Beyond Redemption

[anirbas]

unwanted as bad news and false guises,
from the bowels of my buried memories
the miasma of my distant past rises-
a fetid, sulfurous, suffocating odor
of decay, discontent, and desparation-
as the hellish scars of our childhood,
open wide and become wounds once again.
the acrid suppuration
of our collective sorrow flows
like the River Styx: dark, oily, and thick.
flooding the halls of my mind,
forcing open doors better left closed.
releasing my black, hidden thoughts
to stomp angrily about like fierce trolls.
tortured images of where we've been
who we are now, who They were then-
a matched pair of nuerotic monsters
that ripped us asunder, with our home.
miraculous, we survived, but at what price?
all of us mangled, some, beyond redemption.

~Sabrina.

[liquidpromise]

I have been right where you are in this piece of poetic art, you are NOT alone, trust me on this.

Excellent work, hon.

L_P

[anirbas]

Thank you, LP. And yes, I trust you on this...LOL...As I sense this of you and many...We have been and seen many of the same events, if in different places and times, the plot tweeked or twisted a bit, per the individual...I wrote this piece, about three years, ago...

[anirbas]

~On the Air...

Somewhere, floating on the air,
of the neon lit streets;
the cry of a child is heard,
through an open window-
"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

Truth be known,
the mother in question,
can not hear her baby crying.
Cause Momma's three houses down,
sucking on a crack pipe.
Light it up. Light it up.
About to trade tail,
for worthless snipe,
to invade her being
with toxins and tripe.
Just to heighten
the numbness,
she already feels...

Somewhere, floating on the air,
of the neon lit streets;
the cry of a child is heard,
through an open window-
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

But dear old dad,
doesn't hear, either.
Cause father's in the pen,
for settling a score with a gun.
Or like the rest of his posse,
he's six feet under;
crowned king of the bad boys,
with a marble tombstone,
overlaid with white lillies.

This ain't right.
This ain't right.
Whatcha gonna
do about it,
tonight?

Same as usual?
Sit on your hands?
And be thankful,
it isn't your fam?

-Nir.
2/2005

[anirbas]

Adopted...

He'd arrived, the adopted child.
A borrowed son
when she couldn't birth, more than one.
Repitiously, seditiously, reminded
of his privileged status.
He'd born the label
first, in naivete, then rebelliously livid.
His own yellow star of David.
Never, was allowed, to it remove...
Tho' of them, he'd not had any expectations.
Beyond innocently hoped for sheltering
from the stormy, horrifying wild
of his not quite four world...
His little boy's heartfelt prayer-
A mommy, a daddy, a family.
To love and love him, unconditionally.
That was all he needed.
Not the scars denied, he carries unseen.
Nor the judgement, derision, and scorn.
For these, he has been ultimately deeded...

Sabrina.
1/2004

[anirbas]

Poisoned Pen

She was the one, whose visage
haunted and caused,
many a toss turned night.
Sleepless, when they paused
to consider, the trail of carnage,
broken spirits, gored and scattered;
left in the wake of their violent coupling.
She was the one, who best remembered,
details of the heinous deeds,
they had committed, together.
Buried in the distant/near
gravel pit of the supparating past...
No matter, how devisive
their relationship, otherwise;
side by side, they stood!
When they wantonly, willfully
victimized, their blessings
gifted from Heaven!
Drunken darkness,
was their favored state of mind.
Abusing their children,
in the name of God, no less;
their favorite pastime!
Of her doomed siblings,
she was the firstborn...
It was she, who'd witnessed
and remembered best,
all of their pulsillanimous worst.
The crippled, twistings
of their blighted souls.
A pair of trolls, in collusion.
She was, and is, the one...
Her, alone, they now fear.
Will someday pick up,
the pen they poisoned,
with their fanatical,
maniacal deeds...
And with it, begin to write...

-Sabrina

[anirbas]

The Cross or I'm Not Jesus Christ...

i.

Contrary, to popular opinion, or not...
I do not think, I'm Jesus Christ...
A prophet, or society's favorite victim...
For if I'm the Second Coming...
You'd better bend over
and kiss your *ss goodbye...
Because, in that event,
we are all, in major trouble...
I'm not mechanically inclined...
I can't fix or build a dratted thing...
And to date, I havn't walked on water...

ii.

No, I'd beg to differ, I think I'm Jesus Christ...
But, I do feel like, I'm going through the motions,
of ripping myself loose, one iron spike at a time-
and climb-sobbing-crawling in a downwards spiral,
from a lofty, splinter laden cross...
Reversed scandence, head first,
like a wounded lizard...

I'm tired...I'm tired of hanging here...
Twisting in the wind, twisting in the wind...
Trapped, while you try to re-make
me into something...some thing...
I don't want to be...
Your favored whipping post...
Martyr of the day...
Or worse, sacrificial
victim of the night...


iii.

No, I'm not Jesus Christ...
Jesus, would still love you...
Me, I'm only human...I hate you...
And there is no residual love,
on the flip side of that emotional coin...
Only more of the same...More of the same...

Still, I'd rather see you blessed than cursed...
I hold no ill will, within me, for you...
I just hate you, for piledriving
me to this f*cking cross...
No, matter how hard I fought,
while you did the deed...
But, I've got one hand loose...
And the other hand, half torn off,
it's flat-headed, iron stake...


iv.

Someday, you will look up,
and I will have disappeared...
Leaving nothing more than mementos
of myself, upon this cross...
Bloodstains, bits of flesh and skin,
strands of hair...I wonder...
Whom will you hate, then?
Who will become the next victim,
of your unmitigated, everlasting anger
and emotionally stunted ignorance?

~Sabrina.
12/2005

[anirbas]

i.

Thank you for this cross you've gifted me...
I find it goes so well with my wardrobe...
However, I do find it a bit odd...
Most crosses are little gold things,
hanging from finely linked chains,
a prized neck bauble to some;
to others, a precious talisman.
But, this dyfunctional piece...
I carry in my back, where it's been,
since you stabbed me with it...
I do find it odd...
But, I'm well known,
for growing flowers,
amongst the excrement...
Or, to put that another way...
I can take lemons and make lemonade...
I'm going to rip this cross out of my back,
throw it down, and make a crossroads, out of it...


ii.

There is no going back...
I cannot unsee, what I've seen you do...
Do to the ones you claimed to love...
I cannot unfeel, what I've felt at your hands...
I can't...I can't...I've tried...I can't...
And now, I don't want to...
There is no going back...
I can only imagine,
forward motion...
I can only imagine,
me, without you...

1/2006

[anirbas]

I've been beaten down so bad at times...
I've literally been left for dead...
Comatose for two days...
Convalescing in my bed...
Wandering in the pewter
and platinum cotton candy thick fog
of brain shock and shut-down...
Shoulder to shoulder
with demons; guided by angels
of intentioning back to this world...
It's been said it was a miracle I awakened at all...
Not recovering from the beating of my life
in a hospital, as I should have been,
monitored by professionals...

Yes, I've been beaten down in this life...
Literally, left for dead...And I'm still
shambling the halls of this insane
asylum called life...So, do you really
think timing and circumstance,
are going to get me down?

When I died once...
Then, almost twice...
After the beating of my life...
I learned something...
Even when life sucks...
It's precious...
Each and every moment...
Even those seconds,
beyond redemption...

~Sabrina

[anirbas]

~Happy Birthday

I should call you...
Wish you a happy birthday...
Should have sent you a present
along with your card in the mail...

Yes, of me, that would have been swell...

But, remember...You don't celebrate birthdays, anyway...
No cake, cards, gifts or parties...And you never allowed
others to give us such on our birthdays, either...
When we were growing up as your helpless kids...

And if someone tried to do so for us...
Asked if they could...You'd start in preaching,
proselytizing about how we shouldn't celebrate
our births into this world of Darkness ruled by Lucifer.
We should only celebrate one's death, when they leave
this world of Darkness to meet their Maker, your version
of a god in the holy ever Afterlife of your mind.
"So, no thank you," you'd say ever so sweetly
in your best ding dong southern belle voice,
to end your religious rant and rave.
"My child, the one I'm raising, isn't allowed
to take your birthday present.
I don't even bake them a cake."

[But, I baked cakes when the ingredients
were on hand when I grew older for all of us...
And, you couldn't stop me, could you?]

You said birthday celebrations and greetings
were Paganistic. But then again, you saw Paganism,
everywhere...Like any dutiful, responsible Christian...
You, just took it to the extreme degree...
Like ranting and raving as you beat us,
"Spare the rod! Spoil the child!"
Or, this gem, "It says in the Bible,
the teacher/parent is ever responsible
for the student's/child's actions. I'm not going
to hell for you! No, I'm not!" These orations foamed
from your lips as you meted out twenty-five,
fifty, seventy-five, or a hundred lashes
with a belt, a switch, a utility cord,
whatever was handy and could double
as a whip and bring blood to pearl,
dribble, then run down the backs
of our legs, as we danced and screamed
and screamed and screamed, at your hand...
Beaten, over some "wrong" we'd done in your estimation...
I wonder, were you trying to beat the demons
you saw out of us? And why couldn't you see,
the angels we were...We just didn't have wings...

[You're right, Mother Dearest...
You're not going to hell for us...
You're so right about that...]

I should call you...
Wish you a happy birthday...

Instead, I find, I'd rather write this shitty poem
about you...I'll get more out of it, than hearing
something more of your archaic, dead lies, over
the telephone about eternal love and mercy
from your version of god, holy ever after, Above.
You just never change, no matter how much
you're forgiven or we, as your grown children
try to forget...You're always coming up with
new things and ways to torment us...

But, I'm not bitter...I'm not totally a motherhater...
Or you would have gotten this really shitty poem
about you, along with your birthday card...

I do so appreciate you bringing this lovechild
into a world of Darkness, per your own words...
Question: If it was so dark, why'd you drag me into it?
And I do so appreciate this sick sense of dark humor
being raised as your daughter has given me...

Happy Birthday, Mommie Dearest!
I'm so glad I grew up to be everything
you never raised me to be...For one thing,
a feeling and thinking human...

That enjoys giving birthday parties
for her children and inspite of your example,
has never beat her children, obviously...
Or they wouldn't be so spoiled and they'd
say yes, ma'am and no ma'am, religiously...
To afraid to slip up, forget and do otherwise...

[vixen]

Sabs, your talent astounds and mystifies me. Your a hidden gem. Love always Vixen

[anirbas]

Ah, Vixen darlin'...My, my, how you've turned
my head to hang in shyness at my computer,
even as I blush warmly, beneath your praise,
this evening...stop that...not...not...not...
...My talent astounds and mystifies you?
I find that astounds and mystifies me...
But, I thank you for saying that...
It means much to me...Soothing
balm for the ragged wounds
that keep opening in me, today...
Here, there, everywhere it would seem...
But, perhaps, now some closure, some peace for me...
And may you and everyone else, blessed be...Love, Sabrina.