words: 'Son of
Leto, what harsh words are these you have spoken?  And is it
cattle of the field you are come here to seek?  I have not seen
them: I have not heard of them: no one has told me of them.  I
cannot give news of them, nor win the reward for news.  Am I like
a cattle-liter, a stalwart person?  This is no task for me:
rather I care for other things: I care for sleep, and milk of my
mother's breast, and wrappings round my shoulders, and warm
baths.  Let no one hear the cause of this dispute; for this would
be a great marvel indeed among the deathless gods, that a child
newly born should pass in through the forepart of the house with
cattle of the field: herein you speak extravagantly.  I was born
yesterday, and my feet are soft and the ground beneath is rough;
nevertheless, if you will have it so, I will swear a great oath
by my father's head and vow that neither am I guilty myself,
neither have I seen any other who stole your cows -- whatever
cows may be; for I

O how I recall with joy a visit to Jackson, proud capital of Mississippi,
The land of the fearless fatties, the glorious land of the uber-obese,
A paradise enjoying amazingly high blood pressure and diabetes rates,
Thanks to the greed and gluttony of its 'proud-to-be-portly' inhabitants.

How delightful to stroll along its leafy boulevards, admiring the advertising
For junk food shops: "Super-Size Your Deep Crust Giant Pizza for only $1!"
"Real Men love our Emperor Size Cheeseburgers, King Size is for Kids!"
And "Come Try Our All Day Giant Breakfast with Triple French Fries!"

How enchanting to see furniture stores offering discounted extra big sofas,
Builders and carpenters with their cut-price floor-strengthening deals,
Tailors' shops with their displays of buffet pants and elasticated jeans,
Realtors promoting houses with double porches and wide internal doors.

And, O the trailer parks, those truly splendid residential areas,
With their giant size immoveable vehicles with spacious entry portals
To allow the immaculately dressed residents to carry in an armful
Of multi-packs of chocolate iced crème flavour filling Krispy Kremes.

But most wondrous of all, the myriad rival Pentacostal Chapels
With their guaranteed reinforced concrete padded sofa-pews
And their portrayals of plump Jesuses to make the fatties feel at home.
And all those "funeral parlors" with their gaping super-wide caskets.

How I loved the blinking stares of the sleep-deprived bible students
As they staggered out of an architectural wonder of a chapel,
Bleary-eyed after an all-night bible study session, and all eager
For a healthy breakfast of a dozen flash-fried sugar encrusted "donuts".

I was there in this glorious world centre of ever-escalating obesity
With my latest gorgeous lady love (at only 140 pounds and five foot two,
possibly the slimmest woman in the entire Jackson Metropolitan Area)
And we decided to try some good ol' Mississippi fine dining as a treat.

Holey Moley! What a feasts on offer: pan-fried catfish, deep-fried catfish,
Steaks the size of an encyclopaedia and all accompanied by unlimited fries!
Sweet potato and pecan pie with butter, sugar, eggs and extra cream,
And Mississippi Mud Pie with its chocolate crust and sticky chocolate filling!

(The chef de cuisine in our upscale diner told us that Southern cooks
had created this wondrous dessert because its sophicated ingredients
were available cheaply and the recipe required only minimal culinary skill,
and what's more it came with a treble serving of supermarket ice cream!)

We declined the bottomless cup of watery coffee with compulsory sugar
And enquired if we might have a bottle of his finest wine. Quel faux-pas!
The dear fatso was mortified and told us his was a Christian establishment
And strong drink was frowned upon. Did we think he was a degenerate?

That night we lay bloated like beached whales in our tasteful motel room
(its bed reinforced with ferro-concrete to deal with the horrid possibility
that any gargantuan visitors might wish to copulate vigorously);
Oh how we burped and farted, longing for a dose of bicarbonate of soda.

All good things come to an end so, after a nessy session on the toilet
(we filled it thrice), we bade farewell to the desk clerk and sloped off.
"Be sure y'all come back real soon," he declared, patting his fat gut,
"Cuz you both sure do look two real skinny Limeys, ya hear me?."

As we drove out of this elegant city that steamy Southern summer morn
In our rented 4X4 super-strong chassis Land Rover, how we smiled
At the scene outside Walmart where the special offer of the day
Was five pounds of free candies with every single assault rifle sold.

But alas! And alack! Tragedy was not so very far away that day:
Some corpulent teenagers toppled off the sidewalk under my auto's wheels
In their indecent haste to take advantage of the latest McDonald's bargain:
A quart of complimentary Dr Pepper's with a whole oven-fried McTurkey.

Oy! What a horrid mess my fender made of their pudgy, mottled flesh
And how wise we were to speed off before the cops arrived
At least, we avoided being beaten us to a pulp for being leftist libtards
Come to laugh at the dear redneck ways south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th

When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.

A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat

It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming

You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead

And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts

But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers

But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps

And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns

But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'

And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful

So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs ******'s bakery
she really is a treat.

I remember a time when he would come home.

And i remember that, you must stand at the door and welcome him home like you are happy, don't forget to be happy.
Tea was always ready and the house would be clean and tidy because it should be, you wanted it to be, and woe betide you if it wasn't.
And then, when tea was finished, he wanted his beer and the tv on
and now you mustn't talk because you shouldn't.
So the kitchen was tidied and everything was just so..
you mustn't forget to make it just so.
But you know the time is coming where the beer is all gone and the match would be lost and the anger would flare.
That's when you want to become invisible but you can't
because he needs to punch something and well..
you're as good as any door.
So after the room was cleaned up and the broken glasses and lip was put away, it was time for bed..
And you can't pretend to be asleep because that doesn't count
as a no.

Thankfully there was a little glow in the dark star on the ceiling you could look up at and wish upon it that you weren't in this room, in this bed right now. I think the people who lived there before left it behind. I knew that if i moved i would take it with me.

And the need to run was immense. But there was no where to go and nobody knew and, after all, it was the way of things, don't complain.. it could be worse.. remember that.. it could be worse.. he said.

I often dreamed of a tiny little bed all of my own with fairy lights and my own place to put my books, but that would have to wait as now is not the time to think of such a silly notion. Stupid ***** that you are.

And so each and every night, i painted the roses red.. so i didn't loose my head.

And running wasn't really an option because, contrary to popular opinion, that is harder than you think.. after all... this was normal and... this is just what happens and... this is just one of those things and... **** it up buttercup, now clean the house again you stupid ****.

And in the gaslighting, which burned very bright, you would have enough of a glow to paint the roses red.
Perfectly red, everyday they would have to be red.

And life carried on for years like this and my friend, the little glow in the dark star and i were the only ones who knew what 'behind closed doors' really meant.

Inevitably children were born into this world of mine, and you can't say no to no contraception, because the need to see his fertility bloom was the most important thing in the world.
Most important.

But i was indeed blessed with more than an armful of joy.

And so we all painted the roses red and in time, we all wondered, which one of us would loose our head.

We moved house and the years passed as they normally do with various reasons to run and threats that made us stay.
But you never run..  because now he might **** you all,
and not just you.
If it was just you, you wouldn't have minded so much...

So we moved house and the little glow in the dark star came along too. It was placed near the light fitting over the bed and i put my finger to my lips and said 'shhh' as i stuck it to the ceiling.
But we knew.

And so, for a few more years you carry the weight of the world, the little secret, and a heart full of love, and begin painting the roses red with your children.
And now you definitely can't leave and you can't run because they might loose their heads and now, now you might have to watch.. while you get to keep yours.

And then a tide turned, well, four tides turned, and damage was being done that my love could not repair.
And that is when i had to be brave and i had to do what i should have done many years before.
I was conditioned to suffer along side and this was normal.
Not that any of that is an excuse.
And although i knew it wasn't right, i knew it was normal.. for me.

A contradiction if ever there was.

But my love for my children will always be far greater, greater than my love for any one else could ever be. Even if it was their flesh and blood.
And him saying we couldn't leave now did not count as a no.
But we didn't leave.
We made him pack his things and go. We had found safety in numbers, we all stood and were counted, we exposed only what secrets needed to be told.
The rest we keep for ourselves.
He never said sorry and he left. And never came back.

So we kept some of the red paint and we added orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. And we painted all of our roses any **** colour we wanted to. Including ourselves.

And I took down the little glow in the dark star, it had seen far too much and probably needed therapy :o)  

And we will live happily forever after.

I haven't written anything in a while because
my shaky muse is just
a rogue gunshot from a pair of very uncertain hands
and I'm trying hard to swallow the barrel
but my stomach is sapped and struggles and quivers to hold
anything substantial down. My body is just a side-effect
of something so painfully small and
I'm learning that my obsession with
heart palpitations through smoke and stubbornness
makes me recoil in the daylight.

My eyes are growing old and decrepit
when I stop seeing things as stories to unfold,
and instead view them as a very dull reflections of my surroundings.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We take the tasteless by the armful.
With greedy hands that grasp,
we take the shapeless mass.
Just the dust and just the mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
Just loved by arms that enfold.
A warm embrace,
from a lovely face.
Eventually to dust and then to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We shrink before we grow bold.
Grow strong in time,
just to diminish in size.
Just to dust and just to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
A lovely day for life on the world.
On a bountiful globe,
We develop and grow.
Just to turn to dust, and then to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We heal as just as we return to our home.
Lie down in our bed,
As we begin mend.
Just to dust and just to mold.

I was walking along the shoreline
On a warm afternoon in July when
I noticed a piece of polished wood
Bobbing helplessly in the shallow water,
So I pulled it from the salty sea and
Admired the intricate carvings and
Detailed line work across the face.
Just as I was running my thumb
Over the still smooth edges, I
Noticed another piece floating
Just a few feet away from me.
Within the hour, I had gathered
An entire armful of wood, and
Within the week, I had an entire
Table full of mismatched pieces.
So I began working unceasingly
At putting the pieces back together.
I started with the inside, the
Smooth heart shaped piece with
The slight cracks and divots,
Followed by a circular piece
That resembled the brain
With the deep crevices.
I then pieced together
The smooth fingertips
And the rugged feet,
And connected every
Limb and joint together
Until a boy of about
Six feet was standing
In front of me.
I snapped on the
Final piece and watched
As he came alive before me.
His eyes as deep as the mahogany
Looked into mine and smiled, as
Though thanking me.
And he turned his
Back to me and
Walked away.
It wasn't until
That moment that
I realized I had poured
Every ounce of myself into
Piecing back together that boy,
So now every ounce of myself
Was walking out my front
Door with a real boy
Who didn't need
Me anymore.

girl goes to bed with makeup on, wakes up with sore muscles
girl goes to bed without locking the front door, wakes up in the driveway
girl goes to bed without saying goodnight, wakes up to brother shaking her shoulders
girl goes to bed with the phone off the hook, wakes up with mouthful of *****
girl goes to bed in the bathtub, wakes up with an armful of black thread
girl goes to bed in brother's room, wakes up with the tv still on
girl goes to bed next to boy, wakes up before he does
girl goes to bed without sleeping, wakes up the same time as always
girl goes to bed with a candle burning, wakes up to the sound of herself choking
girl goes to bed early, wakes up to obituary
girl goes to bed with her hand in the cabinet, decides not to wake up this time

I kissed someone's wife today.
It felt better than I wanted it to.

In my tiny bedroom,
the walls looked more beige than usual.
Martha laid beside me -- her idea.

Frames.
I didn't have frames on a couple posters.
Martha rested her head on my shoulder -- her idea.

Instead of putting up my clean laundry,
an **** of boxers, button-downs, and jeans took place on the floor.
Martha told me she liked her hair played with -- I didn't ask.

I left my cigarettes in plain sight
on top of a face down picture frame.
She slid my arm under her neck -- I couldn't be rude.

While she spoke of her husband watching cartoons,
I noticed **** (used during last week's *** with an ex) lying behind a couple beer bottles.
I put my right leg between her legs -- I can't help it if I'm a curious man.

When Martha pulled the blanket over our heads,
I hoped she couldn't smell my ex's perfume.
She let me run my fingers along her waistline -- she didn't tell me to stop until the fourth kiss.

Tributaries of mascara ran down her face.
Rivers of regret rushed out of her mouth.
I played out what would have happened -- had I not grabbed her, pressed my lips harder on the fourth.

"I'm not this kind of girl."
I told her things would be better with her husband.
Handing her a clean rag off the floor, she said -- "My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."

I broke up the **** of clothes, grabbed an armful; made a beeline for the closet.
With a beautiful sound, a beer bottle broke as I passed by.
Martha's teary eyes saw the **** -- "What the hell were you planning to do?"

She slammed the door.
One of my unframed posters peeled itself off the wall and feathered to the ground.
Most of me felt cloudy, but I knew one thing -- she's got a good 50 years of marriage to go to spite me.

He’s not like the others,
he’s not even a wholly likable child.

I mean, he has the cute face
high squeaky voice
chipmunk cheeks.

It’s his personality,
his attitude,
it’s the fact that he’s only 7 years old
and already hates the majority of what he’s seen of this wide world.

It’s the fact that he manipulates everyone’s words
until he’s made the collage that meets his ideal visage.

He’s more than a handful.
He’s even more than a whole village’s armful.

And though I know a part of its’ the diagnosis
it’s hard to keep that in mind
all the time.

(It’s hard to forgive an unlikable child)

Even harder as he swings insults your way,

as you have to take off running after him for the nth time this week.

It’s hard keeping a straight face,
keeping the unflappable demeanor
through every offense.

It’s hard not to scream,
curse,
cry,
  to remain the calm island in the face of the raging tempest.

But you have to.
(Even though he’s not the most likable child)

He is still a child.

And you’re loving compassion is stronger than his self destruction.

This is actually copy pasted from a suicide forum, but it's true.

Self Harm: Before you self harm, Read this
....before you make that first cut remember:
You will enjoy this.
You will find the blood and pain release addictive.
Even though you think you can make a few tiny cuts that aren't deep,
And will heal easily ...
They will get deeper.
They will scar.
They will sometimes take months to heal.
And years for the scars to fade.
If you think you can limit the cutting to one area of your body,
Think again...
It will spread when you run out of skin.
Be prepared to withdraw from others and live in a constant state of shame.
Even if you are the most honest person ever to live ....
You will find yourself lying to the people you love.
You will **** back from your friends when they touch you as if their hands were dipped in poison.
You will be terrified that they will feel something under the cloth
of your shirt, or because it just plain hurts so much to be touched.
Be prepared to get so out of control you fear your next cut because you don't know how bad it will be.
Just wait for 10 cuts to turn into 100....Be prepared for your
entire life to revolve around thinking about cutting ..cutting and
covering up cutting.
And just wait till that first time you cut "too deep."
And you freak out because the blood won't stop...
And you are gasping....
And you feel yourself shaking all over.
You are having a panic attack and you are terrified but you can't
tell anyone.
So you sit there alone...
Praying it will be ok swearing you'll never let it go this far
again...
But you will, and further.
Don't worry, you will learn how to take care of your cuts so that
you can go deeper and deeper and avoid the ER.
And the better you get at treating your cuts the deeper they get.
You will lie to yourself and justify it when you find youself
spending 20, 30 or 50 dollars every time you go the pharmacy.
You will feel the flutter of your heartbeat everytime you go to the
counter to ring up your order.
Butterfly strips...
3 or four different kinds of dressings...
Betadine....
Antibiotic cream..
Medical tape..
Scar reducers.....
You will tap your foot impatiently hoping the line will just move
and no one will stare at you or wonder why you need all these things.
And at the same time secretly hope someone will notice...
Someone who is standing in line with an armful of the same
supplies...
Someone who understands but of course that never happens.
Medical supplies won't be the only thing you spend all your money on.
Be prepared to buy a new wardrobe...
Longsleeve shirts in summer colors, bracelets, wristbands, boots... gloves.. the list goes on and on.
You will start looking at everyone in a different way...
Scanning their bodies for any signs of SI...
Just hoping that you might meet someone like you so you don't feel so terribly alone.
You wont even think about it ..
As your eyes scan their wrists + arms...
Hoping just hoping they will be like you....
But they are not.
You will see their clean arms and feel terribly ashamed and alone.
You will start doing a lot of things alone.
You will always have to wash your laundry in private so know one sees the blood stains on your clothes and towels.
You will always be cleaning up the blood..
Scrubbing your bathroom floor...
Wiping the blood of your keyboard...
You won't be able to make it through a day without cutting....
Next thing you know you are in a public bathroom somewhere breaking open a scab with a sewing needle that you keep in your wallet for emergencies.
When you get really desperate anything will be a cutting
tool ...scissors...a car key...a needle ... a paperclip..even a pen.
Doesn't matter what it is if you need to cut bad enough you will
find something.
Say goodbye to things you took for granted.
Like wearing shorts or sandals...pedicures...sleeveless tops. A
normal summer day at the beach or in a swimming pool will become a far off memory for you.
Get ready to itch.
Because you will itch and itch ..."so much you will look like you
have fleas or a skin disease."
You will become an expert on your body as you destroy it carefully..
You will dream about cutting...
you will dream about being exposed.
It will haunt you day and night and take over your life. You will
wish you never made that first cut because while you absolutely hate cutting...
At the same time, you love it and can't live with out it...
Note: I'm hypocritical to send this, but it still needs to be sent. It actually got really far for me before I told someone and was told to stop and I finally did.

What's with this phrase, 'come at me bro'
What does that really mean?
People use it to provoke, but why?
There's nothing particularly threatening about it,
And it's not even very grammatically correct
One could just as easily say
'Get thee away from me, ye dark angel of hell'
And it would be equally offensive
Or more so, if a bit befuddling.
But why not say 'come at me bro'
As a request for affection?
I know I would much rather say this
And receive, instead of a flurry of blows,
An armful of sweet affection

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.

Gusto affairs spiraled to marooned stairs!!

Amphibious angel,
Where art thou own wings?
Apparent your sanctioning is,
Appointee of marital status!!!

Anthropologist of creations new madness,
Armful arousist!!
Arrogant aspirant!!!!

We are all baggage carriers of used goods,
Bestowed to thy own selves thou ******* of crud!!!!!

Very few bonuses this time around,
For the metropolis hath gone broke and choked!!!

For oil runneth this deliveranth!!!

Bind thy own,
You biggot of brigaded quarters!!!
None to coincide with ,
No cognac love to filleth me with cocoa nestled swifts!!!

Engrossment of shufflers, greasers to seventies sneakers,
Esteemed of high retailer goods!!!

Distinction between euphemisms blame!!!
Highed tops to spindle games,

Atrocious calibrations!!!!

Such tiredness flees the crime felt page,
Who's enraged?

Refute novelties of javahouse breaks,
Wherein assemblers are all members of cafe corner states!!!!

Paxilheads to axlehead drinkers,

Some material like,
Some medicinal thinkers!!!

How much shalt one taketh before his psyche leaves reclusiveness all behind the robust tower!!!!

I scoop up the last armful of clothes from my drawer,
Look at my uncle sitting at my computer
my eyes screaming,"I'm done, that's it"
he nods his head, listening to my aunt on the other end of the phone
and playing with the settings of the security camera dad bought to spy on us.
I carry them into the hallway,
kick grandmas already half open door
drop them on the bed
and sort them out;
a pair of pants,
I lift the shirts from the Mexican midnight takeout box
insert the pants,
put the shirts back down
add another pile of shirts
and fit the socks and underwear along the side.
this is the third box
and it's done.
three boxes, a clothes basket, a backpack and a computer
and I feel like a hoarder, like I have far more than I need.

as I turn around I feel him wrap his arms around my neck
and ease his tear filled eyes onto my shoulder.
"I love you, Bubba"
he says, in a voice deeper than it should be
"I can deal with him,
but living without either of my brothers scares me"
I start crying, I can't hold back the tears
all the pain and suffering of eighteen long years
finally **** near over
and I almost start grabbing clothes and stuffing them back into the drawers.
I almost say
"I can wait six years for a life"
but I look into his eyes
and see that he's telling me not to stay
that his heart will be torn up
but he can make it through
he always has.
twelve years old and the strongest person I know.

we stand there embraced for a quarter hour
crying until we have no more tears
until we have let out all the anger and fear of the last nine years.

we stumble into the dark hallway
eyes red, swollen, and damp.
Nobody asks any questions
and we continue on with our day,
my entire life piled up on the far side of grandma's bed

Into the dark I walk
with an armful of broken promises
and of armful of empty bottles.
Waded down only by a backpack
packed tight with regret.

It is easy to fall in love
with a certain kind of darkness
so I keep walking
pertaining stories like mine
can have a happy ending.

This earth is not forgiven
she does not forget,
perhaps it is better to leave
my heart where I left it
and keep walking into the dark.

Welcome to this world
my world...
where dreams co exist
on the same level
as illusions
and mirages

Welcome to this world
where your feet
tread transitory sands
where...
smiles are nothing
but fistfuls of oblivion sands


Want an armful of rainbow hues?
Just chase that mirage
down the vaccum's undisturbed path
and embrace it to your hollowed heart


Welcome to this world...
...my world...
built on the foundations
of illusive dreams
where gleaming mirages
are nothing but smiles...


...your smiles...

Myfanwy Price plopped in the armchair, sipped at her drink, gazed at the ceiling with a slight squint; spotted a drawing pin that broke up the off-white space like a boil on the buttocks. If Joshua Jones thinks he can drop me like a hot coal he can think again, she moaned to the room in her alto voice that clung to the air around her dark-haired head like a bad smell. Thinks he can do that to me, does he? I’ll show him, she mused darkly, holding the glass above her head, peering down at her slippered feet that lay there like sleeping puppies. After all I’ve done for him, the po-faced prat, she muttered, bringing the glass down to her lips, taking a sip as though it were poison. Just like her dad, dreary as dripping, chapel bred born and dead, at least in the head, she mused, crossing her legs disturbing the puppies, peering through the glass, imagining Dai Davies coming through the door of her bed-sit with an armful of flowers and chocolates, a cuddly kiss with a promise of more, as the evening sky grew dim as her brother Bryan, the kiss lingered in her mind and over her fantasy lips. Mum was right about men, she groaned, wondering if poison was too quick for Jones the Bones or whether she could smother him with a pillow as he laid sleeping in that squat flat of his, where she’d slept once in the single bed that smelt of onions and rotting flesh. She scratched her fleshy thigh, gave a sigh, pulled a face at her reflection in the darkening window, wanted more than wanton ***, the sight of Jones the Bones hanging from the window with his trousers round his skinny ankles, his buttocks bare for all of Cardiff to see and stare. She stood, poured herself another drink, placed a record on her gramophone. Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue, a daydream of being in his manly arms, and being squeezed, and adding her alto groan to that of young Buddy’s baritone or tenor or whatever. She waltzed the room with her partnered glass gave it kiss and squeeze. Remembering her dad’s stern face; his sermon voice that rattled timbers, she kicked her leg like a dancer, spun it round and round until it got dizzy; plopped in the armchair with a fit of giggles; spilt drink on her dress that seeped to her drawers; sniffing and sighing she poured it all down in a drunken swallow; watched the evening sky darken like her mood and tangled hair. Jones the Bones would pay, she sighed. He’d not lay her aside like an empty glass; go off for another to kiss and cuddle in his dingy flat with its onions and flesh, rotting and foul, she mused sadly, rubbing her breast, pulling her bra that had slipped in her dancing. Mum was right about men, with their ***** thoughts, their wanton ways, wandering hands over hills and stays. She stared at the glass; with a deep dark sigh, she crossed her legs; let the sleeping slippered puppies lie.

A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.

October's--First Fire

The dark comes early now
...comes in on the wind
with defeated day

Old Jacket
goes out for an armful
the fire wood again
for firewood, firewood
the firewood again

This comfortable routine
like well-worn ***

Scraping ash into pan
Wetting and rubbing the window clean
Nesting the kindling
Setting the smaller
and the waiting logs
Striking a match
to the tinder
to tender the flame

Settling back
flushed
with the warmth of wine
purring cat on lap and
...the firewood...the firewood
the firewood again

Love is itching on me tonight.
The caring and the joy seem so bright.
I can't help but want it, it’s too hard to resist!
But sadly my path is covered in mist.
Life is hard, and I'm one to talk.
But don't give up; just take a walk.
Wishes can be made, and promises can be kept.
But hurting someone is hard to accept.
The world isn't bad, just full of evol.
And making everyone happy is more than an armful!
Yet love is creeping on me again.
Will it ever surpass my world back when?
It seems as though I'm enchanted by a spell.
But don't ask why; I have nothing to tell.

Around an armful of
pillows and blue blanket
you offered a parting hug.

I stepped into an embrace
that was lint speckled polyester
and the width of your hand spread
open at the small of my back.

We were infatuated children
pecking kisses innocently on cheeks
to express sincere emotion
rather than as a prelude
to the symphony of stirring sheets.    

We were lopsided in structure.
Me with my right arm scraping
the outcrop of your shoulder.
My left tucked under your armpit
snagging the loose folds in your shirt;
while your forearms cradled  
blue softness and half my ribs.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand
counted before we pulled apart gently
disentangling your fabric from mine.

And with a foot of concrete between
our feet we grew up once more.
Re-learning the warm colors of
violence and ***.
The cool colors of
drinking and drugs.

I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates  a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood!  You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful.  It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.

But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.

are you hungry?

no,
I lie

I sit alone on the floor of my bedroom
shame running through my veins

I am forced to punish myself
and I will do it
to the full extent of my power

no more diet coke
they said
and I made it four days
before I was sneaking them
at restaurants
two weeks
before I had them at school
just days after
before I stole them by the armful
from the limited supply
holed up in my parent’s
room

this is a confession
a begging for forgiveness

I shall lay the whippings upon my own back
and
I shall be the one who recommended the whippings

are you hungry?
they ask
and I stare
blinking silently
lacking the ability to answer

no
I might say
if I was more of a
coward


but for now I am a criminal awaiting trail
and not a single soul doubts I am my
best judge

A generous amount of ferocious wind , a ladle of roaring thunder and a cup or two of 'nerve racking hail ..'
A handful of blue lightning with a pressure cooker full of rain ,
an armful of 'nasty charcoal nimbus' and 'puppy dog- puffy cumulus' stirred into a heaping bowl of 'humid Georgia sunshine ..'
Turn the Old rooster weathervane to the East , hurry up and gather the last pile of leaves ..
Get the turkey chicks in the barn , shut down the smokehouse ..
Tie the scarecrow off , call the family together and head for the storm cellar !

Wait, I hear you tipping through the long grass
A trumpet of flowers and an armful of love
My heart is a crystal of raindrops fair
And you are my fairies who fly through the air.

Love Mary , Mum , Grandma x

There is something about the way we move,

as if we've been here before,

as if nothing is the matter,

as if there could be more.

but then,

there is the truth; that we are broken and harmful,

willing to burst for a single armful

of what should be bliss

if we would, for a second, forget all of this.