—it’s the black boil on bursting, boiling ribs—
on my midleft chest, brewing bungled churns,
[tighteningmybreath], again, again, it yearns,
it begs*, “just one (just two) more (well-earned) rub(s)!”
—giving in, it’s just picking at the scabs—
first brief relief( ):the itch at once returns
as soon’s the finger’s left the welt; it burns
and gnaws more hotly—awful pangs, sore jabs!
now, Doctor says I’d best not touch it if
I’d like to heal—“lucky to leave just a scar”—
only, I hate the texture of the crust…
why’s my mind got to be so god,damned,stiff?
though abstinence feels so blunt, so bizarre,
I’d like to heal, I give his word my trust.
PICKING AT SCABS
There’s a link between smart and dumb
Like just when things start to get better
As if a wound on the skin as it’s healing
Picking at the scab feels quite appealing
But is not following process to the letter
Such choices made are worse than some
It happened whilst fiddling with a knife
Now just stop digging if you’re in a hole
A scab is the body’s protective response
Yet it may not be what the instinct wants
It’s the way we feel when not in control
That resonance between instinct and life
A musky, burnt haze sears slowly into my nostrils.
The twilight hour pulses steadily, bathing stark walls in an eerie gloom.
Too awake to drift to sleep, yet too tired to drag my bones off this sinking mattress.
Thoughts cyclone like a tsunami within a withdrawn mind,
picking at scabs; the half-life of my darkness pools in red droplets.
Licking the wounds, the taste of metallic and melancholy blends.
Loneliness wraps its arms around my dejected shoulders like a winding sheet.
A howling wind rattles the paper-thin glass making up my windows,
as I ponder how I became the living dead.
Traumas poisoned my sanity,
slowly paranoia replaced reason,
delusions became my nightly bedfellow,
whispering sweet unpleasantries into tainted ears,
leaving hallucinatory trinkets in my repeating nightmares.
The world is shrinking, withering,
yet as I am becoming paralyzed by fear, I am unequipped to stop it.
Like a freight train derailed,
bellowing at full speed towards the inevitable,
I too am racing at the speed of light towards oblivion.
The wind has a grip on the land.
Penny Eyes, the straw man on the field cross
has broken into a crooked smile,
his hands flutter like dying crow wings.
Trees whip the sky.
Blisters appear in the iced-over field furrows.
Under the wide rooted hedgerows
the white fingers of the yet to be seen,
dream of being green.
Trump and His Scabs
What Trump did do is try to keep tabs,
On Russia, who completed land grabs,
We would stare,
At golden hair,
And dry skin that created many scabs.
Jim Horn
The scabs
we cannot see
will never really heal,
because they are the ones we keep
picking.
Scabs in Australian history
The Labor Party came from the early Shearers strike, 1900s,
where Unions fought for and got fair wages for the workers.
Later in the 1950s the Shearers had trouble with SCABS.
The Australian National Country Party brought in the Scabs to undercut the
wages of the hard working Shearers of Sheep .
Kiwis shearers were brought in at lower wages and fights developed,
between the Scabs and the Aussie workers...
The Farmers wanted cheap labour...
So worker swinging voter, you are being replaced in the Mines jobs,
By guess what? Cheap imported maybe 4 dollar an hour workers
on special Visas...Not funny to be kept out of work!
Howard the duck was ejected from his seat because of
bringing in 100,000 cheap contract workers,
ARE THEY STILL TAKING AUSSIE JOBS TODAY..?
DO YOU GET THE PICTURE?
You vote for Abbots nasty people and you will be out of work,
or would you like to work cheap ..Bo Peep SHEEP???
Don Johnson
I felt that;
The upward lift,
As they touched my crown;
A prayer whispered,
The living;
Feeling alive,
The muddy eyes;
Opened,
The truth;
Realized.
I can’t focus
And I had to be told why
The things I deny over and again
Don’t disappear because I will them to
And the things I yearn to cling to
Fall through my fingers like cupped water
This is the way its all been determined
No I don’t turn my back on that
But don’t make me pick at bloody scabs
Stream forth the vitality of my soul
Yes, yes I am in pain
But what does it matter
I mean it, what does it matter
You care now; what about tomorrow?
Don’t lie and say you won’t forget me
Don’t tell me you will hurt
So far, far away when I wilt
For you
Just leave me with my scabs