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Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
              …stirred her iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
             …home of death and rot,

Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
                           …and no one else has ever seen much better!

Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.

Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!

Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!

Abigail Primpot,
              ...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...she had an iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
A children's rhyme. The beast, the golden fleece and webbing are all ancient mythological cosmogonical symbols of the rotating stars of heaven. New Mythology
Abigail, Abigail, keeps haunting me
I don’t remember when it started
Has to be the first seed of love
That planted Abigail in my heart
And etched it there for good….
In Martha I saw Abigail, in Ethel
In them all I chased Abigail
They were good, all of them
Flawless, spotless, free from blame
Lovable, dependable, transparent….
Yet I kept seeking Abigail
With a hallucinatory torment!
Did ever my eyes touch her once?
In a dream woven with fleeting romance
Or her face shone once in the moon
And melted as dew drops in the dazed dark!
Abigail my perpetual phantom
I neither get her nor fathom
I age, Abigail is ageless
Always there, but beyond embrace!
Matthew Walker Sep 2013
It’s on nights like these
You feel like it isn’t worth
Going on another day
It hurts too bad
When you try to stay
It feels like your only options
Are the razor blade
Or leaving this place

But before you give up
Let me tell you a story

This isn’t an ordinary story
It’s a true story
But at the same time
I’m making it up right now

There was this girl
Her name was Abigail
Abigail was a caterpillar

She was born with many siblings
Lots of brothers and lots of sisters
They were a pretty happy family

But when they were still young
All of her siblings were murdered
As were her parents
Abigail was left completely alone

It took her a little while to get the
Hang of surviving on her own
But eventually she did

It was just after she got used to living on her own
That it seemed like things when downhill again

Abigail liked food. A lot.
She couldn’t control herself
She tried eating healthy things
Like salad and fruit
But she ate so much that even
The healthy food made her gain weight

She ate food
She dreamed food
She lived food
Abigail became obsessed with food

As if being overweight
Wasn’t bad enough
She was constantly made fun of
Because of her eating habits

Abigail’s biggest dream
Was to fall in love
But it seemed impossible
Because she was always torn down

She used to think that
If someone would just give her a chance
They would maybe possibly like her
And someday they might even
Fall in love with her
She was sure that true beauty
Was stored in her heart
Not in how thin her body was

But as the bullying continued
She decided she wasn’t beautiful
Not even on the inside

It was at this point
Abigail decided to commit suicide

She didn’t have pills
She didn’t have a knife
She didn’t have anything that kills
Or anything to take her life

She was sitting in her room
When she decided to die
And the only thing near
Was a silk blanket

She decided that she would suffocate
Herself with the blanket
Slowly, she wrapped herself in silk
She took one deep breath
And she squeezed her eyes tight
As she released that last breath
Her eyes relaxed

But she didn’t die
She opened her eyes
When she awoke
She felt like she was in a new life
She looked in the mirror
Abigail was a butterfly

She had to endure the trials of life
In order to become the beauty
That is a butterfly

In the deepest pain
Abigail found life

Just when the caterpillar
Thought her world was over
She became a butterfly
1/11/2013
Q  Oct 2013
Abigail
Q Oct 2013
Abigail is words, whispered in the dead of night
Abigail is pearls, so meticulously shined
Abigail is wind, personal yet public
Abigail is din, a beautiful ruckus

Bigail is books, every breath is a story
Bigail is gems, rich in her glory
Bigail is breeze, a soothing chill
Bigail is ease, with a bit of thrill

Igail is water, playful but cold
Igail is stormy, brewing and bold
Igail is calm, willing to wait
Igail is balm, soothing this place

Gail is half, fading quickly
Gail is worn, fragile and sickly
Gail is Earth, loving and warm
Gail is mirth, behind her thorns

Ail is sweet, and yet so sour
Ail is blood, of the hearts she devours
Ail is tears, as she turns to leave
Ail is fears, that she can't retrieve

Il is less, than sweet Abigail
Il is more, for she left a trail
Il is mad, raving lunatic
Il is bad, coughing and sick

L is tired, ready to go
L is crying, way down below
L is left, hanging by a thread
L is befret, the words she said

* * is nothing
There's nothing left of Abigail
No words left to whisper
Gone without a trail.
There are three ways to read this poem:
1. Read as written
2. Read only the phrases before the commas and the last stanza
3. Read only the phrases after the commas and the last stanza
Enjoy
   -Chaus
https://twitter.com/ChausVocamini
JJ Hutton Jun 2012
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."
Lain Ender  Oct 2011
Abigail
Lain Ender Oct 2011
Do you know the darling Abigail?

She lives inside my mirror.

The little ****** girl,

With the wicked smile so queer.

Do you know the darling Abigail?

She laughed and smiled and danced.

The she beauty beheld at once,

Did leave me so entranced.

Abigail is in my head,

She’d never been before.

The ****** beauty lies there,

Smiling calmly on the floor.

Oh behest the silent beauty,

She creeps beneath the bed.

In solemn mocking silence,

She crawls inside my head

I regret that faithful night of poisons,

The dancer i did betray.

It was never my intention,

to send Abigail to her grave.

I guess there is no repenting,

There’s nothing i can do.

At night i feel her cold dark hands,

And her smile of  “how dare you.”
She lived in a strange old gabled house
But she rarely came outside,
I’d glimpse her up on the balcony
But she’d see me, and she’d hide.
She seemed a nervous, tremulous thing
But I thought she looked so sweet,
Her hair in a long blonde ponytail,
And a dimple in either cheek.

She lived alone with her grandmother
Who was old, and sharp of tongue,
A sort of witch with a constant itch
She had scratched since she was young.
She wouldn’t allow young callers, who
Attracted to Abigail,
Would try to court but were overwrought
By her, till their efforts failed.

The two who had breached her sanctuary
Who had forced their way inside,
Had only stayed but a single day
Then emerged, and had later died.
It seemed that a curse lay on that house
There was something in the air,
A sense of sin that had lain within
Caught up in the word, ‘despair’.

The more that I glimpsed of Abigail,
The more that my heart would leap,
I’d stand and stare on the corner there
And I’d sometimes hear her weep.
I’d hear the drone of that dry old crone
As she snapped and snarled at her,
‘A man is a fret that you’ll soon regret,
There’s a thousand more out there.’

I finally braved the woman’s wrath
And beat on their old front door,
I knew she wouldn’t invite me in
But hoped that her mood would thaw.
‘I’m coming to call on Abigail,’
I cried, and I pushed on past,
And racing across the hallway floor
I ran up the stairs, at last.

Abigail stood and smiled at me
With her grandmother aghast,
She took me out to the balcony,
I thought that the dye was cast.
I said that I’d seen her from afar
On the balcony above,
‘I want you to know I’m here to show
That I’ve fallen for you, in love.’

‘And I’ve watched you from above,’ she said,
‘I saw the love in your eyes,
I knew that you would finally come
So it’s not a great surprise.’
At this the crone had mounted the stairs,
I finally saw her smile,
She carried a platter for us to eat,
‘Some sweets, will you stay awhile?’

Abigail tied them up in a cloth
To take when I left that night,
Some cherry whirls, and peppermint twirls
And chunks of Turkish Delight,
She scribbled a note that she placed within
And she’d underlined it twice,
‘Whatever you do, I’m telling you,
Don’t eat the Coconut Ice.’

It seems that the sweets were all home made
In the kitchen under the stair,
‘My grandmother takes great pride in these,
But still, you’d better beware.’
At home I unwrapped them carefully
And I checked the Coconut Ice,
The smell was bitter like almonds so
I took Abigail’s advice.

The chemist confirmed that cyanide
Was part of the recipe,
The police arrested the grandmother
And now Abigail is free.
I wish I could say she stayed with me
But she went with Raymond Bryce,
So there was a lesson learned, you see,
I never touch Coconut Ice.

David Lewis Paget
Terry Collett May 2015
Abigail Abthing drew breath like water,
Breathed in the cold frost of morning.
Abigail knew pain like an old friend,

Knew its bite that gnawed her bones.
Always trust. Never leave it to others,
She’d say, gripping her hands together,

Biting her lips, closing her eyes.
Abigail knew cancer; knew its false promise.
Trust to none, but He who loves,

She said, feeling the burning
In her heart and head.
Abigail knew time was near,

Knew the knocking at the door
Was death; drew her last breath
Like a long forgotten word.
An old poem. Part of the collected poems just out as an e book called: DEEP SOUTH AND MID WEST POEMS.
Outside Words  Sep 2018
ABIGAIL
Outside Words Sep 2018
On a gusty autumn night
Another husband was swept,
Somber under the porch light,
Abigail watched and wept.

No men were happy,
As they dealt with poor Abby –
Day in and day out,
So miserable and naggy.

Nine is such a tender age
For a father to leave his daughter,
In horror, Abby waved,
Her mind underwater.

Crimes of parents, what a shame
Those with good ones count your blessings,
Lest we forget little Abby’s pain
And teach our children similar lessons.
© Outside Words
Abigail sweet Abigail, Your beauty is overwhelming, your future a loving one with family of no better mix. Your small fingers and tiny hands so young, so sweet, such bliss, how blessed to welcome you to our family mix.
Abigail sweet Abigail, so lucky to be you to be loved by so many for only being you!
Andrew T  Jan 2017
Breakfast
Andrew T Jan 2017
For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.

— The End —