Red Bursty

To drown these thoughts ugly

I count how I love thee

All clowned and just clumsy
And hound you uncontrollably

The quill, she get thirsty
To kill, without mercy
Her well of red bursty
To spill with cunning poetry

Sometimes -- when I'm sleepin'

The rhymes, they come creepin'

My radar's gone beepin'
And lines come seepin' happily

I been gone -- but the mission's
Still on, and I'm wishin'
This song is convincin' you
It ain't the last of me

I bent crazy - my eyes

They went hazy - I tried

But got lazy - the tide

Was overpowerin'

I fell bushed, and unsteady

I shushed, and got ready
for pushin' up daisies
Laid down and threw the towel in

But I'm goin' -- no fear when

I'm Poe-in' Shakespearin'
The flow that you're hearin's
Just a troubador

You want sexy - I'm on it

I'll erect thee a sonnet
And hit every component
Until you beg for more

- Poet

Sonnet - Blood Rose

The Blood Rose is a pact, posthumous kept:
    An oath, perhaps, though closer to a curse
        Twixt lovers who presume their love trancend
All odds and struggles, sorrow's tears bewept --
    A promise not to line the Boatman's purse;
        To stay behind and on their love depend,
        To love and be loved, passion without end.

The drawback to such deals in darkness made
    (If I be true of word and wise of age),
Is once such debts are called to be repaid,
    Most regret the fine print on the page:

"Should thy word be broke or insincere,
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

- J.

Sonnet - Regret

I take back the stuff I said before
    it was stupid - I was being dumb
        please don't let this be the way it ends
I can't make myself gag anymore
    my vision's blurry and my face is numb
        I think I pissed myself (don't tell my friends)
            I've no time for a note to make amends

I'm sorry to have made my life a mess
    And doubly so for steeping in my ills
But if this be the last, I thus confess
    I was the one who swallowed all those pills

It's not my time yet -- and I'm not prepared
oh god please please I'm so fucking scared

---

© J. Cambridge, 2017
   

Sonnet - Eyes in The Dark

No peace exists in darkness. Only noise;
    Cacophony of whispers, jabs and leers,
        Threatening to drown me in my gloom...
Abandon all hope, clarity and poise --
    Suffer through the nightmares and the tears,
        And cower in the shadows of my room,
            Praying not to meet a grisly doom.

 Sleep could never come - it's tough to say.
    Insomnia's a fickle bitch like that;
Mind unraveled, reason worn away,
    Despite my rolling out the welcome mat...

Eventually though, to sleep I'll fall,
And then perhaps I won't wake up at all.

---

© J. Cambridge, 2017.

Sonnet - Eyes in The Dark

No peace exists in darkness. Only noise;
    Cacophony of whispers, jabs and leers,
        Threatening to drown me in my gloom...
Abandon all hope, clarity and poise --
    Suffer through the nightmares and the tears,
        And cower in the shadows of my room,
            Praying not to meet a grisly doom.

 Sleep could never come - it's tough to say.
    Insomnia's a fickle bitch like that;
Mind unraveled, reason worn away,
    Despite my rolling out the welcome mat...

Eventually though, to sleep I'll fall,
And then perhaps I won't wake up at all.

---

© J. Cambridge, 2017.

Runt of the Litter/Hunt of the Ritter

Eulogy – Emily Elizabeth Howard, 1963-2017

 

Here lies the body of Emily E --
So tragic and awful -- so pretty was she,
Brimming with kindness, the purest of hearts,
Bright and scholastic, a head full of smarts,
Famous throughout the whole Isle of Birdwell
Right to the day when her life went to hell:
Frail little body left broken and scarred
Found in a hole in the Howard's backyard...

..We gather here now in a sorrowful prayer
For the poor little girl in the grave over there
Remember her fondly, and let not our grief
Cloud our devotion or test our belief;
Make no mistake: Our poor, innocent friend
Fell prey to the demons and met her cruel end --
So let us find courage, my dear synagogue,
And hunt in God's name for that hellish red dog.

----

- © Jack C., 2017.

Seven Sins of Snow White - 02

First, the one with medical degree;

Smarter than the others, thus implied,

Tasked to find the secrets buried deep:

    "Such beauty cannot stand. I order thee,

    Put to work thy science and thy Pride,

    Dissect the little trollop in her sleep."

 

Ordinarily this wouldn't pass,

But pride gives way to hubris, after all;

    As witch peered through her magic looking glass,

    And Snow lay still, a sleeping porcelain doll...

 

Yet just as Doc prepared his evil chore,

A sudden ambush knocked him to the floor.

---

© Jackson Cambridge, 2017.

Friday's Child

Dainty Wednesday Addams
was as pretty as a peach,
Collected sharp and pointy things
Wherever she could reach,
Stored them in a shoebox,
smiling with her perfect teeth,
And left the box to gather dust
till Friday the Thirteenth.

 You see, my little boos and ghouls,
It was a special day:
The anniversary weekend
When her parents went away.
So little Wednesday's noggin
Sat beneath her braided hair,
And thought up dark and twisted things
To do while they weren't there.

 And right away, her little mind
(being somewhat bent)
Began to wonder where on Earth
That awful Pugsley went...
And then she knew the perfect gift
To greet Gomez and Mother,
She'd cook her family dinner:
Roasted Rack of Little Brother.

---
 
- © J. Cambridge, 2017.

Seven Sins of Snow White - 1.5

The briefest note, before the tale's begun
So as to cast our dwarfs in proper light;
No purer group of seven could ye find --
    Resisted all they could (well... all but one),
    Told the gnarly hag to fly a kite,
    But dwarfs aren't quite the magic-wielding kind;
        No sooner were their kindly souls maligned.

 Each one of them'd fall gladly 'pon a sword
Than hurt Snow White -- but to their gruff chagrin,
    The witch's hatred wouldn't be ignored;
    Their purest deeds would turn to acts of sin.

 Obey they would, but with a poisoned heart
(Except the one who tore the rest apart).

 ---

© J. Cambridge, 2017.

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.