Nobody's Father  



By M.D. Ward


Nobody's Father  


I went to see the old man the other day. He's a scarecrow in a

Pumpkinfield. He dangles on a cross staring like a lunatic in the

spotlight of the Moon. His button eyes are blind with time. They don't

recognize me. His head was crowned by a black fedora. His arms were

stretched wide open. And the wind and rain and snow whip and lash his

rags to threads. I went to see the old man the other day.....He didn't

see me.


First Memory


It's five o'clock on a freezing December morning. I'm hanging out a five

story window in Brooklyn. I can see my mother's face through the black

smoke. Her arms stretched out as if offering a sacrifice to some cruel

and stupid god. Her hands holding me out the window for dear life. The

Whole World is Screaming. I'm Dancing on Air. Staring into my mother's

petrified eyes. I grow old. I see Death. He wears a black helmet. He's

being held by his legs from the adjacent building. I feel his rubbery

hand clutching my foot. He croaks to my mother to "Let Go"!!!

I fall head first and dangle in his hand between heaven and hell. Everything's

in Slow Motion. I'm yanked through a window. I'm two months and a million

years old.


Black As Sin


By the time I was four I was magic. Filled to the brim with joy and

power. I was a lucky accident until then. Then day became night and

black became white and the world became grey. My dear Aunt Rose took

me by the hand to the Convent of Mercy. She gave me a big chocolate

heart wrapped in bright red tin foil and told me I had to be a brave

soldier. I tasted her tears as she kissed me goodbye. The first nun I

saw looked right through me. She was huge. She looked down on me as if I

were the spawn of Lucifer. Just another Mortal sin. She had a Man

dangling from two wooden sticks around her neck. His hands and feet

were pinned to the planks and his eyes rolled back in his head. She told

me he was God and that he died for my Sin. The Sin of being Born. She

took me down a long corridor to the dormitory. The beds were lined up in

rows and filled with the unwanted. This was just the beginning. I was to

spend the next thirteen years with lunatics like her. The Brides of

Christ were cold as ice. Desperate and Faithless, clinging to the lie of

Salvation. The Monks were more brutal but not as vicious as the Sisters

of Mercy. They chipped away all but a remnant of my original soul with

their original sin. A spark was all that remained. Now it's a bonfire

of rage and shame. How I would like to make martyrs of them all. Pile

them up like dead crows and set fire to their black souls. Cremate the

whole bloody memory. Begin to live...Again.


Alone At Last


I remember the day I left the Home. They gave me a fifteen cent token

and a kick in the ass for luck. I was told to go to a boarding house

somewhere in the rectum of Brooklyn. The old Irish battleaxe that ran

the place was harder than an old man's kneecap. A frustrated Sister of

Mercy, she would spy on the orphans as if they were criminals. With a

cracktooth smile she led me upstairs to the room. Her bony fingers gave

me a key and I let myself in. It Stank like nothing human, and yet it

was All too Human. The bed was soaked with piss and tears. The paint

peeling off the walls knew my secret. I was a dead man. A walking

corpse. And this was my tomb. I sat down and fell asleep counting my



The Naked Truth


Who am I? A throwaway bag o' bones, a steppenwolf sniffing the linoleum.

A bloody dream being born. A rootless manplant. A heartsick sailor. A

moon worshiper. A noise outside your window. A blue thunderbolt. A blind

flea. A rolling machine. A sleeping bookworm. A stranger in limbo. A

pinhead philosopher. A broken compass. A crack in the ceiling. A

forlorned conclusion. A whisper in the dark. My father's name was Nobody

and I'm my father's Son.


Sleep In Peace, Ye Blind Gods


Waiting in the freezing rain for god or man to stop the drops that taste

like wine pressed from the eyes of angels. Drunk as a sailor marooned on

the moon, I descend into the bowels of the BMT to find my bed. Soaked to

the bone I settle into one of the old straw seats and fall asleep as the

train rocks me into the night. I dreamed of nuns on broomsticks and

priests with pitchforks. The heat from the seat rises and kills the

chill in my legs. At every stop I'm jarred awake as the doors shoot open

and the dance of the dead begins. At every stop a new nightmare

appears. One by one they come and go as the doors shoot open and the

rain turns to snow. Some stare at me as if I were a piece of meat. Some

don't see me at all. I nod and wait for the morning to break through

the yellow windows.


No Way Home


From the Stations of the Cross to the Stations of the BMT. Never a

second's blink. No rest for the extraneous. Jesus in the tearoom

selling his soul to a three dollar vampire on the edge of death. Christ

in the form of a degenerate buys my stiff socks and I'm saved for

another day. I look into the metal mirror and I realize I'm young.

Funny, I've never felt young. Five dollars for my stiff young socks! I

could eat for a week on that. I could leave the labyrinth of dead souls

and ascend to the world of the living. Where would I go? I didn't have a

clue. The subway was my sick sanctuary. I lived on the candybars and

sodas that I kick out of the machines as the trains roared through the

stations. I'd sleep in it's iron belly deep and away from the world.

Insignificant as a fallen leaf. Grist for the devil's mill. When there's

no where to go, there's no way to turn. You sit cold and crazy and wait

to see what the night brings. It brings Incubus and Sucubus. It brings

fear and numbness. It brings desperation and degradation. Woe to the

children of the night. Woe to them All. Better not to be born, than be

born unloved. But such philosophic thoughts are not even available when

survival slaps you in the face. It's time to see the sun. I walk out

into the misty morning and go wherever the wind takes me.


Rosy Resurrection


And the wind blows, and the cock crows, and the sun rises, and I lose my

self in the faceless crowd above. The Sun Hurts My Eyes. I wander around

in small circles like a blind man in a coal mine. I let the wind be my

compass. It blew me down to the last exit in Brooklyn. The last exit is

on the last block of Atlantic Avenue. On this block was an orange building

with a red door. At night with the yellow lights streaming through the

windows, it looked like a demented jack o' lantern. Inside were Holy

ghosts, Invisible children of the sixies. The Sons of Manson and the

Sisters of the Damned. It was there I received my first communion with

the devil. A crystal promise that melted like snow in the bubbling

spoon. Tap Tap Tap on the vein, and it slides in like it had a brain.

Whatever was holding up my house of cards before was blown to bits. Now

I could not only stand the light, I Was the Light!!! The Speed coursed

through my veins and lit me up like a Christmas Tree. I look out of

different eyes, Luciferian Eyes that never Blink. You could tell them

all, the Lost children of the Night, you could tell them from their shiny

eyes. I wait until the sun is rising again and take another poke. I

never felt so alive in my life. I have been resurrected. I am a God who

forgot his name. I look at the amazement of the devil before me as he

loosens the belt around my arm. I look at all of them. Staring at me, a

stranger for supper, something to put in the pot. ALL OF THEM WITCHES.

They have No power over me. Just flies in the web of my confusion. Now

dawns a New day. The first day of my new life. No more sleeping in

hallways and subways. No more fear in the darkness. The Tablets of

Shame have been obliterated. I have become Magical. I open the red

door, and swallow the Sun.


Zockabye My Baby


It's amazing what happens when you're an invisible man. When the hawk

comes and covers the sun. And the cold outside and in freezes your

numbed heart. You wander aimlessly looking for something, somewhere,

something you lost a long time ago. A terrible dream where you can't

remember your name, where you can't remember from whence you came. The

nightmare of a truly lost soul. You belong to nobody. The realization is

colder than the snow. You mumble frozen incantations into the void.

There is no god here. There is no mother of mercy. There's just the cold

and the loneliness. It's amazing what happens when you are invisible.

When you're nothing and nobody, you got nothing to lose. You melt into

hallways and stuff newspaper in your holy shoes. Finally, you just

don't care anymore. The day dawns, and night becomes life. The

invisible at night are ghosts. I found them haunting a house on Atlantic

Avenue in Brooklyn. Castaways and poor rich kids lit up the rooms with

art and decadence. Poking crystal methedrine into their veins they felt

like gods. With speed the world became magical. Every word, every

number, took on a special significance. The veils from my eyes fell

away. I felt like Christ among the lepers. I'd shoot up and light up like

a Christmas tree. I'd walk through a blue mist as the sun rose. My thoughts

were gigantic. They were like magnets. I had a telepathic connection

with everything around me. In the world of the underground I was alive.

Among the lost, I finally became who I was. A Miracle. Abel Chance.


Smother the Sun


I should of been one to shine in the sun. Now slivers of light surround

my nights. There are no more days. I have been waylaid by

circumstance. Mother Night, Dead as the Moon, Rock me in your Cradle of

Gloom. My crib's a cage ribbed round with rage. The faucet drips in sync

with my frozen heart as the seconds melt away. Melt away all the

yesterdays. Melt away today. Melt away tomorrow and tomorrow and

tomorrow. I should of been One to Shine in the Sun. And now I wait for

Oblivion. I lay in wait for the final flicker. A candle in a coal mine.

A diamond in the dark. A matchstick in the wind.


Nod of God


As I sleep on a mountain green, I slip into a purple dream. Where wind

and water wash away the remnants of desire. Where, at last, A million

years past, I go home. Home is a garden under the world. A garden in a

graveyard. Where crimson poppies bloom from the bones of the dead. There

are no wars here. There are no victories. Just the soft whirl of the

stars. Just the hiss and bubble of the sun. And the cyclops moon sighs

beautiful lies into a sea of space. It is as it always was. And I? I am

just a purple dream, asleep on a mountain green.


We All Have a Destiny


My cat knows my place. I'm his door man. His only asset is his beauty.

It's enough. His mask is magnificent, Black as hangman's cowl. His mouth

is white, as is his belly and his feet and the tip of his tail. All the

rest is shiny Black. In the sun you can see how pink he really is. His

green eyes stare into mine like a statue. Majestic as the Morning Star.

The Wisest of Philosophers. The Perfection of God. HE knows my Place.


Some Seconds Are Gold


It's so beautiful...this perfect. As the white tip of my cat

twitches as he dreams upon my desk, as the lamplight shimmers off the

crystal bowl half filled with water and pale greenstems end with scarlet

poppies. I peer into an old photograph smiling back at me. A child's

face half hidden in the shadows stands smiling back a half century at

me. He beams at me like a dark sun. He was my very soul. We are

together now, finally, after all these years. This moment, this perfect

and beautiful moment.


Man, This Guy Is Depressing!!


My fingers paint the dark. Among the lost there is no company. They

huddle together for warmth and freeze to death. Broken Souls. Lost in

Space. Eyeless in the Sun. Nobody knows the way out or in. Standing

still, on this black night, I shiver, for us all.


How It Happens


Once, long ago, when I was young, a woman told me I was a god, and I

like a child believed her, and fell in love with Myself.


Ashes for Valhalla


Cross my Viking bones, Set my Flesh aflame, Smolder me in Water, I shall

Rise again. Fill my boat with withered leaves far from any Shore. Bury

me in burning Rain, with my hand still on my Sword. My ashes like

fireflies illuminate the night. They dance above my head like stars,

forbidden to expire. And I, like them, will Rise again.. My hand Still

on my Sword.


She Gave More Than She Ever Took Away


She gave him a heart bent by briar and wire. He wrapped up stars around

the barbs and flowers in the core. And from the holes wild poppies

bloomed scarlet in the folds. Memories sneak back when they dare. The

snow on the windowsill peeks in at two lovers sleeping like spoons.

Lost and Found and Lost again. And all that's left is a heart of thorns

and the blue memory of her eyes. She has become the night.


What it's like


Tap tap tap on the vein and it slides in like it had a brain.Up pops

the blood into the solution. It's crucifixion time. Slam it home man,

shoot the moon man, plunge that speed, and smack that horse, and ride

ride ride your magick carpet ride. The Steeds of Speed eat coca leaves

and dance upon the clouds. The rush of smack is more profound. The

Horses of heroin will drag you down down down.But, baby, it don't

really matter, since you been gone.All the drugs in the world won't

bring you back. By now, your bones are all thatís left.And I sit here

with a spike full of junk and regrets.Iíll see you soon baby, Iíll shoot

the stars out of the night, and in the everlasting darkness, Iíll find



Nobody's Father


I went to see the old man the other day. He's a scarecrow in a

Pumpkinfield. He dangles on a cross staring like a lunatic in the

spotlight of the Moon. His button eyes are blind with time. They don't

recognize me. His head was crowned by a black fedora. His arms were

stretched wide open. And the wind and rain and snow whip and lash his

rags to threads. I went to see the old man the other day.....He didn't

see me.


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