Abby the Stabby - 2

Not exactly a dream (because she's wide awake)

But a place in her mind for her sanity's sake;

Part memory and part old story book,

Nothing too big - just a safe little nook

Where traumas and nightmares that need to be buffered

Are shoved far away so that no pain is suffered,

And Abigail's taken to happier times

Of singing, and laughing, and old nursery rhymes --

A place free of limits, where logic and reason 

Or even morality's not yet in season --

Sweet little Abby (just seven, plus two)

Lives with her mom on 13th Avenue.

Her daddy was 'gone off to fight in the war'

But she didn't know why, or howcome, or what for...

'But someday, he'll come back. He has to. He must!

He swore, and he promised -- in Daddy I trust!'

Every night, without fail, he would come tuck her in

With a kiss on the forehead, and *boop* on the chin,

Sit by her bed on a small wooden chair,

Think for a moment, then, hands in the air, 

He'd pull from a stack of books up on the shelf 

(Knowing full well she can read them herself)

And read her a chapter (or maybe some verses)

From books about dragons and old pirate curses,

Of strange little girls in the strangest of places,

With strange looking people (with strange looking faces),

With magic and mystery (sometimes a rule

Like 'eat all your veggies' or 'try hard at school')

And Abby'd lie quiet and be swept away

By the sound of his voice at each word that he'd say --

The love that they shared, she felt deep in her soul, 

But now it's all gone, as if dumped in a hole.

And then, just like that, this new boyfriend appeared 

(At the time, he was friendly, so not to be feared),

And Mama was smiling more. Smiling a lot,

And that's when he started to stare, plan and plot

To have all the cake, and devour it, too;

Treat Abby's innocence like a cheap screw,

And away went the stories, the kisses and hugs,

Mama's too busy, out looking for drugs --

So dark it became, deep within Abby's mind

That coherent thinking was harder to find;

She felt the floor drop and her panic grow hotter,

The rules of reality rippled like water, 

And downward she tumbles, with no way of knowing 

How far she is falling, or where she is going --

And where she will land's not entirely clear,

But anywhere's got to be better than here. 

---

Abby the Stabby (A Dark Seussian Tale) - 1

The year was nineteen hundred forty (plus two),

When the world was at war with, umm... You-Know-Who,

In a quaint little house, in a darkly lit room,

Abby the Stabby lies in the gloom --

Not sleeping at all, staring up at the ceiling

While deep in her gut there's a tight, ugly feeling:

"I can't go to sleep or the Monster will come,

Silently creeping (to not wake my mum) --

He'll crawl in beside me without any warning,

Take what he wants and be gone before morning,

Demanding my silence, or risking my life --

The reason for hiding this long kitchen knife."

Grey eyes in the darkness, with small flecks of green,

Watching for him to return to the scene;

As deep in her chest, her cold, broken heart

Summons her demons to rip him apart.

The first time he visited her late at night,

She pulled up the covers and trembled with fright --

The smell of his cigarettes and of stale beer,

His voice like sandpaper, he slurred in her ear:

"Be a good girl and don't struggle too much

(Although I do like it - the violence and such);

I don't mean for you or your mom to get hurt, 

But Jesus, you're pretty -- and such a huge flirt!

Long hair that goes down past the small of your back, 

That body that makes my knees wobbly and slack --

I just can't take it -- I just need a taste;

So youthful and pure, irresistibly chaste...

But this is our secret. We must never tell,

Or both of us stand to catch all kinds of hell -- 

I say what I mean and I mean what I say:

One little sound, and your mom goes away."

Silent tears fall on the blankets and sheet

Her mind wanders off as he treats her like meat

To shadowy places of darkness and rage

(A monster's not meant to be locked in a cage);

Sooner or later she's going to break,

Ball up her fists as they rumble and shake, 

Pull out the knife, plant it deep in his chest,

Close both her eyes, and finally rest --

'But that's not enough for you, Abby --now is it?

Mom's got to go too, for she was complicit;

She's known for a while about his appetites,

And yet has done nothing to help Abby's rights,

In fact, she's told Abby that she is to blame

(As if she seduced him, as some kind of game) --

Such shame and disdain, as if Abby's a whore,

But Abby's not going to take anymore.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2016

      

Inferno in Oz - 3 : 1

The war's account does not exist

(Except in Glinda's Record Book);

Left unspoken, rarely read --

But let's just have a look.

---

Silently, the dragon apes,

A hundred wide and twenty deep,

Perched on every single roof, 

Poised to snarl and leap. 

Glinda stands before at the gate,

With Jellia Jamb close at her side

(Though not the whiskered guardian,

Who seems content to hide).

"Not yet," Glinda whispers, "Wait

For them to make the first attack --

We'll let them spend their energy

Before we hit them back!"

---

While far away, our Dorothy,

Tears of rage upon her cheek,

Whispers in her hellhound's ear

One word's instruction: "Speak."

What comes from Toto's drooling maw:

A bark so loud, so deep and thick

Its force becomes a hurricane --

A storm of yellow brick.

The bricks hail down upon the apes,

Half of them knocked clear awry;

Those remaining screech and howl,

And fury fills the sky.

---

The Nomish King, in quick response,

Brings his forces full to bear --

"The Magic Belt must be returned!

It's not for her to wear!"

Barbaric Nomes, with swords in hand,

Rush toward the Emerald gate --

Bolstered by their fearless King,

And fueled by greed and hate.

The apes descend upon the Nomes,

A cloud of wings that blots the sun --

(Ruggedo knows he's going to lose,

And takes off in a run.)

---

And elsewhere, in a field of corn,

The lion cub climbs up the post,

Greets the Scarecrow with a grin,

But receives no riposte. 

A moment's thought, and then "Aha!

I shall draw my friend a face,

And once awake, he'll use his brains

To solve this puzzling case. 

And sure enough, once more aware,

The Scarecrow blinks, and tries to stand --

And turning to his rescuer, says,

"Let's go save our land."

---

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

A Letter - To ________

    Greetings, my beloved. So many lonely hours have I toiled over this very desk, staring balefully into the night's abyss as it stared back at me, its single, unblinking eye holding vigil from behind the clouds -- so many words and ideas swarm in this haunted mind like spectral hornets (O, but the accursed buzzing sounds they make! How I would trade in an instant, this wretched hive with the serenity of the simpleton) --and still, not once have I writ to you with the proper manner such intimate letters are due. For that, I beg your pardon. 

It is my greatest hope that my letter finds you well, and in good spirits. As I do my best to write this by candlelight, I am squirrelled away on a rooptop, some storeys above the gates to Oz's Emerald City (such fantastic places my travels take me, love!). In the twilight of morning, I can see armies beginning to take positions. A war comes, my love -- and as Oz's official Bard, I've no choice but to bear witness, and write its verses. Even at great risk to life and limb. I shudder to think it, but should I not retu-- no. I dare not write it! I cannot. But know that I will return to you the instant my task is done, for there are sonnets to compose, and dark tales to spin. The call of the Muses is strong -- even here, across the endless desert, I can feel their harmonies teasing me, begging me to come home to their insatiable, monstrous appetites --and beneath them, the low growling undercurrent  of the Incubus' patient, calm breathing. Seething, he waits for me to tell his tale, so I will come when summoned. I fear my refusal would be unwise.

    The armies are beginning to rally, darling. I must keep moving and stay hidden, lest this tale go untold. I fear for my safety, but I dare not abandon my post, for you know better than anyone: penning these verses is the only way to ease my haunted mind, and put an end to these accursed nightmares. I will write again as soon as I am able. 

Cordially,

J. Cambridge.
April 14, 2016.

----

Ichor of the Incubus - Introduction

Four centuries, with this disease

I wallowed, 'pig in mud',

Cursed by that witch -- that gypsy bitch,

Who sunk my town in flood.

You know of me, my infamy;

The town which bears my name,

But all you've heard -- each sordid word

Has been part of a game.

On one side, white, like richest cream

Or softest, warmest breast;

And opposite, like blackest pit;

My soul, in e'er unrest. 

We battle on, our weapons drawn

To know, once and for all,

Who goes down, and who gets the town, 
to hold in monstrous thrall.

I have bore witness to all dark business

Done within the Cross;

Cursed or nay, that bloody day

Will be that harlot's loss.

---

© Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Confession - 13

So comes this written confession,

Writ by myself, Martin Bloom:

Consigned to a horrible doom;

A sentence of lethal injection --

A state I shall gladly assume, 

Just to end this wretched infection,

Never to let it exhume.

I won't even try to deny it --

Murder'd corrupted my soul;

Killing them made me feel whole, 

And gave me a much-needed quiet,

But somewhere, I lost all control,

Acting as merely a pilot

For some other psychopath's goal.

Of course, I know that doesn't matter;

They're dead, and a price must be paid --

Such judgement I'd never evade --

For let's face it: I bathed in the splatter, 

My morals and conscience decayed,

I served up their souls on a platter,

So I'll lie in the bed that I made.

Yet still I can hear jacket's calling,

Up from the cold forest ground --

A haunting, ethereal sound,

Shrill in my head, wretched squalling,

Craving my flesh by the pound;

Its shadowy voice has me bawling, 

Praying I'll be stabbed or drowned.

I've reached the end of my story

(In no way an innocence pitch), 

This horrid, unscratchable itch

My nightmarish memento mori;

I'm ready to gurgle and twitch --

I beg you, my grim reaper -- hurry,

It's coming for me! Throw the switch!

(fin)

---

-- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

(Thanks for reading, everyone.) 

Confession - 12

Crawling alone in the darkness,

Slow on the freezing cement,

My blood supply too close to spent,

I half-dragged my miserable carcass

'Til finally I had to relent;

I tried to keep fighting regardless, 

But was off to unconsciousness sent.

The very next thing I remember

Is waking in hospital bed --

Bandages covering my head,

My whole body painful and tender,

Most of my skin gone a-shred;

(No sign of my ghoulish offender,

Just doctors and nurses, instead.)

A prelude to incarceration, 

Each of my wrists in a cuff,

Lying in bed in the buff, 

Fighting the fog of sedation,

I struggled awake with a 'chuff',

The evidence of my predation

More than obvious enough.

Policement surrounded my gurney

(A landscape I couldn't avoid),

I'd sent so much life to the void;

A senseless and murderous journey,

So many poor lives destroyed...

(Told I'd right to an attourney,

I mumbled assent, paranoid.

And just like that, I was in prison

For all of the girls I had killed;

Lives cut so short, unfulfilled,

(Yet I spoke not of those risen --

The unliving, bloodthirsty guild

That led to the jacket's excision,

And left my soul shaken and chilled.)

---

-           © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

(To be concluded. For sure this time.  -J.)

Inferno in Oz - 2 : 4

Let us take a moment, friends,

Observe the whole violent ado

As little bird on languid limb,

And have a quick review:

Dorothy, infused with rage

Aided by her faithful beast

Journeys north, while the Tin Man

Ventures from the east.

His charge? To locate Oscar Diggs

(The Wiz - though hardly "Wonderful"),

Drag him home to face his wrong,

And make him pay in full.

Meanwhile, Oscar and his guard

(the stoic, copper Tik-Tok man),

Sneaks the Munchkin countryside

(All part of the plan:

First, his hunter, Man of Tin;

A threat he'll need to neutralize --

For that, the Wiz knows just the thing:

A girl with bright blue eyes.)

Glinda, Witch of purest Good,

Rises from the southern ground,

Tilts her head toward the sky,

And makes a whistling sound.

They come in flocks of five or six,

Thundering across the sky:

A hundred angry dragon-apes

With wings to let them fly.

"Take me to the City, friends --

We haven't any time to lose!

I've got to stop this awful war,

And I'm out of magic shoes!"

The lion-kitten, full of fear,

Hiding in the tallest trees,

Spies a cornfield to the west,

And smiles at what he sees.

"The Scarecrow! Thank my lucky stars!

He'll help make things right again,

I shall join him presently -- 

And have him use his brain!"

While at home in Emeraldville,

Guard of greenish whisker hair

Bravely guards the palace gate

(from underneath a chair). 

And worst of all, King Ruggedo

Leads his fearsome Nomish hordes;

A monstrous trek toward the throne

Behind the emerald doors. 

Thus, with that bit squared away,

And all the armies in the fore,

Let us to our tale return;

And brace for fire and war. 

(End of Act II.)

---

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.