"The
Cycle of Abuse"
A 'Poetry Cycle' by Michael F. Nyiri
July 24, 2005 12:42 p.m. pdt/July 28, 2005 4:43 a.m. pdt
07/24/05 12:42 p.m.
I: Toddler's
Complaint
Mommy, please
don't hit me again.
I try to be a good girl
I try to do good
but the rules change too much
and you hit me again
Mommy, I love you so much
Teddy has a broken arm can you fix him?
Teddy sad today
The nurse at the school asked me
about the hurts on my arm
Mommy, I scared
Please don't hit me again
12:48 p.m.
II: Modern
Schoolgirl
American
Girl dolls and photophones with
translucent colors and special ringtones for every internet friend
Conversations sometimes last for half a day or longer
Real friends are the ones who don't blog behind your back
Don't forget to take the meds as the evening draws nigh
Snarling
spittle spray, gnashing pointed teeth, and small pinprick red eyes
Crawling through the nighttime cinemas in tattered, worn out nightdress
Barely escaping the catcalls of dripping blood demons
Here, a corner, dark, cold, respite from ruination and hostile fear
Pressed against the mossy undergrowth of palpable apprehension
Another sarcastic scream from beyond excruciating exegesis
She removes her small metal box,
The one with the 3 inch dent along the side,
and the faded image of Hello Kitty
smiling insideously
The small cache of cardboard protected razor blades
Compartmentalized as salvation
Signaling a bitter solution to guard against the
shrill shrieks of surreptitous memory
One blade is removed carefully, methodically
First one cut, on the forearm, almost at the elbow,
a small stark cut, drawing blood and comfort
then another,
and another
precise, ladder steps back into sanity
She climbs the hopeful steps
as the screams recede in the distance
the moss fades, and the sun reappers
if only for a moment
till she has to use the small metal box again
1:41 p.m.
III: Altar
Boy
Immovable
shadows are cast across the Church garden
Darkening the floral majesty with trepidation
Insidious satanic terpsichory scuttles through the church
Spoiling the Sacred Heart of Jesus
Unheard Chants to the Heavens
Obfuscated by the silent scythe of evil
Even the confessional is suspect,
As evil purpose sleeps in the rectory after prayers
and sometime before the catechism of the cheeks
Lighting a candle for Jesus,
Dims low when the sharp sword of God penetrates innocent faith
And prayers never seem to get answered again
1:56 p.m.
IV: All
in the Family
Sis and
Bro sleep together sometimes
Dad doesn't think it's improper,
He usually sleeps with sis on Thursday nights,
When mom sleeps with Bro
This family is full of blissful love
behind shuttered windows and anhydrous weeds
behind cookie cutter complacency and common sense
Loving with lurid purpose
Loving with macabre abandon
Mom was afraid of Dad once a long time ago
but memories fade with repetition and dominance
And she submitted to the shared familial bliss
Little by little
Until it all seems nice and normal
and what is on television this week?
Incest is best
4:09 p.m
V: Cellar
Door Ode to Desire
Desire is
not magnanimous, nor cautious, nor patient
It seethes, explodes, bursts with lightning quick speed
Prodding away all paths of resistance and good sense.
Desire teems with indignation, pride, envy, sloth, gluttony
avarice and an unhealty lust for power
Desire conquers life and does not settle for long
Young, and partially naive, I welomed all experience
and callowly ignored any hints of sudden insanity
caused by rampant desire
It can, and will strike with such suddenness
that everything can change in an instant when it does.
Carlos was
the night clerk in the garden department,
and I frequently worked alongside him,
older, seemingly wiser, with a wealth of interesting
stories and observations,
a good mate to spend time with at work
Carlos never talked about desire
The nights
passed without much incident
until one summer, under the stars
out in the garden department on a
beautiful evening completed by desire
Swarthy
brown complexion with a winning smile
an actor's baritone, and a ready laugh
very friendly with all the box boys
and maybe too friendly when desire stops by
Look at
this, exclamations,
In the little storeroom behind the door
on the counter, a magazine
"whattaya got, Carlos?" and then,
pressing up against my buttocks
engorged with the battering ram of desire
rubbing as if part of the training process
for management
"what are you doing?"
"nothing"
nothing that desire can't envelop
Common sense,
though, told me
not to go into the storeroom
again alone with Carlos
even though I was still too naive to know
of his intentions and actions
even an intelligent young man
can be oblivious to the machinations of desire
7/28/05
4:43 a.m.
VI: Last
Date
i brush
my hair a hundred times
silky, falling perfectly about the face
my smile, enhanced a bit
by just a small smudge of coral colored lipstick
wispy taffeta, a swishing sound as I walk
new pumps shining black reflecting
pools of light in the dark night
he picks me up in his candy red camaro
and shepherds me to heavenly happiness
until the clock strikes midnight
and the night becomes ominous
his niggling pleas, as long minutes pass
become outright outbursts
he holds my wrists against the back of the carseat
his smile a crooked leer
his hot breath, liquor fueled,
blowing evil across my cheek
i can't struggle much
as he is stronger and more determined
as each hellish minute ticks
the radio plays speed metal in the distance
he pins me to the seat
i scream but it's no use
we're out in the sticks
with no other traffic for miles
he was so sweet in the beginning
he was so nice and never demanding
until now some swarthy demonic force
makes fools of us both
and in the end he gets what he wants
and the wispy taffeta tears
and i can never brush my hair again
without these thoughts emerging
so i cut it off
and begin to to wear the uniform of the
forgotten
dark, black, and hidded from their stares
4:56 a.m.
VII:
The cycle seems to circle
With such amazing ease
No right or proper manner
Does the pain and pall appease
Generation
after generation
In the family, church, and town
The cycle ever tightens
And again it comes around
Will common
sense and decency
E'er quell the fears and pain?
As the cycle turns around and round
And round and round again?
Poetry
2005
