His Foxes Cannot Get Me Now

He can no longer spitefully hiss
The terrible command
For the hook nosed Jew boy
To climb across the room
And into his stinking
Piss stained bed
He can no longer invoke the foxes
To bite at the boy’s ankles or head
He can no longer create nightmare’s
Filled with sheer terror and dread
He can no longer climb
Like an incubus upon the boy’s back
Fetid breath panting on his neck
Arm wrapped tightly around his throat
All this must happen before the boy sleeps
He can no longer implant the thought
That the boy must dream in colour
For those that dream in black and white
He often tells the little boy
Are scared of the nights and what they bring
Now the boy doesn’t have to dream
Of the Paisley pattern to fill his head
And take away the terror of what
Had just happened.

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Childhood

I don't remember any of the good times, They were few and far between, Only the bad times, The three week sulks, The temper tantrums, The silence of meal times, The brooding menace of each waking day, The not knowing how each innocent word, Would fall on those temper attuned ears, The rare smile, The rare laughter. Above all, The silence.

I often think.

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