Old Man's Hands

My Old Man's fingers,
like crags unexplored.
Outcrops of rocks from boulderous palms.
Snubs of nails, hard worked and worn.
Worn skin, worn well.
And yet I've never seen them before.

Sure,
I've held them and they've held me.
But,
I've never known those comforting limbs,
those analogue digits;
Old school, schooled hard, hardened by life.
They can break, they can hold;
They can hold a family together.
They can dig...
scratch...
fix...
make...
create.

My Old Man's hands have seen so much,
experienced it all.
They may not feel as well,
but others have felt because of them.
They may not clutch with a strength once known,
once abused.
They may not do many things.
But they have done many things,
and many things more.

My Old Man's hands.
Weathered.
Torn.
Battered.
Delicate.
Flawed.
Perfect.
Perfectly feeling...
felt...
feel,
perfect.
My Old Man's hands.

What Are You?

Calling you a dog is too good for you.
Dogs are loyal to those that're close;
Dogs only attack when threatened;
Dogs have courage under fire;
You are not a dog.
Calling you a worm is too good for you.
Worms live in harmony together;
Worms work together;
Worms eliminate waste;
You are not a worm.
Calling you a snake is too good for you.
Snakes have a tough skin;
Snakes are strong;
Snakes are a symbol of rebirth;
You are not a snake.
Calling you an ass is too good for you.
Asses carry heavy loads;
Asses work hard;
Asses are calm;
You are not an ass.
Calling you a chicken is too good for you.
Chickens get riled up;
Chickens keep pests down;
Chickens will peck and attack;

You are not a chicken.

Calling you a rat is too good for you.
Rats are social;
Rats are smart;
Rats consider all to be family;
You are not a rat.
Calling you a name is too good for you.
You don't deserve the words,
the breath,
the thought,
you are worthless.

Still My Queen

I may have fallen from my throne,
Lost the crown upon my head,
Become a pauper that I bemoan,
No longer winning any bread.
My jewels are gone, now pebbles.
I am the ruler of anything no longer.
I have fallen down many levels,
There is nothing here to conquer.
But through it all you remained,
Beside me, yet still atop your throne.
Through it all you never blamed,
You just listened to me cry and moan.
You always know better than I do,
That I will rise again, a phoenix,
The king you deserve to sit beside you,
You see me strong in this weakness.
One day we will reign together again,
Throned beside each other again,
I will be the king to your queen again,
I know it will all be okay in the end.

Nobody Else Matters

You mumble and you mutter
poisonous nothings.
You were bred badly,
born badly,
raised badly.
"Its not your fault,"
you claim.
Is it not?
Are the Manson children expected to be murderous?
Are the Cruise kids deemed weird before they have a chance?
Anyone can change who they were,
who they are,
who they will be;
as long as they want to.
But a lot of people don't want to.
Their too-hard basket is always brimming,
always in search of a bigger basket,
instead of doing something, anything, about it.
This is you.
Don't expect others to change you.
Don't expect others to help you.
Nobody really cares.
You can go on like this,
not changing,
not growing,
barely existing.
Or you can throw that basket into the wind,
let those past things flutter away,
forget who you said you would be.
Instead, just be.
Fuck everyone and everything else.
The only person that matters is you.
Nobody else.
Be the person you want to be.
Fuck that too-hard basket.
Life is hard -
get used to it.

28 Days Later

Only women bleed,
and thank fuck for that!
It's the reason they can't have nuclear codes.
It's the reason they can't be in power.
It's the reason they are repressed.
If men turned into cunts once a month,
they'd be repressed too.
Removed from the power to kill mindlessly.
Allowed to have no power at all.
Parliament and its power would be handed over to more reasonable animals,
like mice, or rats,
or sloths, or wombats.
Unfortunately we have to live with this,
and them.
Women.
Its unfair, I now realise.
Women should be shipped off to an island,
once a month,
to take it out on each other.
Not us.
Like a Hunger Games of bleeding cunts.
Being murderous bitches to each other.
Leave us men out of it!
We have our own shit to deal with,
without your fluctuating moods.
I love you.
I hate you.
You're nice.
You're nasty.
You're a cunt.
I'm a cunt.
The tears, the yells, the sobs, the swears.
Nothing is ever good enough.
But, then it is - after the floods have passed,
the rains have ceased,
the blood has dried and been washed away.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
I know, I know,
it wont happen again.
But then,
28 days later...

Count On Me

Count On Me

I want to touch you in a million ways,

And plant a thousand kisses on your face.

I would sail across one hundred seas,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

With stars twinkling, billions above us,

We are the only two star crossed lovers.

I would count up to infinity,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

If every rose had five hundred thorns,

Then I would pick you every single one.

You know you can always count on me,

To tell you,

You’re the only one for me.

J. Barrett

Name Unknown

Name Unknown

She lives in a cramped apartment,

stark grayed walls and dim light.

A painting fades from the suns rays,

that penetrate the grime.

No window drapes or coverings,

open instead to the fading sunlight,

and the cold of night.

A kettle on the sill,

no space on the counter.

A bed pushed to the corner,

facing a small TV on a small table,

sat upon a sea of papers,

and red letter bills.

Clothes in piles,

nowhere to hang.

A candle melted down and dead.

A deck of cards scattered and missing.

A soggy joker is in the bathroom,

sharing the cramped room of mildew,

with a black queen.

The shower head points to the toilet.

At the basin only the cold tap works.

The small medicine cabinet erupts,

spewing bottles, pots and tubes.

Wrinkled 2-ply and a puddle,

where the drain is blocked.

A run of water escapes,

slowly tracing a familiar trail,

across the worn lino,

toward the fading painting.

The home is silent and still,

as the rooms creak and drip.

She is working one of her three jobs.

She is never home.

She is never on top.

She never stops thinking how happy she should be.

She never stops to think how happy she is.

She is never living.

She doesn't want to be alive.

Her name is...

By J. Barrett