From the Book of Byzantium --
Dirty Little Girl (Part V)

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in a rather
scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean –
neither more nor less.”

“The Question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words
mean so many different things.”

“The Question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be
master – that’s all.” -- Through the Looking Glass by Lewis
Caroll


The nature of Abuse in a Nation
is a Marker, as in biostratigraphy

... biostratigraphy, biostratigraphic project management, paleontology, service, stratigraphy, sequence stratigraphy, depositional system, paleontology, forum, pollen...


"My mother molested my life for ten years."
(written twenty years after the abuse)
By Laurie Catherine Fallon -- victim of 9/11/01

That's me. I'm the dirty little girl. I walk around with no underpants and I stink of pee. I'm always touching or Mom's touching where I sit. You know those little touches, brief, where my flat chest no nipples dance. Mom don’t realize that when she touch my tits I get so jumpy I want to pinch harder and harder and finally I explode. It is terrible internal distraction. She knows she does this. She pecks at the flat circles and gets them going. She know she does. She laughs at my shrug away I am not interested and then climbs into my bed and finds me fingering where I shouldn't or she says I should.

Mom always had this sheer laugh. She gave me to men who became her and carried their dreams as rivers found their own gravel basement.

When I had my first period, I must have been eleven, Mom stained her nose with my blood. Stretched in the mirror I reached under my nightgown and painted my nipples and my cheeks with more blood. I looked at the mirror and made a horrible face to mimic what I thought might be some native violence as retribution. Later that night I fucked myself with a thick candle and when I had pierced my limbs I bled until morning and taken to the hospital, no one knew I had lost my virginity when I was seven. Lies take on so many facets.


From the Book of Byzantium Part VI
GOING UPSTATE

It seemed as if we were riding in the car for days. We were not in the car, but had fallen asleep on the floor of one of the bedrooms in the country house near Warwick, New York.

It was bone chilled January cold and my breasts when I woke ached. I could not move and felt as if I were trapped in these thin wool blankets. The fires must have had gone out.

My skin tight in PJ’s that I picked to wear was sensitive sexual baby skin. I could not move. I wanted to seduce him as he does when he taps me on his knee or as he did when I was his woman, or now as the speck of stars, he cannot see. I knew the man driving the car about three weeks. He was mother’s new favorite, and he seemed kind, and certainly no different or angrier than my father did.

Joe reached down. I reached up by my fingers. He pulled me out of my own throat or so, it seemed, and then we swam in skin.

He was sweat. He was hard. I could feel his cock against my ass as he cuddled, and admonished me for not telling him the heat doesn’t work in this room, and that I should sleep in the bed with him, which is what I wanted in the first place, but I didn’t want to feel the trapped animal if he pushed me away as he does when he felt guilt. Mother could not get him to do what she always expected.

I was scared when he put his fingers in my brains. I did not want it. He put them in hard, and at first, they hurt. I could not catch my breath. I pushed into him letting the twin cheeks of my ass drive into his pad of fat belly and when his cock pushed at one clever angle, I felt him slip inside where he could not really penetrate.

I was so small. Last week these old boys at school gave me head, rubbing my ass and carefully I fabricated an actual orgasm for them. I was hot, and they drew it out of me that longing. I told Harold about it, and he said Sure, that is lovely Lass, and pushed into my shallow cunt harder. I had no hair, I said. I said it that way, ungrammatical, to make it stick out more, and then he pulled the hair that had grown around my lips, and as it was soft and a feather wisp I groaned as he ran his nails along my lips scratching the soft pink wondering how pain felt in that dark twilight when he was the monster on top as the usual master of a dance he pushed into my bowels and emptied cock like a deep sea beast. The boys last week wee teens left so much soup in my cunny I was lost with the slosh. The three boys fucked without any precision. It was jerk jerk and poof. Today, once the cold left, he fucked gracefully and taught me moves, how does this feel he said, do this until you feel this, or do you feel it, and if you don’t let me know. He was a gentleman. I may have been his child like teenager, but I was kept with the cold, and my hands warming on his balls slipped their knot into my mouth and he was a great dancer forever more. My tits streaked with semen were slippery and sick colder and I did not like it, but tolerated the image, as it was what most expected. The yucky semen rubbed against my tail bone as it dripped was a welcome sensation to the first barn door of pregnant woman I am told now several weeks later that I have taken into my sexual schemes and so I wonder if sex is that weapon we need to avoid war, true war and then if not war, perhaps the petty silly break down of civility that human beings require for the luster of gods as adorned hats and decorations we apply when we are falsely proud of being prudes when in truth what we want is the perfection of orgasm. Shall we shout now for the truth, or can we hide from the boundary of false bottoms, as you lean into me with your cunny and my two fingers drive as you climb my hip and have that pure orgasm you deserve and we desire. Does it matter that you are my mother and I am your father in this clandestine pageant.

All I ever want is to murder the circus clown, "to kill Bill," Joe, Peter or to end the torment as cycles of cold make the skin chaffed inside my legs swollen with an undistinguished history that. Every tongue lick to dick, pussy, and nipple becomes the next folio of horrific infamy in the Library of Congress. Every victim has a corner reserved for books about how they became serial murderer #3, 4 or simply part II.



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