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Scream, scream, screaming:

Help those drowning 

all around

and they look to their coffers,

and the piles fill into the coffins--

The tide is coming in and the flood

is just getting worse:

there's a rage building in the dead,

and we'll speak for them. 

Wretched bodies flung into a funeral pyre,

and the silence is deafening upon the pile,

and we see our love burned to ashes,

and we see their hands deep in pockets.

Cold hard cash for the winners and 

death sentences for everyone else. 

There's a cold rage building in the dead

and we'll speak for them. 

The march of the dead is coming and 

pitchforks are on our side this time.

Too big to fail too big to fall to big to take on

too big for their own good too big so

let's build ourselves and let them know

we're too big to ignore.

There's a cold rage building in the dead and

it just keeps growing and

we'll speak for them. 

If we're face down, six feet under, it doesn't matter

if their cash piles grow and grow

in the face of God they pray, bow, and pretend

it's fine as long as they say sorry

and it won't be. 

A cold rage is building in the dead,

am ember burning

threatening to blow it apart

and it just keeps growing

and

we'll speak for the dead. 

*

Family Truths

By jfarrell

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

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.

Funny…

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.

Slap!!

By jfarrell

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

SLAP!!

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

SLAP!!

Take the sweets…. and the comics….

SLAP!!

Now, take my member…

SLAP!!

How could I have given birth to you?

SLAP!!

You’ve ruined this family!

SLAP!!.

You live in a children’s home?

SLAP!!

Lick my shoes, scumbag!

SLAP!!

You know you want these magazines… take them….

SLAP!!

Join my gang, take these pills….

SLAP!!

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….

Depression….

Maybe,

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.

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…

Welcome to the Dark

By jfarrell

Roll up! Roll up!

Right here;

Is this seat comfortable enough?

Please keep your arms, legs and head in the car.

Are you ready? …. twinkling, charming, innocent smile

…... (whispered) Let’s go!

….(with a hushed, suppressed excitement)

Ladies and Gentlemen, let me thank you for choosing Jim’s Tours,

My name is Jim and I am your tour guide tonight.

But, enough about me, you’re here for Dark;

Hope you’re not screamish :)

On your left, police tape, long dead baby in the attic;

Look right, rapist uncle, lying dead with his throat cut;

Left, just under the bridge, a terrible ghost

This is where my mum should be hanging;

But she’s not dead. Yet.

…..tour guide collapses, but quickly staggers up, uncertain;

Oh my; wot horror; right next door;

His neighbours, 8 christian souls, innocent and pure;

All with their throats cut and drowned in petrol;

But, not burnt. Yet.

Please DON’T be sick in the car; over the edge please;

Are you sure you want to see THE bedsit? Where it happened?

No, you’re not a sicko - you’re here for the…

Waking middle of the night with a lit cigarette

So close to your eye it stings with the heat.

It’s your turn tonight, in the children’s home, with this wacko;

He’s bored; so, tonight, it’s your turn to burn, again and again;

Arms; legs; chest;

Tell who? My keyworker who is trying to groom me for abuse?

The pornography he’s giving me, suggests he wants more then ‘friends’.

Or, the park behind the library, that summer;

That one day, school holiday;

Playing hide and seek with friends

And seeing what happened to that poor woman.

The punches. The kicking.

…. tour guide takes out walkie talkie;

It’s Jim, get the wake up and cleaning crew again, please

This place stinks of sick

And my tourists have passed out;

Again.

Turn the TV Up

By JFarrell

You hear my dad shouting again, drunk;

You’ve heard it before;

You know what comes next;

And what do you do?

Turn the TV up.

You hear the first slap;

My mum screams,

Followed by 2 or 3 muffled thumps;

And what do you do?

Turn the bloody TV up.

You hear him start on the kids, shouts, slaps;

Muffled cries, screams…

Ah, finally, silence, they’ve stopped.

And what do you do?

Turn the f*cking TV up.

You see the bruises on my face the next day,

As you have many times before.

You smile and are polite, as if you don’t know what happened, you are complicit.

What you SHOULD have done, last night,

Was turn the f*cking TV off and call the police.