Chasing Pangæa - 1:1

Each of us is born in blood and pain
To a world of violence, angst and fear,
Yet untarnished by its horrid stain...

 Why so young a life, small and austere,
Should suffer, giv'n how delicate they are;
A question for a more celestial sphere...

Two young sisters, one with brand new car,
The other with the baby on the seat,
No seat belts, but they won't get too far...

The highway is a slippery, icy sheet;
The car begins to spin out of control --
Tossing them like dolls, with no retreat...

Panicked, both the sisters brace to roll,
The car careens toward the nearest ditch,
And slams into a wooden power pole...

Road trip ground to sudden, tragic halt,
Everybody thrown toward the dash --
Though all survive the accident's assault...

Brand new car left totalled in the crash,
Torn to jagged, twisted chunks of hull,
Live wires coil and slither, spit and flash...

Alone and cold, thoughts and senses dull
(Though the rescue team is on its way),
Neither see the baby's broken skull...

He'll make it through the trauma, day by day,
Though trapped in migraines, most unfairly mired,
Pleading for the pain to go away...

Still, good fortune left him unexpired;
Skull repaired with plastic surgery,
While deep inside, his brain will be rewired...

...And so it starts, from this precursory:
A quest to find one's purpose, love and joy,
And step into his rightful destiny....

But that's so far away; he's still a boy;
To his childhood we shall soon return --
A window to a past of little joy...

But heed, before a single page will turn:
Every note be true in this refrain,
From genesis, until the tale's adjourn.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Van Goria

I s'pose there's a chance
That my skill at romance
Is less full of pearls than of swine,

But for you, my dear,
I give you an ear
(Which may or may not have been mine.)

Love,

Vincent

The Twins - 2 (The Shed - 3)

One of these things is not like the other,
Born simultaneous, but not the same;
Monstrous, these siblings -- a sister and brother
Of Collingsworth bloodline (and 'Collins' last name),
Protected somewhat from the curse of the gypsy
Though each one affected in his or her way;
She prowls as a beast with a passion for whiskey,
He hides from the hunt, and the sharp light of day.

 Holed up in a church (right beneath the tall steeple)
The brother (called Peter)'s been shot in the head --
He doesn't take pleasure in sucking on people,
(And secretly wishes to rest with the dead);
But Wendy (the sister) is somewhat distracted,
Chained in the dark, her movement impaired;
Remember the moron who trapped him a beauty
Rigged her up good, thinking she'd be too scared

To holler or fuss, and would offer submission --
She'd be all his to abuse and to rape --
But he overestimated his position,
And when the door opened, she made her escape.
His shotgun let loose and spit fire from its barrel
Not a bad marksman, though Wendy was faster --
He thought she'd be smaller, a little less feral;
Not four hundred pounds of pissed off black panther...

 The fight takes three seconds, and then it's all over
And though he's a mess, she's kept him alive
But hardly an act of compassion -- moreover,
It isn't for her sake he needs to survive.
"Believe me, my friend -- I'm aching to kill you
And leave your dead carcass face down in the mud,
But I love my brother (god help me, I still do);
For him to get better, he needs all your blood."

 Of course there's the screaming (a mild irritation
She fixes with duct tape to cover his lips),
Then binds him in place, near to cut circulation,
Killing the roll in long, furious strips --
Her one act of mercy, before their departure:
She claws out his eyes so he won't have to see
His own slow demise -- though he will feel the torture
(We'll leave that unwritten, but count as "Shed Three").

 ----

-- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

fade out

mists of midnight on the moor
where whisper 'why' and wail 'wherefore'
fiendish frights of fang and fist
tempest tantrums taunt and twist
gargoyles gross and ghosts grotesque
broken bodies, blood's burlesque
frozen fear, fevered fog
dark, disturbing dialogue
stirs the spiral, sends the soul
hurtling down a hellish hole
yet, I yearn for yesteryear
sailing smooth, or storm severe
lest our love be lost, unlink'd
e'er erased; entombed, exti--

-- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Chasing Pangaea - introduction

Since the year two thousand and fourteen,

The words have fallen like a soothing rain;

Sexy, scary, sometimes saccharine;

 

As if writ in blood from out my vein

The poet's passion bears no mark unique,

And quill's my sword, to quell the climbing Pain.

 

Pain makes even fiercest warriors meek;

Left alone to further escalate,

Muscles atrophy, bones ache and creak...

 

I lack the proper tools t'elaborate

Just how much a toll this tends to be;

Even kindest souls can turn to hate.

 

Darkness comes -- the shadows' revelry,

Everything enveloped in the gloom;

A harsh reminder of Pain's certainty,

 

Helplessly, I drag along the tomb

My useless, moaning carcass has become;

A harbinger of my own painful doom.

 

Desperately I fought not to succumb

Without the hours needed to prepare;

My ugly opponent won the scrum...

 

But ugliness and pain, once brought to bear

Is nothing in the face of passion's bliss --

And so was born my "Jackson" nom de guerre.

 

Starting with the sin of flesh's lust,

My quill through carnal places unexplored

(My self-control unbound and left to dust)...

 

One by one, each poem a whispered kiss,

Passion echoed from the darkest heart,

Hand plucked from my hidden heart's abyss...

 

Would my pain be eased, my hope restored,

By the time I'm out of languid prose?

Does writing through the pain offer reward?

 

No reply forthcoming, I suppose --

Such is life: each person's search for joy;

Is mine out there? Heaven only knows...

 

But for now, these rhymes I shall employ

Shall tell the tale of how this bard began;

A series which I hope you all enjoy.

 

----

 

- © J. Cambridge, 2016.