This is the story of Old Man Jenkins
Old, yes, but he never felt that way

If being young meant being corrupt, he’d have no part
Stubborn, he wouldn’t change his ways

He would simply avoid this new perverse world
To keep himself in the good ol’ days

The days when neighbors looked out for each other
When you knew your mailman’s name

When men held the door for ladies
And success didn’t have to mean fame

He reminisced of days when a living was honest
When families had a father and a mother

When talking in person was the best was to talk
And one shirt was as good as another

But oh how they teased him,
They’d say “He’s just an old man”

And they’d compare his brain
To a lone grain of sand

They said he wasn’t modern or up with the times
They said he was ignorant and out of his mind

They would try to make him angry
Hounding him over and over again

But Old Man Jenkins was the gentlest of souls
And returned only a wrinkled grin

You see, he wasn’t mad or crazy
And he minded not their scorn

He had been storing up a better treasure
Since the very day he was born

After he left this world, they realized
They saw how bad they were wrong

They longed to tell him they were sorry
But the time for that had come and gone

It may be myth, but one once said
And others have repeated it since then

That the gentle soul of Old Man Jenkins
Smiled on them with a wrinkled grin.

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

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                           Paul throws them to the king and makes a frozen question.

My sister, my sister! How I love you so!
A beautiful woman, with a vibrant soul!
Worth a thousand words, and ten thousand more!
My sister, my sister! How I love you so!

You've given me hope and inspired me,
Gave me confidence to come out of my shell,
Show the world the ugly side of me,
Gave me comfort in knowing you didn't judge me.

I get sad when you're sad, and I hug you when I can,
I want what's best for you, for you to be happy.
You're my adoptive big sister, so here's a happy birthday!
From you're adoptive young brother, Jack Jenkins!

<3

being the "sum of what the world 'thinks' I am"
is written, smeared in blood across the cave i've come to love
and leave behind but only in an understanding:
selfhood carries with it all we lack.
it carries on its seas the diatomic algae fruiting slowly back
it carries on each ladder-rung the selves that other's see,
the lovers' feelings felt,
the mailman's kindness kept--
a stranger's instant siblinghood in eye-flash recognition wept.

my heart is tattered there, and rebuilt here;
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
the pain and lonely misery, the mind-split cosmic surd of this
that Jenkins must have felt, before her captors left hir dead...
--a bullet in hir back, a simple heart-stop pellet placed--
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
without your words, your rich, kind thoughts of me
that others do not know they have,
that Kiesha could have known.

Jenkins always did whatever the **** he wanted to do.
He always went about his business
like it was his only purpose on Earth.
He never got bogged down
in gossip or idle talk,
made just to pass the time.
He didn't give a rat's ***
about who was doing what to whom
& vice versa.
Once I saw him spit a ******
on the floor
of a high dollar restaurant.
He blurted out, "Free Oyster!"
& laughed his *** off, what a dork.
Everybody looked shocked,
one patron dropped a fork,
another snickered.
Strange days indeed,
but nobody there asked him to leave,
they seemed pleased to take his money
instead & clean up the nasty mess.

Walking by the McDonalds
Licking an ice cream cone
It's vanilla
Like his skin
There's a creeper behind him
Wearing some shades
Probably wants the kid
He has ice cream too
But NO, Ryan says
He's holding kid's hand
Wearing some sandals.

"I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last: and I tell you, it will be more tolerable for ***** and Gomorrah in the day of judgment, than for that city."

Jimmy is a writer close to writer Mariston?
Are North Korean Fish, Tobacco and Children
Another Way in Europe? 1000 gaming
American blacks, United States, Australia,
Ireland and other cities and towns. Little Lawyers,
9 ***** and Lawyers; "Articles" 1,000 Crates Of Tricks
And Other Goods From South America,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Badam,
Nabi Jores and Solomon are members of the list:
Fatehah, Kushish, Katis, Arab, Sharad Susan.
The rules of life of Virginia, Illinois, Jores and Baio -
People of the life: 600 people have been arrested
in France and are in French straps.
This is a new example. Five European models
are Evolutionary Rasputas, Revolution Revolutionary
Yano ATI Rioros 1000. Key features:
In the ***** of Raffin's *** pictures,
established in a California Cathedral
for the corrupt religion, Estonia, California
and the United States of America,
Estonia, Egypt and ****'s Dynasty .
Africa, Australia, Africa A five-year framework in Africa,
Australia, Africa, ******* Jores in America.
Gil Walton, N., Milosita, Alabama, USA
A funny comedy with a new battlefield.
Benevents of prophets, prophets, false profits,
prostitutes and prophets. Jimmy the author
is the author of Mariston? Fish, tobacco
and ******* North Korean children
are another way into Europe? 1000 gaming,
American black, United States, Australia,
Ireland, and other cities and towns.
Lawyer little lawyer 9 years and "articles"
1000 drawer ***** and other accessories.
South America, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Badam, Nabi and Solomon's are:
Fatehah, Kushish, Katis, Arab, Sharad
Susan. The rules of life of Virginia, Illinois and Bio -
People of life: 600 people have been arrested
with French ****** in French strip clubs.
This is a new example. Five European models
are revolutionary revolutionaries. The main features
of the 1000 yonorioro's revolution: Coronation
was founded in the California Cathedral
for the education of corruption, corrupt religion
in Asia, Africa, Australia, Africa, Estonia, California,
United States, Estonia, Egypt and Rolfin. Gill Walton,
N., Milosita, Alabama, USA UU U.U. is a fun battlefield
with a new battlefield, predictions, prophets,
false profits, and the edge of the prophets,
in a five-year framework in Africa, Australia,
Africa, and America.
Is Jim the latest author of Marriott?
North Korean fishes, tobacco and children;
in other ways in Europe? 1000 Gomming, American Black,
United States, Australia, Ireland and Other Cities
and Small Firms of 9 Prostitutes and Lawyers;
"Teamworkers, and other items from South America,
Australia, Australia, Alumni, Nabu Zoros are Solomon's list-Fatima,
Cushis, Katsis, Arab, Sharad Susan.
The life laws of Virginia, Illinois, Jaros and Beynes -
600 people of the life were arrested in France
and in France a new example of five European models:
Revolution, Yano ATI Rioros 1000. Key features
For the California Cathedral Gorges, Estonia,
California, USA, Estonia, Egypt, and the Patriot
of the Raffin's Orchid in the California Cathedral -
Africa, Australia, Africa Africa, Australia, Africa,
Flying Nursing and Five-Year America. Melilla,
Alabama, United States, a different comedy
of the new warfare: the benefits of prophets,
prophets, fables, prostitutes, and prophets:
author of Jimi Maristoan, author, fish, tobacco,
and North Korean child is a different way
in Europe 1000 gaming American Blacks,
United States, Australia, AU Lawrence
and other cities and towns lawyers for lawyers
for 9 years and "Article" 1000 Wolves and other accessories
are: South America, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Alarm, Nabi and Solomon-Fatima,
Kushis, Katsis, Arabs, Sharad Suzanne. . .Virginia,
Illinois and Bio Life Regulations - 600 people
have been arrested on the French circuits including
French settlers. This is a new example. Five European Models Revolutionary Revolution. Main features of the 1000th
Jörgen Revolution are: Muslims in Corruption Education,
Asia, Africa, Africa, Africa, Estonia, California,
USA, Estonia, Egypt, and Coral in a Corvette
in the California Cathedral. Gil Walton, NL, Melissa,
Alabama, USA, YusukeUU. In the five-year structure
of Africa, Australia, Africa and the United States,
there are new battles,
predictions, predictions, false profits, and the ends of the prophets.


Is Jim the Real Author of Marion? North Korean fish,
tobacco and kids in other ways in Europe? 1000 gm,
American black, United States, Australia, Ireland
and other cities and small businesses 9 prostitutes
and lawyers "from South America, Australia, Australia,
Alumni, Nur Zürich Staff Description - Fátima,
Kushis, Katsis, Arab, Shaar Susan, Virginia,
The 600 life laws of Illinois, Jaros, and Bisnis
were imprisoned in France and France for the new
1,000 Revolutions; Yano ATI Rioros 1000 models
for the California Catagories Gorges, Estonia,
California, USA, Estonia, Egypt, and the California
Cathedral Retreat Orchid Patriot - Africa, Australia,
Africa, Australia, Africa, Borne-Nancy,
and Five-Year-Old America, Alabama, USA,
New Special War: Prophets, Prophets, Stories,
Prostitutes, and Prophets Professors of Jimmy Marx,
author, writer, fish, tobacco and North Korean son of Life
is 1000 different games, American Black, USA, USA,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Australia, Alman, Nabi and Solomon-Fátima, Kushis,
Katis, Arabs, Sharada and locations.
Illinois and Bio Life Regulations -
600 people in French circuits and France
Five Innovations of the Modeling
of the 1000th of the Jenkins Revolution:
The Muslim Brotherhood of Education,
Asia, Africa, Africa, Estonia, California,
USA, Estonia, Egypt, and Coral in California,
the Caucasus, Gilbert, NL, Melissa,
Alabama, USA, Yusukuyu. There are five
seasons in the African, Australian,
African and American structures,
new battles, predictions, predictions,
false profits, and prophetic endings.

What exactly does Jim really care for?
Other Korean fish, baby tobacco and other European countries?
1000m to US Blacks, USA, Australia,
Ireland and other small and small businesses
9 in South America, Australia, Australia,
Alifini, Naturally the Staff Report is a furry genie;
the new 1000 in America,
USA, United States, Australia, Ireland,
Revolutionary prisoner 'Ilinoyiši, yejeroši
and French and French 600 laws of life
yenišikiši Rinnos 1000 models in California
ketelogiši girogoši, Estonia, California,
USA, Estonia, inappropriate and California
Cathedral, Orchid Petiriyoti - Africa, Australia,
Africa, Australia , Africa, Bonen-Nancy,
and the Brethren Year of US-Alabama, US
New War Prophets, and Prophets, Stories,
Pirogiretochi and Prophets Jim's Professors
Popular Books, Authors, Authors, Fish,
Tobacco, and North Korean Children's Life
1000 different games, Black America,
Yukēšikē, USA, Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Alma, Prophet and Solomon-Fatima,
Ethiopia, Place, Billions Shelders & Places,
Illinois, and Terms of Use. French circuits
and France in 1000 by 600, five yejēnikiniši
revolutionary innovations - Muslim Brotherhood
Education, Asia, Africa, South Africa, Estonia,
California, USA, Estonia, Egypt and California,
Caucasus. Giliberi, Neil, Melissa, Alabama,
United States, yušukuru. In Africa, Australia,
Africa and in the United States
there are five new emergencies,
war, predictions, false assumptions
and future avoidance. What does Jim really require?
Other Korean Fruits, Baby Tobacco
And Other European Countries?
American, American, American, American,
American, American, American, American,
American, Australian, Irish, and other small
and micro businesses 1000 M to US Dollars,
Australia, France, and France and France 600 Laws;
Laws The models of Roland 1000 in California,
Catalunya, Germán, Estonia, California, USA, Estonia,
Appropriate and California Cathedral, Orchid Patriotic -
Africa, Australia, Africa, Australia, Africa, Bon-Nancy,
and the US Alabama, America's New War, The prophet
1000s of different games, Black America, Ukraine,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Alma, Prophet and Solomon-Fasima,
Ethiopia, Place, Billiton Nine and Places,
Ellen and Terms of Use. In 1000 by 600,
five creative innovations - Muslim Brotherhood,
Asia, Africa, South Africa, Estonia, California,
USA, Estonia, Egypt and California, Caucasus.
Guillery, Neil, Melissa, Alabama,
United States, Yusukeku. Five new emergencies,
wars, speculations, false predictions,
and future outbreaks in Africa, Australia,
Africa and the United States. Are you really
looking at other Korean fruits, baby cigarettes
and other countries? Archimo Bonnie Patrick
Nancy, Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia,
Australia, France, Trail Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Estonia,
California, Media, Estonia, Estonia, Estonia,
Estonia, California, Construction, Caucasus,
Australia, Alma , Estonia, California, Prophet,
Prophet, Ethiopia, Venice, Melissa, Alabama,
Kya made Usuke with the states of UK states.
For example, let us know that you are evaluating,
evaluating, predicting more than 5 years.
Of course, Korean and other vegetables, baby
cigarettes and other countries? Archimo Bonnie
Patrick Nancy Australia, Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, France, Hiking, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Estonia, California,
Media, Estonia, Estonia, Estonia, Estonia,
California Building, Caucasian, Australia,
Alma Mata, Estonia, California, Nabi, A Prophet,
Ethiopia, Venice,
Melissa, Alabama Nyukt States is Kikini (plastic)
used Kinigodo for example, to tell to predict,
assess, evaluate, is about more than 5 years.

Of course, Korean and other vegetables,
baby cigarettes and other countries? Archimo
Bonnie Patrick Nancy Australia, Australia,
Australia, Australia, Australia, France, Hiking,
Australia, Australia, Australia, Estonia,
California, Media, Estonia, Estonia, Estonia,
Estonia, California, Building, Caucasian,
Australia, Alma, Estonia, California, Nabi,
A Prophet, Ethiopia, Venice, Melissa, Alabama
Nyukat State Ikini (plastic) for example
using Kinigodo to tell to predict assess;
evaluate more than 5 years.
Korea and other vegetables, tobacco and other countries? Australia Australia Australia Australia Armino Bononi petirishi Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia World Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia āwišitire The Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia P Easier Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia - Australia, Alma, California, Nabi, the Prophet, Ethiopia, Switzerland, Melissa, Albin Nikikacik. Korea and other vegetables, tobacco and other countries? Australia Australia Australia Australia World Australia Portal Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Ú thousand Australia Ú thousand Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Ú thousand Australia Australia Australia Úx Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia ÚWišitire Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • āwišiti Leah • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •; Australia Australia Eostre, California, are, the Prophet, Ethiopia, Switzerland, Melissa, Albin Nikikacik. Korea and other vegetables, tobacco and other countries? Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Trajania Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia Australia Eastern, California, Prophet, Ethiopia, Switzerland, Melissa, Albania, Nicosia. Korea and other vegetables, tobacco and other countries? • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • New Zealand • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Trajani • Australia • Australia • Australia • Aso Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Aus tralia Australia Australia Eastern California, USA, , Nicosia. Korea and other vegetables, tobacco and other countries? Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia New Zealand Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia • Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia Australia, Eastern California, United States America, Nicosia Cici, you're under arrest. You want to come with us. The Quiet Type. What's she wearing, looks like Nothing?
FIN

Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
"It is just your fancy, child."
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water's edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.

Looking out at the world before him
Scanning people on the fly
John Jenkins watched as they passed his building
All in a hurry, but why?

He'd sit feeding pigeons when the weather was nice
With seed brought from the local Bodega
For two bucks a week, he'd keep them all fed
With a bag bought from Jose Montega

Each day he would watch, as the people ran by
Never stopping to watch as they passed
This man in the shadows, feeding the birds
And each day, he would watch the same cast

The birds never wavered as the people ran on
Never concerned with their lives, just with John
You could shoot off a gun, and not one would fly
Although, you would expect them all gone

He'd sat here for years, since he retired way back
No one saw him as he sat with the birds
He would say "hi" as the people went by
But, I'm sure no one heard the words

He was passed off as crazy, just a loon on a bench
He's a fixture that no one can see
And except for the birds and the Bodega's Jose
I would sit here and say I agree

One morning, downstairs, as the people passed by
John got up and went up to his place
The birds never left, they just waddled around
And the people went on with their race

The next morning, no John, no one down with the birds
He had died in his sleep in the night
But, the people passed by, never noticed him gone
And the birds, waddled round from their flight

He left nary a mark on the world he had left
He was mad, they said, but that was okay
And the people passed by, and the birds were still fed
By the new man on the bench called Jose.

In angelic voice, enthral, rejoice

Of peace be s-t-i-l-l, for one fine day

A garden of dreams, over the rainbow, a daydream behold

In a graceful realm, of grace to amaze, a dawn of promising rays

Blissful skies, sunlight arise, a peaceful picture

Soul silhouette, lest we forget, royal remembrance

Together we stand, to thee, across the land

A musical language, all-embracing, casted carousel

Performance premier, shining sensational, inspirational

Hail – music of the night, dance with the stars

Tap and glide, a guiding star, something in the way……….

Just as you are

Journeying jewel, revel, jubilee

A walk through autumn leaves, in timeless reverie

Sounding soprano, crowds resonate, of joyfulness elate

Gracefulness of elegance, a time of prime

A gift given, of noble distinction

A symphony of sophistication

Due adulation, due applause, with charitable cause

Exceptional tours, over a great and mighty distance

Of services rendered, a splendour of release

Flowering duet, a radiant bloom, of times unknowing

We’ll meet again – soon



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

"If some people like your painting, fine.
If some don't, well, there's the door.

Take your work seriously
But don't take yourself seriously

Paint for yourself
Enjoy yourself"

I was watching a show on PBS today
"The Beauty of Oil Painting" with Gary & Kathwren Jenkins

Gary said this and I marveled at how much this echoed the attitude we should cultivate when writing poetry.

This evening, I am alone, and yet I am not;
Within this barren mansion, no raven to spot.
For the price of solace is solitude,
But this payment can never be made.

“Nevermore!” I mumble in quick succession,
In hopes to ease my growing exasperation;
Yet these words have no such power,
They serve only to torment me, stronger by the hour.

I cut my wrists to forget this pain,
To no avail, only the sheets I stain;
So I gathered them, and burned it all,
The curtains, the pictures, all will fall;
For the flames consume all, save for the feelings,
They crawl.

Homeless, cold, famished but not quite dead yet,
Picked up a torch From the conflagration I’ve set.
Headed north, I depart with pen, paper
And a few pieces of silver.

For I’ve bartered my sanity for a brief respite,
As I walk in these bloodied sandals,
Your profile still in sight.

Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.

Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.

in memory of Melvin Jenkins--my Uncle

You're resting in Jesus' arms
From all safety and away from harm,
Beyond the moon and skies.

Sleeping from all labor and pain,
Beyond riches and fortunes gain,
Beyond the moon and skies.

Goodbye is not so,
But it's see you soon that's never getting old,
Beyond the moon and skies.

Until next time
We'll see you then
And talk once again
Until next time---
Goodnite!

19 May 2017

Willoughby is the name. And if I can't express my unique and unconventional way of writing here on Hello Poetry as a shock poet,  I'll get angry and leave.  And believe me, you don't want me to get angry (I've been known to get so angry I wet myself).  Following is an example of my style. (WARNING:  If your eyes start to burn, turn away for a few seconds.  You'll be fine).

Reuters news service.  This just in...

PROJECTILE ***** MAN ARRESTED

Dateline:  New York City ---
   Charlie Jenkins, the projectile vomiter of New York is behind bars after 24 incidents of vomiting on people who had made him angry. From rude waitresses to aggressive beggars to mean hotdog venders, he didn't discriminate.

   He apparently could throw up at will and spew it Like a weapon on his unsuspecting victims.  When confronted he would claim that he was just sick with the flu and had no control over it and you can't get mad at someone who is sick can you?

   The judge had to search the laws to call it an assault at the courtroom yesterday and then was promptly vomited on by the man with the nickname known as Up-Chuck Charlie.

   Charlie was quoted as saying, " It's like a super power and there are a lot of jerks who deserve my kind of vengeance and if I punched them I'd go to jail, this way I leave them humiliated and soiled in ***** and get to walk away".  Sorry Charlie, not this time.

    Susan Clark from channel 2 news asked but why do such a disgusting thing, why? Charlie replied,"Why do I do it?  I do it for the same reason that a dog licks his own *****...because I can.

Toward the end of every year, Christmas comes again,
To life the tired spirits for those of us who can
Celebrate with lights and trees and carols that we sing,
And all the warm and happy smiles expensive presents bring.
But December twenty-fifth to some is just another day
To bear alone like all the rest that drain their lives away.
Come take a look at holidays for folks you might have missed
As you hurried by them to buy your family's gifts.

Sara Jenkins limped along the sidewalk on South Main,
Her ancient, failing body was bent with cold and pain.
Her ***** fingers held the bags storing all she owned;
She walked alone and spoke to ghosts of people she had known.
The shoppers on the sidewalk stepped out of her way,
The sight and smell of Sara drove them all away.
No one knew old Sara, no one wanted to;
No one had the time for her with Christmas things to do.
She hobbled down an alleyway behind The Deli Suite,
To find the empty packing crate she crawled inside to sleep.
She turned a corner, dropped her bags and gave an awful howl,
A delivery truck had crushed her crate against the Deli’s wall.
Sara scrambled to the crate, and pulled the boards away
She searched around until she found a photo in a frame.
The glass was cracked, the photo torn, but she could see his face.
And his arm around her shoulders in their younger days.
Then the wind whipped up around her, she pulled her sweater tight.
Sara knew she needed warmth to make it though the night.
She saw a rusty dumpster where she used to look for food,
The only thing the dumpster held were rags and broken wood.
She packed the rags around her, underneath her clothes
And looked about to find a spot to sleep out of the snow.
But the alley didn’t hold a place to lay her tired head,
So Sara walked up to the truck and tried the door instead.
She braced herself and pulled, the truck’s door opened up,
And Sara’s life grew by one night thanks to random luck.
The driver of the truck had quit at noon that day,
And left his lunch behind him in his haste to get away.
A thermos and a lunch box were lying on the floor;
Now Sara had a meal and a place out of the storm.
She gathered up her battered bags and slid onto the seat,
Locked the doors, settled back, and ate the driver’s meal.
Tomorrow he may come back, and then she’d have to leave,
But time for that tomorrow, tonight was Christmas Eve.

Jinx! You owe me a haggis!
Sheep! Sheep! Sheep boing!
I tried to connect the two.
I am glad that someone loves my discursive stuff.
I feel thrilled that someone validates me.

Tell me why again? Why why why not?
Did you mention socks? Why?
You’re a sock! Your face is a sock!
A pair of socks! I laugh!
You didn’t anticipate that one, did you?

I will nevar stop. Nevar.
Yes. An alternate spelling.
Hehehehehehe.
Be bold.  Be bold like Leeroy Jenkins.
Yas. Chicken music. Yas.

He was brave, he led the charge.
On monkeys and elders, what was our conclusion?
Monkeys are silly, elders are catnip.
I am silly.  This poem is silly.
Hehe. You know what I’m about to say next.

We must keep it a secret.
Sheep! Sheep boing!
Figure out what that pakis-ectomy is.
Yeah? Yeah? Well, you’re a pakis.
I guess that Wyatt Cenac
said it best:
I have to fool you.  I am fooling you.

Aeneas, Cooper, Pedro, and Boo.
They are all amicable with each other.

I keep getting these letters from my Uncle Bert
from his twilight home
and you know they quite upset me
but no way am I visiting him
the last time I went it took me
three visits to the laundrette
to get the stench out of my clothes.

"Dear niece Edna" (old Fred wrote,
in his spidery wavering hand,
the notepaper spodged with snot)
"I am a bit more depressed than usual today
which is saying quite a lot as the only thing
which cheers me up is when the old fool
in the next bed gets diarrhoea
after I slip a cat's **** in his soup
when he's not looking, so, dear Edna,
I'd be very grateful if you'd send me some more as
old Mrs Bloggs in the next ward deserves one too
for teasing me about my gangrenous foot.

"It seems I've been in here for centuries
but it's probably only a couple of years
and the pain since my dear wife Linda passed
over to what surely-to-*******-God
has to be a better place than here
bearing in mind the noisome odours
emanating from the rest of the patients
in the run-up to bath night
which doesn't help much in the long run
if you are fifth or sixth in line as the water
gets a bit soiled by then, especially
if that ****** Mr Ali has done a brownie.

"I'm getting more and more worried
about the Bulgarian who has taken up residence
in the linen cupboard as he could well be
some sort of carpet-slipper thief or even worse
a homosexualist after my ringpiece -
or he might be an Islamist who wants
to behead me which would be a blessed relief
if I am to be totally honest with you.

"We had a bit of fun the other week when one
of the Nigerian nurses forced my that Mr Jenkins
to use the bedpan in public as a reward
for stealing Mrs Jackson's home-made enema kit
or she could have been from Liberia
as the accents are broadly similar
(so I read in the Sunday Times travel supplement
they gave us instead of toilet paper when
supplies run out during the dysentery outbreak).

"All the best under the circumstances
from your Uncle Bert and don't forget you stay
disinherited unless you visit me soon -
no more excuses about your car having
broken down - what do you think i am,
some sort of addled dementia case?"

It's all very sad, but I have checked Uncle Bert's
bank account and he's just trying it on
as there's no more than a hundred quid in it
and no way am I visiting him for a lousy hundred;
for Christ's sake, the smell is enough
to knock a cowboy off his horse.

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hovering before me as I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In here I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met an old mystic who was in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water-Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.

Emma Stone must have known she was a dead cert to take home the award for best actress — her gold Givenchy gown was calling out for accessorising with the gold statuette. Stone led the charge for shimmering metallic gowns at a ceremony that was underwhelming from a fashion perspective, bar a handful of stand-out stars.

Those included Nicole Kidman, Jessica Biel, Halle Berry, Charlize Theron and fashion’s latest It girl Janelle Monae, who translated fashion chops from her musical background into acting with spectacular results, courtesy of designer Elie Saab.

Fashion pushes a more casual agenda and elements of this are filtering onto the red carpet. Hair was more undone: loose waves for Kirsten Dunst, a half-up style from Felicity Jones and Alicia Vikander’s messy topknot. Berry’s wild curls deserved their own statuette.

A mini-trend emerged with actresses wearing jewelled headpieces, including Ruth Negga, Salma Hayek and Monae.

While things did get political in speeches at the event, embracing diversity in the arts, stars didn’t give in to the current feminist mood. There was a distinct lack of pantsuits, which had been increasingly common at recent awards. Meryl Streep almost went there, in a “drouser” ensemble of dress over trousers, but that was as close as it got.

The lone political nod was an abundance of blue ribbons, supporting the American Civil Liberties Union’s action against the Trump administration’s immigration policies. Best supporting actress nominee Ruth Negga pinned one to her red Valentino gown, Karlie Kloss to her white Stella McCartney, while Moonlightdirector Barry Jenkins and best original song nominee Lin-Manuel Miranda added them to their tux jackets.

“I think art is inherently political,” said Miranda.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

buried on a monday next to old man Jenkins
a hot summers day
stillness
course grass
the rough hands of strangers
the sound of wood hitting dirt

         the shuffle of tired feet

the soft patters of rain
the distant voice of the city


the unforgettable silence

Say, Elvis, say south.
Say, Little Richard, say south.
Say, Jerry Lee Lewis, say south.

Say, BB King, say south.
Say,  David and Jimmy, Ruffin says south.
Heck most of the Classic Five was southern born.

The message is within the history of these southern born artists.
Where all mention above is still highly praised?
Alabama, Georgia, and Kentucky too created a feeling still bringing news.

Wilson Picket aka the Wicked one.
Jame Brown and Jean Terrell heritage are within the southern region.

If you don't know nothing comes from the south without gaining your attention.
Did I mention Dolly Parton"
Conway Twitty aka Harold Jenkins and Porter Waggoner.

Something within the spiritual birth.
Check the history of Chess Records blues artist.

By the way even Berry Gordy.

Devils of saintly virtues?
Or a saint of sin?
Who is evil or good?
Who bestowed such titles?

A boisterous ***** baron?
Ordained by dour dukes?
Spilled blood to pave a road?
Does your honor sunder and erode?

Was it virtuous to shove innocents?
To put them under lock and key?
Saintly, to make them fear?
Courage, to turn a blind eye?

Is it a sin to feed the starving enemy?
A devil to help a dying foreigner breath?
Bereave their suffering?
To feel guilt when malnourished prisoners beg for feed?

What makes you so noble?
Foible flags, and an adorable mantra?
A little training makes it right?
Maybe you know it does not,

Paving roads with bones and blood?
Did you join to fire a gun?
To retrieve bullets from inside of someone?
To stand for your flag and defend?

Does a medal wash away those sins?
All forgiven because you won?
Bombs dropped and humanity undone,
Another chapter in the book of justification,

Titled, ‘War is Hell’
The history of death, peace unsung,
Souls seized, leaders appeased,
From rot, money and disease,

Waiting for battle under south side trees,
What makes you better then them?
Education? A uniform?
Signing your life away to conform?

What if your not as noble as you seem?
Noble intentions in a hellish scene,
In total might, what if neither is right?
A hired killer of a higher power,

Atrocities in the name of swell intentions,
Killing for Lord Benton, or General Jenkins,
Does what you read make you mad?
Or sad?

Will war ravished ruffians take pity?
Is it wrong if they slaughter and **** your life?
Everyone in it?
Will your god founded, blessed flag save you?

Maybe they are right,
After all,
You did it to them first,
Suddenly it’s wrong? No chalking up to war is hell?

Maybe you’re lost,
Maybe notches on your gun makes you proud of past,
Maybe feel lied to, in a cloud,
Or maybe you’re a demonic psychopath,

The history of Saints is usually tattered with sin,
Passing volatile judgements upon men,
Devils usually do what they are asked,
Whether or not it should come to pass,

After all,
It was conflict that caused Edens fall,
Do you care if you’re right or wrong?
You, mercenary of the flag?

When is wrong, right?
Right, wrong?
Call you hero and sing your song,
Will history see it like you?


After all,
Stonewall made innocent civilians fall,
Regarded hero,
Instructed by a drunk,

Who are you?
What makes you so great?
Why are you right?
Why are you wrong?

In the end, I don’t care if you think,
Or ask yourself stated questions,
That’s not my biz,
Simply put...
It is what it is..

lost girl with a lotta problems
doing all the wrong things to solve um
but it makes her feel better so
she don't feel she can live without um

helps with the empty feeling
help with  the reminiscing
helps with the distant feeling
that something always seems to be missing

helps when she alone at night
helps when she aint feeling right
helps but she's scared it might
lead her down a path that cant see the light

the drugs help but only for so long
**** it,.. keep the party going on
people always say that she so strong
.. but what if they're wrong

I'm just dancing, drinking, till it, stops the thinking
tryna stay up but i feel I'm sinking
splash some cold water from the sink n
let the last couple of shots sink in
i feel like I'm trying but i don't know
nothing seems clear to me no more
try hard not to let the pain show
but **** man, sometimes it just explode


I'm drinking for all the wrong reasons
right now i don't give a ****
just glad it helps numb the feelings
feels like i cant get enough

Swirling magic
One moment
Red ruby
Pink ribbons
Deep purples pulsating
Colors dance
Healing begins
I can feel
Gold Sand
Smooth
Crystal clear
Smiles in my toes
As I stand firm
In this moment
Colors heal
Golden Sand
Embraces my
Weary bones
Time for your Meds
Mr Jenkins
Mr Jenkins
Time to wake up
Pain management awaits
Golden Sands

A silent white rose so enter the daffodils of spring ,
a single white rose O to be in love again .

First love on a train,
will I ever see you again ?
The whistle blows the train pulls out ,
she’s left the train I’m outa luck !

And there she is just like a dream ,
the ******* the train so enters the first scene .

Of boy and girl “ can I have this first dance “
for nothing else is left to chance .

Daffodils in spring ,
a single white rose ,
all because I saw her on a train ,
when the doors were  all closed .