Tag Archives: abuse

A cautionary tale: of lines of wasting time of doing shit I’m not proud of it

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3 
My brain has been fried by too much pills and booze
my lungs have been fibrosed by too much smoke and hooch
my liver has started failing now from all the injectables
my addictions have been diagnosed as damaging collectables 
my complexion has been described as 20 years past my age
the amphetamines did that and being in a state of perpetual rage 
my twitch is due to uppers and the paunch the sloth of coming down
and don’t talk to me about cocaine, is there any going round?
the munchies sometimes fattened me up but then the crack always thinned me out 
who needed diet pills? I did because I was kind of always in doubt
the cough syrup got me high on ephedrine I could always get a six pack 
as long as I went behind the chemist with cash paid out the back
my muscles are wasted my skin is pocked 
it’s fair to say I’m generally fucked

some of my junkie friends died young but I admit I barely noticed
unless I was trying to get clean, and yeah those times were pretty grotesque
it’s funny what getting clean meant to me it was a sort of an exchange trip
which never really worked because backwards I would always slip
so here I find myself old, no friends no family to want me and I’m really in the shit!

Slaughterhouse

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4 
Every building a cave
Every room a nave
Every threshold I cross
comes with a sense of loss

the entry here is a portal
to all that is mortal
a refuge and a threat
more of the latter I met

every uncertain floor
stable footing unsure
firm or soft intent
I proceed with discontent

I engage with each room
amid the dust and gloom
of this abandoned house
where I had no choice 
this slaughterhouse
to a mouse

I remember the fear
I remember the tears
to isolation being sent
the trauma and lament

my sister and my brothers
my long suffering mother
all gone from our house
no squeaks from their mouths

I reach my old bedroom
the one in which soon
salvation fell on this house
the roaring of a mouse

I stood right on this spot
hand and hammer aloft
he broke in through the door
I hit more and more

I was ten years old
withdrawn and quiet I’m told
well, I wasn’t that night
I turned on the light

that drunken bleeding 
snivelling mess
that gurgling throat of distress

to my father
I confess
I would have killed you
I so wanted too
but it was something a small malnourished boy 
wasn’t strong enough to do

my father
who art now in heaven  
you weakened me 
I hated you
you made me strong
I still hate you

The dVerse prompt for we poets today was from Kim, to write about buildings. Did I write about buildings?

Bruised

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1 
I’m feeling a little bruised
a little rushed a little used
when you turn your whip like tongue on me
a little crushed and very confused 

when you say that I’m not worth it
yet you keep on coming back
I decide that I’ll stick with it
and then you call me slack 

yes I’m a sucker for punishment
my friends all tell me that 
but really I’m a sucker for nourishment
I pray for it after every spat

I hate you and I love you 
I tell you and relent
then you diss me and you kiss me
never knowing what each one meant 

you don’t hit me or spit on me
you don’t go out with another
you just discard me like a soiled rag
whenever you think I’m a bother

then you take me back when it suits
knowing you'll always have the boots
to stand over me til I breakdown
to abuse me when I meltdown

I crave to be better, yet I'm a weak nag 
always with one hand reaching for an escape bag
but I turn back from every open door 
I pathetically keep coming back for more

then as I slide down every jamb
lamb to slaughter, slaughtered lamb
self esteem slides with me, to the floor we sag
and I gag and I gag and I gag

I see myself for what I have become
I know I'm not the only one
It isn't something helpful to know
others also powerless if they stay, powerless to go

Fledglings of fear

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Reply 
The dawning was a slow one
we were fledglings of fear
victims of illness,
Children of Lir

Number 1 was long strong.
Her job to protect.
Strong for a long while,
until proven imperfect.

Number 2 was a mess,
times hard as hard
for that little girl,
our fractured shard.

Number 3 was me.
Death to the fiddle!
Hate for love.
None in the middle.

Number 4 was Baby,
always our most precious.
Watching and suffering,
the indiscriminate malice.

Mother was mad
as mad could be.
Inside we knew,
outside, 
none could see.

House to school
school to house
all running scared
each quiet as a mouse.

Freezing bath water,
heads held down.
Gasping for breath.
No sound,
lest you drown.

Smothered in cereal, 
honey as glue,
naked on the floor
kicked black and blue.
 
We lost our only friend.
Older sister on the verge.
Took flight literally.
Our life and death dirge.

To young to know.
To young to do.
I first noticed the down
while cowering, we few.

Necks stealthily extended,
to get a better view
of punishment to come,
forewarned by cue.

Heads tucked under wings,
to avoid each other’s pain.
Our wings were getting stronger
unobserved by our bane.

Three remaining cygnets
together finding voice
seeking strength together,
a transformative choice.

Reddened eyes were normal,
the feathers came next.
Black, as our experience
lengthened our graceful necks.

Then came time to speak
with red bloodied beaks
making plaintive warning sounds
ugly ducklings began to sneak.

Eventually, we broke out of bounds,
braved an outside world,
the hurt, the rage, the hopelessness,
to unravel and unfurl

And when we told our story,
of years of abuse and neglect,
no one knew a thing
out of privacy respect.

Together we remain fragile.
Together we remain strong.
Together we mourn our sister.
Grief upon hope upon wrong upon wrong.


For Sinead O’Connor.


Strathbogie poetry #strathbogiepoetry