Billy’s Boots

“Be a man.” Yes, they are all men. I am almost ashamed to be of the same species. Great cautionary tale.

Margaret Sefton's avatarWithin A Forest Dark

Mod and Skinhead Clothing, Dublin Rebirth of Cool, Mod and Skinhead Clothing, Dublin

At night, Billy sits with Brother John and the guys at their WAR house in the Panhandle as they watch the videos of the National Socialist Party. Billy always sits on the scratchy green tweed sofa that reminds him of his Granny’s but Brother John’s smells like earth and rain and the chocolate smell of mildew.

It is Hitler’s birthday. Mother Beulah has made a Nazi cake in the colors of the flag. She sets it on the oilcloth. Her arms are exposed and giggling like Granny’s. He imagines them soft to the touch. In the center of the sheet cake she had written in a thin chocolate scrawl: Happy Birthday, Hitler! Mama Beulah has arthritis and her hands weren’t steady but Brother John doesn’t fault her.

Billy gets a corner piece of the cake, where the piped chocolate icing has bunched…

View original post 958 more words

Are you talking about that little girl that was murdered?

Leland,
she was yours
by accident of birth.
But your stunted love
sprouted to garish green jealousy.
Control was all.
Sully her
so she’s no good for anyone.
Then consort with Bob
to kill her for what she’s become.
May you char on a slowly-turned spit,
and heal each day anew,
in Hell.

Bad Laura

Oh God. Please. Not this day.

The mossy ceiling fan slows,
and blows the dark down the hall to my room.
And I know he is coming again.

I’ve named him Bob, you know.
His dark is charmed.
Bestial.
Always, I cannot move,
or even see him through the soot.

And he climbs upon me and pants.
With an insane laugh,
he eats at me.
Handles me hard.
Tells me I am bad.
Bad bad girl.
Bad Laura.

And he says
until next time.
And he knows I will not tell.
Because then they will all know.

I am dirty, so dirty,
and can’t wash it off.