Seven Sins of Snow White - 01

Once upon a long-forgotten time,
There lived a witch obsessed with her own face;
So vain was she, no other could compete --
And yet one did: a beauty so sublime,
Eventually she took the witch's place,
Until an apple knocked her off her feet --
    The witch's task of villainy complete...

But as we know, there came a dwarfen team
Of seven, who took pity on the lass,
And kept her safe and sound (and pure as cream),
Within a box of clearest tempered glass.

And since Snow White resisted all her spells,
The witch then turned to use the dwarfs themselves.

---
© J. Cambridge, 2016.

Freestyle 2

This poem is late coming, but I got on it
Let's get straight humming like a hot sonnet
Where the rhymes at -- the mic's all mine
Scary times for a cat on life number nine
Overmedicated, so I don't have long
Hope I get it straight, not stoned and wrong
Fog-brain don't remember where the spark is
Hot pain's dismemberin' my carcass

Drowning out the magic - the 'Jackson flair'
Down and out, tragic and black down there
The hand with the quill is  rough and sore
And the ganja and pills ain't enough no more
I'm stuck urr'day, in mad, addled patience
But fuck, do I pray to man the battle stations
Believe me, folks -- I'm as pissed as y'all
But weebles wobble -- they ain't built to fall

- J.

freestyle 1

when it STARTed I was ONly thirTEEN, and
called reTARDed by some FOLKS who were MEAN, and
in the GARBage went my BROKen esTEEM, and
left to DARKen aLONE with my SCREAMin'

coulda lost my MIND
    coulda let it unWIND
       maybe turn out FINE
            maybe ColumBINE
but I kept my HEAD
    no matta what they SAID
        didn't end up DEAD
            wrote it down inSTEAD

every RHYME I HEARD, I'd be SCRAWLin'
pure SLIME at FIRST, just apPALLin'
gave it TIME, pretty WORDS from me FALLin'
ain't a CRIME, pretty BIRDS -- just my CALLin'

A Pause.

Hello, everyone.

 
    When I started this website, the intention was to use poetry to soothe my pain.

    Having said that, its not working anymore. The full-body pain (a result of my scrambled neural pathways) is constant now, and it is a struggle to get out of bed. Sometimes lifting my head to look at the time is too much. Most of the time I feel like I'm underwater, or like my head's full of jelly. I can barely walk anymore. It's honestly become so bad that I often question what quality of life I should expect going forward, and I've got to be honest: it scares the hell out of me.

    I owe people things, and will deliver them. I realize some of you have been waiting for a long time for me to get myself together, and I'm sorry about that. I really am doing my best -- but with a permanent debilitating illness, a full-time job (which I fear losing, if I can't work) and insomnia to the point of suicidal ideation, something has to be sacrificed, and while I do love poetry, it doesn't contribute to my well-being. That doesn't mean I won't write more, though; only that right now the muse is away, I suppose. I'm still here, but I don't have nearly the energy or the inspiration I did before. I don't know what that means in terms of future work, but I do know I have debts to pay off, so that's going to be my focus for now. Patience, please. I'll be back.

 - Jack.

Final Note: 'My Juliet' is still coming, as are all of the other projects I've finished. I'm not disappearing, just taking a breather.   - J.

 

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.

The Twins - 1

Among the pews of polished birch,

Two siblings huddle in the gloom,

Fighting off the coming doom;

Though both of them are pure of soul,

One's sustained a bullet hole --

A wound that has the brother screaming,

Watching his own lifeblood streaming;

By rights, the brother should be dead,

The bullet tore straight through his head;

Yet death, for him, shall never do,

                No rest for this Nosferatu.

 

"Close your eyes, ma petit frere,"

She whispers as she strokes his hair,

"Everything will be alright,

We'll go back out tomorrow night --

Your head should be okay by then,

And we shall stalk the night again,

Please, my brother - stop and think:

You'll heal much faster if you drink.

I cannot watch you writhe and twist --

                Drink, mon frere -- I pledge my wrist!"

 

"Please, dear sister -- tempt no more!

I've told you more than once before,

I cannot do this horrid task,

Nor could you, so please don't ask;

I fear that you would suffer more

(I've never had to stop before),

And I don't think I could, with you --

'Tis the worst thing I could do;

I'd drain your carcass, toss the husk

                And sleep until tomorrow's dusk."

 

"I can take it," says the sis,

"I've been in rougher straits than this --

But if you can't drink from me

(Despite my lycanthropy),

Then let me go find us some food,

For me, a steak -- for you some blood --

I can't stand to watch your pain

(I lost you once -- but not again)

We're safe now, brother -- coast is clear

                I won't be long, but please -- stay here."

 

"Hurry please -- I fear the sun,

For if it touches me, I'm done --

All the blood from here to Hell

Won't save you from the burning smell --

True, the blood's my sole desire,

But I can't drink it while on fire;

This church shall be our sanctuary

(Though I'd have picked a cemetery...)

But please, my dear: fast as you can --

                And then we'll hunt our bogeyman.

 

 

Simon 3

Old Father Tucker

The dirty soul-sucker

Took refuge beaneath his own cross,

His body destroyed,

Condemned to the void,

'Good riddance to that albatross.'

You may remember

Our most evil member,

Along with the gypsy he raped,

Then hung on a spire,

To be set on fire;

A torment she couldn't escape.

Withered and scrawny,

The tortured Romani

Exacted a vengance extreme;

She cursed the whole town

Before sinking down

Boiling the water to steam...

And last but not least, 

Ol' Tucker the Priest

Was brought forth to be put on trial;

With no judge nor jury,

T'was done in a hurry,

And Tucker was gone for awhile.

Till sometime ago,

From way down below

Something disturbs Tucker's rest;

A force of pure wrath;

Complete psychopath,

In whom Father's very impressed.

The subject: a coach

With a softer approach

(Especially with the young teenage girls)

He'd give them his coat,

Then open their throat;

Their death throes his coveted pearls.

But not quite as much

As his personal hutch

Of each victim's last photograph;

The fear in their eyes

The best of the prize:

Pure terror: the best epitaph.

But smart he was not,

For soon he was caught,

And took his life without remorse;

A dangerous glitch 

Forced Tuck to unhitch

And choose someone else as his horse.

The second of merit

Who stood to inherit

The curse of the unholy man

He didn't last long

Thanks to the song

Sung by his least biggest fan.

Of course, we all know

Where that guy would go,

Thanks to the ghost of Collette;

But ghosts aren't Tuck's racket;

He hid in the jacket,

Not to emerge from it yet. 

And then, Marty Bloom,

Headed for doom,

Confessed to his terrible share;

He'd clear lost his mind

When he left life behind,

Strapped in the electric chair.

With all of this rhymin',

I forgot about Simon --

But he's indisposed, so to speak...

The foul stench of death

Makes him hold his breath

A tear staining each dirty cheek.

Don't worry for him,

For his life and limb

Are safe for a stanza or two,

But once that's been done,

Our most evil one

is going to eat Simon, too.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Simon 2

Lest we too harshly judge Simon, 

Though already I feel your hate climbin';

For though so reviled,

He's the mind of a child

With too much rough hiding the diamond.

But that begs an interesting question:

Why commit such a transgression,

And risk getting caught? 

His choice, this was not;

His mind was too ripe for suggestion... 

...And being the size of a tractor, 

Attracted a dark benefactor

With candy and toys

If he didn't make noise;

Discretion a primary factor. 

The details were too complicated

For Simon to see as ill-fated;

He saw a reward

And bounded aboard

To do as his master dictated.

Always the huge people pleaser, 

He crammed the kids into the freezer

Till all it could hold

Was frozen and cold;

To delight his ravenous Caesar.

"My Master -- I did as you asked me:

Their bodies aren't ugly or nasty;

No bruises or cuts,

and no blood or guts --

"I did good?" asks the ignorant patsy.

"Yes, my child. Thy work is noted,

Proven thine soul is devoted,

And for every hour

I grow in my power

Within my heart, thou art promoted."

"Oh thank you, my most gen'rous Master!"

Says Simon, his heart beating faster,

"I live by your hands

And obey your commands!"

(Unaware that he's bound for disaster.)

Simon stands, puffed up and proudly,

Exclaiming (ungodly loudly),

"My life is for you,

Tell me what to do!"

(Hypnotized, youthful eyes cloudy).

"For now," replied the dark stranger,

"Thy work's done -- no need to endanger

Your limb or your life --

Now pick up the knife,

And clean them, my most trusted ranger."

"Clean them?!" asks Simon, disgusted,

Imagining himself encrusted

In innards and blood --

A viseral flood --

But he told Master he could be trusted...

Trembling, poor Simon (now teary)

Sweating profusely, eyes bleary,

Confused and afraid,

He takes hold of the blade

Squeamish, revolted and leery...

"Good work," says this tale's evil author,

"But Master's too formal to bother;

Not demon, but priest;

Once finally released,

You may address me as "Father."

----

- Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Simon 1

Simon has an ice cream truck

He drives it down the street

While all the children grab a buck

And rush to get their treat

Smiling at the little folks

He gathers them around

Telling lies and dirty jokes

As belly-laughs abound

Stacking up the waffle cones

Scoop by careful scoop

Whistling in friendly tones

To calm the giddy troupe

Chok'lit, 'nilla, junior mint

Till every scoop is gone

But one kid waits, his eyes aglint

Sullen and withdrawn

"Please, mister ice cream man"

Piped in trembling voice, bereft

"I've got enough schange in my hand

If any treats are left"

"Of course" says Simon, in a lie

Knowing well that isn't true

"C'mon back here, little guy

Let's see what we can do"

"Chunky Monkey, Rocky Road

Which one would you like to taste

It's melting fast, my wealthy friend

There isn't time to waste

Open up the Frigidaire

Take a gander deep inside

The best stuff's at the bottom there

Oh wait... that's right -- I lied"

One quick motion -- in he goes

And downward slams the door

Locks it shut to keep him froze

And seen again no more

The worst of Simon's evil feats

As if this won't suffice:

Three more kids, wrapped in sheets

And frozen in the ice

Grinning like a crocodile

Having trapped his latest prize

Simon and his evil smile

Glares with hungry eyes

The doors are locked, windows rolled

To keep eyes off his prey;

Ice cream man, with treasures cold

Drives three blocks away...

Simon has an ice cream truck

He drives it down the street

While all the children grab a buck

And rush to get their treat

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

King Series 4 - 'The Dead Zone'

I

Winter, circa-1953:

Young John Smith wipes out on the ice,

Mumbling premonitions absently --

But prophecies demand a hefty price.

Adulthood comes, ice incident forgot,

And Mr. Smith (now teaching English class)

Falls again, this time in coma caught;

Four whole years in silence gently pass.

Meanwhile, in more rural atmosphere,

A Bible salesman, cursing 'neath his breath

Dreams of power and a rich career,

His enemies (like dogs) swift kicked to death.

Let's hope that by the time the two converge, 

Lest the whole world suffer in the scourge. 

----

II

Our scripture slinger's moved up in the world,

Not for lack of gerrymandery,

Bribes and blackmail -- round his finger twirled:

Those who present opportunity.

Mr. Smith meanwhile, wounds on the mend, 

Has gained a feature hitherto unseen:

By touching something, his senses bend,

And tell him things about where it's been.

Johnny's power works on people, too --

And this is where our adversaries meet --

On shaking hands, John knows what he must do:

A murder, lest his rise to pow'r complete!

The question, as his looming panic mounts:

Can he pull the trigger when it counts?

----

III

Trying to return to normal life

(Despite his death just one more poem from here),

Pain creeps in -- a dull and rusty knife --

Filling Johnny's heart with dread and fear. 

A phone call, asking Johnny for his aid,

Which he'll do, despite his urge to balk;

The hunt is on, with little progress made:

A killer prowls the town of Castle Rock. 

Of course, John puts his psychic skills to use

To catch the Strangler, put him in a cage

Where no one else can suffer his abuse,

Or endure his mindless, hungry rage. 

But, despite the truth of Johnny's hunch,

The Strangler's dead (he beat them to the punch). 

----

IV

While John recovers from the Strangler case,

Our villain (now the Mayor of his town,

Elected through his lies and grinning face),

Dissatisfied, decides to double down. 

Questions plague poor Johnny's fractured mind:

Would Hitler's death in 1932

Prevent the worst mass death in humankind,

Or would that lead to somewhere hellish too?

Johnny's visions turn to dark nightmares --

Even as his health deteriorates --

Repulsed by just the thought of such affairs,

Johnny must become the thing he hates...

And yet he knows, despite his fear and doubt,

He's got to hurry -- time is running out. 

----

V

When the moment comes for him to act,

John summons all the courage he can wield,

Fires a shot that fails to make contact --

And villain grabs a child, for human shield --

The pregnant pause that follows is enough

For John to take two bullets from the guards;

Falling to the ground with wheezing chuff,

His life collapsing like a house of cards...

And that's when Johnny hears the camera clicks,

And knows his target's done with politics.

----

 <fin>

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

- "The Dead Zone" is © Stephen King, 1979.

King Series 2: 'The Shining'

I.

Deep within the Colorado peaks,

Enchanted by an evil, haunting spell;

Quietly, it waits out winter's weeks:

The ever-hungry Overlook Hotel. 

Thinking it ideal for privacy;

Remote and cozy, comfortable and warm,

The writer's rage and loose sobriety

Combined with all the ghosts -- a perfect storm.

Little Danny, with his little shine,

Sees the danger coming right away --

Along with chills along his little spine;

Far from dull, but far more work than play...

Yet of all the nightmares Danny's seen,

Nothing beats what's in 217.

II. 

Dick Halloran (the hotel's humble cook),

Taking notice of the psychic lad,

Shows him how to beat the Overlook

Without the side effect of going mad:

"The Shining's what we call our little skill,

What someone else might label 'ESP';

Premonitions, visions warm or chill,

Don't worry none - they're harmless as can be.

But if the Shining is too much to bear,

Or things go bad, beyond a boy's control,

You call me -- I'll come from anywhere --

I promise you, on my immortal soul.

Keep your wits about you, little man;

And try to stay as hidden as you can."

III.

While Danny and his trike make fast retreat,

The ghosts chase after Jack Torrance instead;

Infecting every hall and every suite,

Planting murd'rous thoughts inside his head. 

Cabin fever slowly closes in,

Driving angry Jack straight up the wall;

His self-control, already paper thin,

Made worse by poltergeists and alchohol.

Poor Torrances -- their fate so nearly sealed --

Running for their lives, through screaming tears;

Awful, how a plan can run afield,

And transform hopes and dreams to darkest fears.

As Jack (possessed) hunts down his wife and kid;

The hotel boiler's 'bout to flip its lid....

IV.

Running for their lives, knee-deep in snow,

Danny, Mom and Mr. Halloran,

Run as quickly as their legs can go

T'escape from Jack -- the hotel's bogeyman.

Yet somehow, Danny's dad still lingers there

Under all the curses of this place;

To help his son to run away somewhere, 

Jack slams the mallet into his own face.

"THE BOILER!", cries the little psychic boy

"It's overloaded, Dad -- it's got to vent!"

(All part of the hotel's haunting ploy:

Kill them all, with bloodthirsty intent.)

Scrambling t'ward a hellish, ugly fate, 

Jack gets to the boiler -- but too late.

V. 

The dark of winter's night comes silently

As Danny and his mom hide in the drift;

Froze with fear and cold anxiety,

And powerless, even with his gift.

Every second that they sit and freeze

Is one more second closer to the end;

The Overlook, along with its disease,

About to be summarily condemned.

Then finally, the old boiler explodes,

Taking Mr. Torrance in the blaze;

While Danny and his mother hit the roads,

Bound for better places, better days...

...But what we sow, one day too shall we reap

(In 30 years, he's known as Doctor Sleep).

--- fin ---

© Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

"The Shining" is © Stephen King, 1977.

Ache

What cruelty couldst I have earned

To suffer, night by night;

Whose malice hath I earned

To be so flatly spurned,

And for my suffering unconcerned?

If lesson be, have I not learned?

Is no end yet in sight?

Against each wretched, painful bloom

I wince with quiet cry;

Curse this mortal tomb --

This horrid, toxic womb --

Please-- just take me to my doom

Let not my light the dark consume --

Lest my soul ossify.

O, to wield a surgeon's knife

And slice my spinal cord;

As freed from pain and strife

As any other life --

If not, then let me leave this fief,

Escape this shell of torments rife,

And fall upon a sword!

Drastic, yes -- or better yet, 

Have both legs removed;

I'll bleed and scream and sweat,

But pay in full the debt --

Keep my senses keenly whet,

And take what respite I can get

To have my life improved!

But alas, this is my fate:

Rot in private hell;

Locked in mutual hate,

(A furious stalemate);

Nothing left to do but wait,

End it now, or amputate

And all my woes dispel.

Nearer to the witching hour,

My faculties unsound,

Of circumstances dour,

I beg and plead and cow'r 

Summon forth whatever pow'r

Remains within my ivory tow'r,

Waiting to be found.

To fight it is to no avail,

This ever-shrieking ache;

My bones so tired and frail

Behind my painful veil

No matter how I scream and wail,

Agony e'er shall prevail --

And all my spirits break.

---

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Strand

How perfectly her curl of hair

Spirals down, as light as air

Sways and twirls while hung in place

And brings to life her lovely face

Exquisite when, struck by surprise

Her eyebrows furrow, twist and rise

Briefest tickling on the nose

Sends it crinkling-- there it goes

Sometimes, when she's lying there

I'll sweep away that wayward hair

And hear her gently whispered coo,

"Thank you, darling... love you too."

---

- J.

Abby the Stabby - 13 (Final)

It's three in the morning, and no one's awake,

But Abby the Stabby's had all she can take;

But first a quick detour, to see mother dear,

And whisper so quietly into her ear,

"Wake up," she mutters, fist wrapped in mom's hair,

Duct taping her to an old kitchen chair,

"I'm going to kill him tonight. You should know

How the whole evening is going to go:

First you and I (I'll drag you, don't worry--

I've got enough time, so there's no need to hurry)

Are going to go see your precious boyfriend:

I want you to watch his life come to an end.

This monster, who revelled in violence and rape,

I'm going to peel off his skin like a grape,

And you need to see it. Keep your eyes open,

Unless you don't mind if your fingers are broken."

(Mom's screaming her head off, for all that it matters;

The tape keeps her quiet until her hope shatters),

"It won't make a difference -- your boy is too wasted --

The end is so near, Mom... so close I can taste it;

And when all the violence and murder is done,

With just you and me left to wait for the sun,

I'll beat you until your life hangs off the edge,

Then bash in your skull with a twenty pound sledge;

I know, mom. I'm sorry -- but unfortunately,

This is the way things are going to be;

Don't try to lie (I can smell your denial),

Each word that you say makes you all the more vile.

You sold me out, Mother -- sold me to HIM,

And gave him a license to follow his whim,

It's all over now, though -- at least for this guy,

If I were you, Mother, I'd say goodbye."

Eyes wide with terror, mouth hung in shock,

Mother goes silent, unable to talk,

Watching as Abby approaches her dude

Remarking, "You looked at me like I was food,

Took what you wanted until you were spent,

Regardless of whether I gave you consent --

Until you got winded and left through the door,

And left me there crying -- well, not anymore.

The knife flashes quickly, in slashes and cuts,

She opens his throat and unzips all his guts

Arms flailing wildly, blood coating the walls

(I can't even say what she did to his balls...)

And once he's exhaled for the very last time

(A moment that signals the end of this rhyme),

She cuts Mother free, with nothing to say,

And waits for the white coats to take her away...

<fin>

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.