THIS MAN?





This is plainly unusual, a small trip to hold you on…still a true story…

Let no make it sad or happy but unusual, this is the word to start a revolution, I like it, I like to say…I should I say I dare to say?!


The music was pretty exotic at the time, a bit like me, a bit like the way I looks at the time, outer space they would says, I would disagree for the sake of it, and say with modesty, I was only be true to myself…. hehehhe…


Alcoholic brevages, alcohol smell, alcohol friends, alcohol everything, I would say…again, I know…shuttttttttt…


But here it was my only friend, or I should I say, a friend which was pretty much there at the time!

We were wondering the street, and find ourselves into this man house, more alcohol, more despair, more intellectual violence’s, god we love it!


The records was playing in the background, we thought we knew it all, my sweet friends did don’t we? Bless the innocence I say we were at least maybe naïve, but unspoiled!

What seems at the time, an old man, who had the time was a very good host, how should I say, a good punter, as we felt if we could save on life and eat someone else life we would save ourselves from the devil of this earth, I think?


I should leave the details off, by now and get to the juicy stuffs, I can hear you saying, or is it again this voices in my head, patience, I say, the ones who know who to wait, shall be reward, the lord spoke!


We are in 1988 I think, my memoirs ain’t this good this day…1988, I still wonder if I love you or hate you, I sure have a lot to speak about it…christelle, somehow you come to my mind again, as time grip my mind…

But I shall reserve you the best place of this story, be patient, I know, I recognised your call…I shall be there soon, time is only illusion…remember?


Have you ever been in bed with an abuser?

Do you know the touch of his flesh against yours?

The smell who fill the room?

The fear of your mind leaving you forever at the time?

Doesn’t it feel so warm today, when at the time it felt like death?

Maybe we were to feel this extreme, to feel alive, maybe we are already death, I like to think sometimes!


I like to think tonight of a shooting star, dead before the eyes of the human fellow could see it, I like this, it make it so easy to bare…the weight of it all, must be as heavy?

Do I have to say more? Wouldn’t be funny if it happen again, surely not!

Somehow the scenario repeated himself, the twisted of life I like to think, or maybe the sense of humour of the man without a face….


I can honestly, I forgive, I forget my human fellow, and in the process forgive my sins!


As long as I kown someone will find comfort to this words, I have find my destiny, I shall walk bare feet’s to my graves, naked, I shall embrace his grace, and please if you are listening, with no fear, I shall push the doors of the unknown…I am so ready for you, my sweet child.


This they could never robbed me, the innocence of the child is never lost, and the dying flesh should perish with him…


Therefore like the last days of summer, my story for tonight should end with melancholy…

Was I lying to myself, or fearing the unknown? Are they any justification for it? I shall leave it to him…

Many years have past, many pains and sorrow have flourish since, and joy and hope have won over it after all…


Maybe stories do finish well after all, maybe I just have not understand the end of it yet, or choose not too…doe it really matter, apart from the fact that in the end, I feel so alive as I type this words….?

I say not really.



                                          HERVE NAUDET DIT MARGOT.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

why not? the true is so sensual

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Family Truths

Family Truths

By jfarrell



It was addressed to me; it’s my 6th birthday;

Dad’s gonna open it… well, why not? Who do I know at 6?

Little white envelope with a stamp;

I’m chuffed I can read my name…

And someone sent me something, on my birthday.


There was a letter and some polaroid photographs;

1973, the height of technology :-)

Dad read the letter, looked at the photos

And went to the pub.

I didn’t think any more of it.


About 6 hours later…

“Tell me what you did!” whack!

“Tell me the truth you little……” thump!

“Tell me about these….” as he throws some bits of card in front of me.

I blacked out, somewhere there.


And awoke face down in kitchen sink

With hot water being poured over my head;

I couldn’t work out why all the water was red.

“Tell me about these!”

‘These’ being polaroid photographs of my being raped that Summer.


Turns out, ‘Uncle Brian’ had sent a similar letter and photos

To my cousin’s parents; he groomed and raped us together;

They went back to Ireland and I know nothing else about him, them;

For me, dad had to beat the ‘gayness’ out of me;

And Uncle Peter still blames me for ruining his marriage.


And I still feel like a frightened 6 year old

With no idea of what’s going on.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

neither my parents, nor my cousin's contacted the police - mine was a messed up family

Sticks and stones….

Sticks and stones….

By jfarrell



(I don’t know the origin of the saying, but heard it often growing up)


“Squeal for me, little piggy”

Uncle Brian screamed as he beat us with his belt buckle;

He and his friend raped my cousin and I, aged 5;


“You always were a girl”

My dad screamed (after he heard);

Beat me so bad, I passed out.


“I wish I’d had you aborted….”

You can guess who said this to me;

Though she could hit hard, her tongue always hurt worse.


“Sticks and stones may break my bones,

But names will never hurt me.”

This was a favourite saying of dad’s… as he let loose.



45 years later…

The scars from the beatings have healed up…


But the pain from the names….

And everything associated….

Twists like a knife in my heart, today.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

one of the greatest lies in the world.... along with the licence is in the post and of course i'll still respect you in the morning





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By jfarrell



Stop being a girl! Stand up and be a man!


Don’t let them call you names… hit back…



Take the sweets…. and the comics….


Now, take my member…



How could I have given birth to you?


You’ve ruined this family!



You live in a children’s home?


Lick my shoes, scumbag!



You know you want these magazines… take them….


Join my gang, take these pills….



35 years later…

My ears are still ringing

From all that slapping.


I think it’s called post traumatic distress disorder (PTSD)

But, every psychiatrist I see

Gives me a new label.

Borderline personality disorder, aspberger’s syndrome,

Acute anxiety disorder;

Sexual anxiety, socialphobic….




It’s none of them things….

I just got slapped about the head too much as a kid;

My ears (and my mind)

Are still ringing from it.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

.... sorry, didn't hear what you said, you'll have to shout above the ringing..... ;-)

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Last chat with mum; aged 24 (me, aged 24)

Last chat with mum; aged 24 (me, aged 24)

By jfarrell


“now he’s dead, I gotta ask….

“was he my dad? Truly???”

…. “yes”


This is my mum responding….

Her and the ‘truth’….

If she told me water’s wet and leafs are green…

I’d have to check….

….my mum truly believed her lies…



She didn’t get kicked out of the milkman’s house…

1 am in the morning

And walked home naked with her 7 year old daughter screaming at her

What a w……. she was…


My ‘dad’ was flirting with the barmaid again…


I was there; I know what happened…



She really, truly believes her lies.


“was he my dad?”




Deep breath…

Disappointment, anger, relief?

Who knows?


What I asked next was really, REALLY stupid!

A very bad idea…


How could I know?


“Ok… ish… he’s my dad…”


Long silence, couple of minutes?… less?… more?…


“what happened back ‘then’? when I was 5? 6?

When uncle brian raped me?


….. we haven’t spoken in nearly 10 years… what you all did hurt….

What happened?”


“your dad told me you’d raped your cousin”


“i was 5…?… 6…?….

…. I wasn’t even physically capable…. 5…6…”



“that’s what your dad told me.”


A couple of deep breaths, from me…

Several seconds…. a minute or two…

Felt like f…. centuries….


….”and I believed him.”


NOT an added aside, an intentional thrust with a stiletto…

Not an attempt to move in for the kill…

On an already injured, badly bleeding target…


She was just being honest.




“nan, uncle peter…. di…..”

“well of course I told them about it!”


At least I had the sense to shut up then and not ask if that’s..

What she told her friends…




Haven’t seen or spoken or had anything to do with my ‘mum’

Since that day…

Over 25 years ago…

I will be 50 in a couple of weeks…

My anger, bitterness, hurt….

…..that little mother to son chat….

Is killing me

Poisoning me, like a virus …..

That hate, anger….

Wanting to hurt back…



Maybe my mum had mental health problems….

I don’t know….


To so totally, absolutely believe… agree…

At 5… 6… years old…

“your son raped his cousin”….


I don’t totally believe that’s the WHOLE truth…

I will happily call my scumbag ‘dad’ a lot of names…

But.. ‘Liar’ isn’t one that would be honest….



…”and I believed him.”….


I don’t know….

Have spent all my pointless life trying to imagine….


That was so bad…


At the age of 5 or 6….

… my mum hated me SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much,

“and I believed him.”



Maybe she’s right ;-)

After all,

Who knows a man better than his mother?


I wish I could forgive and forget…

I wish I could be a son….

I wish I had a mother….



I so wish I wasn’t me…


These are the hands we are dealt.




I fear my bitterness, anger….

Absolute f…… rage…

…after I die….

My hate will continue.


Other than my mum, who can rot in hell…












Author's Notes/Comments: 

20 years of therapy, 40+ years of pain and bitterness..

poetry is a salve, a poultice, i could never have imagined....

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incey wincey spider


Incey Wincey Spider

By jfarrell


Incey Wincey Spider, climbed up the water spout;

And when you fell a sleep; he got his stinger out;

And when you woke the house, in fear and alarm;

Incey Wincey uncle says… “I wasn’t doing any harm.”


Twinkle, twinkle, little star;

My younger sister, I wonder how you are;

So many years, we’ve been apart;

Like a lead-weight in my heart;

Twinkle, twinkle, little star;

My younger sister, I wonder how you are.


Three blind mice, a coward dad

See how they run, see how he drinks;

He beats his wife because she cheats;

He beats his kids because he’s weak;

He blames the drink, but it’s his fists that speaks;

Three blind mice.


Ring-a-ring a roses is about mass death, disease;

Baa baa black sheep is about taxes;

All nursery rhymes come from somewhere ‘orrible;

Somewhere far darker.


Just a thought…



Author's Notes/Comments: 

the story behind nursery rhymes is remarkable, don't think there's any horror story behind twinkle ttwinkle little star, but bba bbaa black sheep was about taxes, and cant remember if it was the plague, or turculosis for ring a ring a roses, hehe

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Memories Fade

Memories Fade

                                  By jfarrell


(“memories fade, but the scars still linger” - tears for fears, great band)


I was about 5 when it happened,

44 years ago;

But everytime I do something entirely normal,

I can’t help but very graphically remember, relive,

That incident.


Some memories fade, just the scars linger;

Some memories have to be relived day after day.

If only we could choose which memories;

Trust me, I’d choose happy, nice memories,

Not being violently raped when I was 5. Who would?


Like yesterday, I remember too much of the first 10 years,

And increasingly less of the years after;

And, as for the last 10, memories fade;

I tell myself, this was yesterday, its gone;

But, each morning I relive it again.


So much for thinking positive :(


Author's Notes/Comments: 

be positive, aewsome, yeah

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It's twitching

Deepp within my mind

This dark pit

can't hold it

Spreading deep inside



My mind is getting weak



Breaking the hold i try to keep



The perversive inner thoughts



Memory illusion perception distorts


Self Pain

I must refrain



Swim through bloodstain


Must hurt her

Must Ignore this urge



What does Death deserve

I hide her

A minor

No name no life no age


In her bed

Except upon a written page

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Originally posted on Candid.


Just made this up 2322 gmt 15/4/17

About a woman dealing with trauma of child rape contemplating suicide.

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7 11 (Seven Eleven) After Hours

The Pixie Dust


The unobtrusive stones crunch under the weight of her car’s tires.

She pulls into the empty lot, closest spot, what luck!

Slowly, the gear shift is manipulated to “P” for patience.

Deep breaths… Have to remember to calm down.

Heart racing, nervous foot tapping, and a cold sweat

The nervous jitters find a home in her muscles,

They expand and contract viciously as she begs her heart to slow.


Breaking even,

She manages to get the door open without falling right out,

But shortly after standing, kisses the gravel on the way down,

Like a one night stand that should have ended before it began.

Crumpled up like a dream school rejection letter,

She let’s her tears blend with the drizzle of rain

And a dribble of urine runs down her leg.


The threatening glow of the green and orange 7 11 sign stands guard

Daring her to try to drag herself inside.

Not one car passes in the time it takes her to make it to her feet and to the spider web glass door.

Lines jab and flow up the glass, begging to be leaned against so they may be free

Begging to fall like snow, to be seen as beautiful instead on an eyesore.

She shuffles into the store, wet, and disheveled.


Aisle one: gift cards and magazines begging for her to purchase them like some whore from 8 mile begging for the money to put “Jessica” through private school.

She barely gives them a glance before she’s on to the next aisle.

Medicine, condoms, hair spray, a pregnancy test; sounds like an enchanting evening.

This aisle begs for attention and mocks her saying,

You should have thought of me before you ended up here.

This aisle was like the ghost of Christmas past, memories only from a couple hours ago, and regrets.

The items mock her, and she swats at them, knocking them to the ground.

That will show them.


Food did not sound appealing, so the rest of the aisles made her stomach turn

Like the Baltic Sea, and she approached the counter, no cashier in sight.

“Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

The door opens, and a man in blue is on top of her.

Like the man who was on top of her, and in her top, and popping her top.

Blood still caked her thighs.

The man rolls her onto her stomach and puts cuffs around her wrists,

Feeling so familiar, she had just escaped it,

Brought back abruptly like a naughty child yanked to the corner by his ear

From his harlot of a mother.

The illumination of the 7 11 sign waves goodbye as she is thrown in the back of the man’s car,

And she never sees the cashier once.


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