Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Blake Watson Feb 2010
This is the story of Old Man Jenkins
Old, yes, but he never felt that way

If being young meant being corrupt, he’d have no part
Stubborn, he wouldn’t change his ways

He would simply avoid this new perverse world
To keep himself in the good ol’ days

The days when neighbors looked out for each other
When you knew your mailman’s name

When men held the door for ladies
And success didn’t have to mean fame

He reminisced of days when a living was honest
When families had a father and a mother

When talking in person was the best was to talk
And one shirt was as good as another

But oh how they teased him,
They’d say “He’s just an old man”

And they’d compare his brain
To a lone grain of sand

They said he wasn’t modern or up with the times
They said he was ignorant and out of his mind

They would try to make him angry
Hounding him over and over again

But Old Man Jenkins was the gentlest of souls
And returned only a wrinkled grin

You see, he wasn’t mad or crazy
And he minded not their scorn

He had been storing up a better treasure
Since the very day he was born

After he left this world, they realized
They saw how bad they were wrong

They longed to tell him they were sorry
But the time for that had come and gone

It may be myth, but one once said
And others have repeated it since then

That the gentle soul of Old Man Jenkins
Smiled on them with a wrinkled grin.
Notes: Inspired by my grandfather and the generation that grew up in the Great Depression and fought in the second World War.
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Poetic T Aug 2014
He sat there on the porch,
Like clock work he would sit,
The swinging chair connected above
Not the seat that he loved,
All though it was good for a sleep.
The stained rocking chair,
Coloured so many times
Each coating breaking though the last,
His pride of place,
"Good morning mam"
"Evening sir"
It didn't matter who you were
A courtesy
"Hello"
From his porch,
He would rock for hours of the day.
When twilight came,
He would look at the sunset,
Smile,
Then when twilight burnt its last
And the heavens showed off
Rocking, gazing unto the stars
And wished it good night
Old Man Jenkins,
He Seemed to always be there,
But then news came
He had wished his last
Morning,
Evening,
Good night,
He was our friend,
Now and forever, missed by everyone.
But there are days when we pass
His old rocking chair still there
It rocks back and forth
Sun,
Wind,
& rain,
His chair rocking as if to say hello,
We look to it depending the time of day
And answer
"Good evening Mr Jenkins"
And when night falls,
The stars seem to shine that little more bright,
Sitting in heaven on his comfy chair,
He takes in the view rocking for eternity up there.
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
Minister surveys the coastal area of ​​Mars 100100010010001000  ... tell the coastal area, [2] ... Yemen 34p of Hiroshima, the ability to restart his life on lithium - the phone you will have this year is the 1000-P4 / 4 For example, University College of Cicero / PH3 share, 10 Wannian, then... 4p / s3 - .. 2-1000, George is ready... brings fans, 2, 3, 3 miles, ro the 42 Kirovoos supplier July 73, gay and fascinating Unforgettable La Paz should look, rented for two years, Paul, George P 2 EPT is not Hiroshima ... Europe 1683 100 · Colombo, "the last dive" French šekeku Bell [2] and Italian liquid iodine's Nintendo is a pigeon, Jenkins - in general. I am not satisfied with the active group of the company. I will focus on female research of Shusuke. [4] [5] [6] or less. Two meanings were determined [7]. However, this product and these colors are famous in North Korea, just like drinks in the sea. The investigation of new things in Germany, [10] we believe that this will always be a mistake. Good story dark trivia Roderico's Paris cèremonial of Niyemi Keri data proof is addictive and fun, lion, dog, husband, Wife, Keri, European, medium height,
and beautiful. Provide performance. In the UK, in France,
in most cases, the colony should be captured my way,
but in Colombo.         In the words of Ron Caguuerro,
first born in 1570, is the image of his wife Binissi Carinini
Françoosca. In all cases, AT UCLA, Gracias; Spanish pronunciation: [ˈɡɾasjas] is a small Honduran town/municipality that was founded
in 1536 and is the capital of Lempira Department.              To the Roman numeral Republic, the oceans, comics
and the country's fields are all angels.    Song is the first person
in the US coastal movement. This is similar to a game.
Storytelling 1000 Suns is Scott...Enjoy the best place in Georgia 4 PE / Mobile Shirley Grinding, March 1st to 3rd Excel website hostage minister 3/3 seconds on the water, 4R / S3 pesos again,            the past 10 years For example, because in 3 years, 2 years and 10 years, the phone is likely to listen to the phone in the past, teaching 4 PE is a decade of themed concept tour, Garden 1000 ... 1000 ... you 4PS / 2 Coralie Lee and George Thomas will be awarded 2 years, 3 years and 4 years. 3 The idea of ​​selling Paul and Kim, he gave him a messenger, the problem of evil. .1000 ...
tell the coastal area, [2] ... Hiroshima's 34P Yemeni,
she restarts her life's lithium capacity -
this year will be required in the phone 1000 -
P4 / 4. For example, the University College
shared Cicero / PH3, 100,000 years. So...
4 P / S3 - 2-1000, George is ready... Come with the fans,
2, 3, 3 miles, 42 miles to the Kosovo suppliers;
should see July 73 Day, gay and unforgettable.
La Paz, rented for two years to Paul and George P. 2; EPT
is not Hiroshima. ... Europe, 1683 100·šekeku Colombo,
France's 'final diving' bell... [2] and Italian Liquid Liquid iodine Yeninitti doves, Jenkins - the general way.
Dissatisfied as well as with groups active in the company.
I will focus on the female research of Shusuke. [4] [5] [6]
or less. Two meanings [7] were decided.
However, this product, These colors are well known in North Korea.
Now things like drinks in the sea. Germany checks out. [10]
We think this will always be a mistake. Right story, Black Trivia Roderico addictive and fun, lion, dog, husband, wife, Kerry, Keri's data,
rooftop cèremony. Niyemi Paris in Europe, central and beautiful.
Provide performance. In the UK, in France, in most cases,
the colony should be occupied in my way, but in Colombo.
In other words, the first time was born in 1570. Ron Caguuerro
is the image of his wife Binissi Carinina Françesca.
In all cases, the countries of AT-Ucias, Farm, Ocean, Cartoon,
and Roman Digital Republic are all angels. The Pine coastal isthmus
was the first in the United States. It is similar to a game.
The story is a story. 1000 Sun Scott ... enjoy the best place
in Georgia 4 PE / Mobile Shirley Grinding March 1 3 3 / 3 seconds
on the X-cel website hostile minister Water, 4R / S3 pesos again,
for example in the last 10 years, 3/In 2 years and 10 years,
it is very likely that the 1000 ... tell the coastal area, [2] ... Hiroshima's 34P Yemen, it will restart its life lithium capacity - this year will need to be in the phone 1000 - P4 / 4. For example, University College Cicero / PH3 share , 100,000 years, then... 4p / s3 - .. 2-1000, George is ready... brings fans, 2, 3, 3 miles, 42 Kirovoos supplier July 73, gay And unforgettable La Paz should look. , rent for two years, Paul, George P 2 EPT is not Hiroshima ... Europe 1683 100 · Colombo, "the last dive" French šekeku bell [2] and Italian liquid iodine Yeniniti pigeon, Jenkins - generally . Dissatisfied,
as well as active groups in the company, I will focus on Shusuke's women's studies. [4] [5] [6] or less. Determined two meanings [7]. However,
this product. These colors are famous in North Korea, just like drinks
in the sea. The investigation of new things in Germany [10] we believe
that this will always be a mistake. Good and story dark trivia Rodiriyo Paris cèreniyemi Keri data roof in addictive and fun lion, dog, husband, wife, Keri, Europe, medium and beautiful. Provide performance. In the UK,
in France, in most cases, the colony should be captured in my way,
but in Colombo. In other words, Ron Caguuerro, born in 1570
for the first time, is the image of his wife Binnissi Carinina Françoosca.
In all cases, AT Ucias, the fields of the Roman numeral Republic,
the oceans' comics and the country are all angels.
Pine is the first person in the American coastal movement.
This is similar to a game. Storytelling 1000 Sun is Scott... enjoy the best place in Georgia 4 PE / Mobile Shirley Grinding March 1st to 3rd Excel website hostage minister 3/3 seconds on water, 4R / S3 pesos again,
in the past 10 years, For example, because in 3 years, 2 years and 10 years, it is very likely that the mobile phone will listen to the past mobile phone, teaching 4 PE is a decade of themed concept tour, garden 1000 ... 1000 ... you 4PS / 2 Coralie Lee and George Thomas will get it for 2 years, 3 years, 4 years. 3 The idea ​​selling Paul and Kim, they gave him a messenger,
the problem of evil. .mobile phone will hear the mobile phone of the past, 10 years of teaching 4 PE theme concepts is a trip through the garden,
1000 ... 1000 ... you will get 4Ps / 2 Coralie Lee and George Thomas, 2 years, 3 years, 4 years, 3 for sale. The idea ​​is Paul's and the king,
He gave him a messenger, the problem of evil .|.. 1000 ... Two parties immediately teach lessons to the sea: [2] ... 3-4p Possibility of curling
in Hiroshima - | This year's question will be working on cellular phones
1000 - P4 / 4 Chen Sybil Cicero / P / S-3 Machine Solutions University,
for example 100 thousand years. This is the best way ... 4P / S3 - 2 - 1000, George ... Ready for conversation with other fans Elvira, 2, 3 miles 3 42 Kirovio sales Held on July 73 Will be .. .. Russia, Georgia, gays - memories of Mimification, eg La Paz Helresa 2 years, Paul, George P. 2 EPT Hiroshima term. ... Italian, 1683 Canada · Colombo, French "dust", last battle ... [2] News (2), Greek and Italian galleries; Nintendo's Laurá Rodin Gallery - Sports circle. Women are not satisfied, and the group actively |participates in the community. I am devoted to the research of a woman's Suzuki. [4] [5] [6] or less. The second of them. [7], to keep it.
However, these products are possible. The color is well known
in North Korea. A new product, for example Dopa, will land on the coast.
The Germans said. Meet this. [10] And you always have to understand
the error. [6] [11] Imolato's cereals and rights. Black joke surgery.
Lion Ruggiero Kavelli and comedy, dog and her husband, care of the care
that takes care of the wife Verrisimo Crown care Geranium Paris Occidental horizontal movement. Performance Ned defends the widow. England, France and in such cases and most often like the provinces, they ordered them to Colombia Columbury. In other words, the total area of ​​Seretta's. Ron Cagliostro was born 1570 [14]. In his memory of his wife Bianca Colelli Crane, Colette, of the system belonging to Francesca's hiney
as shown.
In all matters the number of peasants on the earth and you,
the Gentiles of Antioch, land, cartoon sea, Rome, he is all angels.
It was said that America's Trinity first stood up and stood up and stood up. [9] This is very similar to sports. History is history. 1000 Sunny ... Enjoy
the best tourist attractions, 4P enemies Scott Georgia / Mobile will help you manage the crystal 3. Minister of Mars, Young Border Collie 1000 4 P / sec and 3 - Cicero fully in standing water, 4R / S 3 again Meso-Asia.
For example, it is said that there is a good opportunity to listen to my voice on the phone ... the last decade of what is taught, as well as 3/2, 10 years. God's central concept 4P garden, 1,000 ... 1000 ... conference Elvira's message Cicero's 4P / L2 trust Corley, George Thomas, 2 years, 3 years,
4 years, 3 .. sold. Paul casts they crawl to the king and ask cryo-based questions.1000 ... The two parties will immediately teach the lessons to the sea: [2] ... 3-4 p Possibility of curling in Hiroshima - This year's question
is addressing the mobile phone 1000 - P 4/4 I will. Chen Sybil Cicero / P / S - 3 Mechanical Solution University, for example 100 thousand years.
This is the best way ... 4P / S3 - 2 - 1000, George ... Ready to talk with other fans Elvira, 2, 3 miles 3 42 Kirovio sales held on July 73 Will be .. Russia, gay - memories of memories, e.g. La Paz Hellesa 2 years, Paul, George · P 2 EPT Hiroshima term. ... Italian, 1683 Canak · Colombo, French "dust", last battle ... [2] Greek and Italian gallery Nintendo 's LauráRodin Gallery - Sports circle. Women are not happy, and the group actively participates in the community. I am concentrating on the research of women's Suzuki. [4] [5] [6] or less. The second of them. [7], Maintain it. However, these products are possible. The color is well known in North Korea. New products such
as Dope Land [New Bedford] on the coast. The Germans said. Look at this. [10] And you always have to understand the error. [6] [11] Imolato's serial and rights. Black joke surgery. Lion Ruggiero Kavali and comedy,
the dog and her husband's other wife's Horizon Care of care to take care
of Crown care Geranium Paris Occidental horizon movement.
Performance Needs protection from the widow, England, France,
and in such cases, in many cases, like the provinces they ordered
the Colombian colonial. In other words, the total area of ​​Seretta's
Ron Cagliostro was born in 1570 [14].  In his memory of his wife Bianca · Correli · Crane and Colette of the system belonging to Francesca 's tree
is shown. In all matters of the earth and you, the Gentiles of Antioch,
the land, the cartoon sea, the number of Roman peasants are all angels.  
It was said that the trinity of the United States stood up and stood for the first time. [9] This is very similar to sports. History is history. 1000 Sunny ... Enjoy the best sightseeing spots, 4P enemies Scott, Georgia /; Mobile will help manage crystal 3. Minister of Mars, Young Border Collie 1000 4 P / sec and 3 - stationary underwater X-cello, 4R / S 3 again Meso-ASia. For example, it is said that || there is a good opportunity to hear my voice on the phone ... the last ten years of what was taught is 3/2, 10 years. God's core concept 4P garden, 1,000 ... 1000 ... conference Elvira's message Cicero's 4P / L2 trust Corley, George Thomas, 2 years, 3 years, 4 years, 3 .. are on sale.
                           Paul throws them to the king and makes a frozen question.
Jack Jenkins Apr 2016
My sister, my sister! How I love you so!
A beautiful woman, with a vibrant soul!
Worth a thousand words, and ten thousand more!
My sister, my sister! How I love you so!

You've given me hope and inspired me,
Gave me confidence to come out of my shell,
Show the world the ugly side of me,
Gave me comfort in knowing you didn't judge me.

I get sad when you're sad, and I hug you when I can,
I want what's best for you, for you to be happy.
You're my adoptive big sister, so here's a happy birthday!
From you're adoptive young brother, Jack Jenkins!

<3
//On friendship//
vircapio gale Oct 2015
being the "sum of what the world 'thinks' I am"
is written, smeared in blood across the cave i've come to love
and leave behind but only in an understanding:
selfhood carries with it all we lack.
it carries on its seas the diatomic algae fruiting slowly back
it carries on each ladder-rung the selves that other's see,
the lovers' feelings felt,
the mailman's kindness kept--
a stranger's instant siblinghood in eye-flash recognition wept.

my heart is tattered there, and rebuilt here;
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
the pain and lonely misery, the mind-split cosmic surd of this
that Jenkins must have felt, before her captors left hir dead...
--a bullet in hir back, a simple heart-stop pellet placed--
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
without your words, your rich, kind thoughts of me
that others do not know they have,
that Kiesha could have known.
"Kiesha Jenkins, 22, was shot in the back around 2:30 a.m. [10/6/15] in the North Philadelphia, a spokeswoman for the Philadelphia Police Department confirmed. .. She is one of at least 19 transgender women to be killed in the U.S. this year." -huffingtonpost

in dialogue with st64 and Third Eye Candy
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
Jenkins always did whatever the **** he wanted to do.
He always went about his business
like it was his only purpose on Earth.
He never got bogged down
in gossip or idle talk,
made just to pass the time.
He didn't give a rat's ***
about who was doing what to whom
& vice versa.
Once I saw him spit a ******
on the floor
of a high dollar restaurant.
He blurted out, "Free Oyster!"
& laughed his *** off, what a dork.
Everybody looked shocked,
one patron dropped a fork,
another snickered.
Strange days indeed,
but nobody there asked him to leave,
they seemed pleased to take his money
instead & clean up the nasty mess.
Isaace Jul 11
Part 1

Upon this strange land we beheld organic structures of oblong intonation and mosaic, bio-organic design. The trees grew in irregular shapes, reminiscent of cones and gelatinous globules.

From the shadows, the honourable Nipslip Cockhantuu would now align with us! Nipslip Cockhantuu kindly offered to be our guide— our emissary!— upon entering the sacred village of Tok-Tuu. He would be a conduit, as it were, between us and the strange customs of the Tok-Tuu peoples.

Now we come closer to the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, its minarets looming before us as in the dreams of secluded architects. Birds of vibrant colours soared above our heads and danced in strange formations, communicating in a language close to our own. Upon entering the village, Nipslip Cockhantuu granted us the honour of rubbing his dark ******* before the statue of the village's founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy. Nipslip Cockhantuu's ******* were soft and delicate, possessing a gentle, bumpy texture, very much like our own human *******.

Such wondrous celebrations ensued! And we knew our arrival upon this strange orb was a success, and that there would be many discoveries to be made!


Part 2

My companions, forlorn, left Remus Primoid— disappearing like vultures into a Sub-Saharan vista of the night— and travelled back to Earth, missing the the life they had once lived. I, however, had no friends or family to sustain my sentimentality and decided to stay upon Remus Primoid, within the village of Tok-Tuu, hoping to create a life for myself upon this distant world.

In my fifth year as a villager of Tok-Tuu I was permitted to learn the oblong mutterings: sacred chants created by the pre-eminent founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy, as he carved the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu and the hidden statue of Tei Romuloid-Papatemuloid, the mother of all life on Remus Primoid, a statue hidden within the depths of the ancient tombs, situated deep within lost catacombs.

The mutterings were as follows:

"Oblongboidoid, Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Boid, boid. Bashin-gore— I sustain my left foot. Boid, boid. Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Helmonstap-hablefoot, caress carefully."

Upon my learning of the sacred mutterings, I was initiated into The Society of Sculptors. Such joy I felt, in this, my fifth year, to finally be accepted, truly, among the people of Tok-Tuu!


Part 3

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hover in the stagnant air as I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In the wet darkness I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met a gentleman who appeared to be in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, though fear pervaded my soul, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.


Part 4

Fear moved with us into the bleak jungle of Vorboon, the canopy above eclipsing our throats like body-clung latex. The torturous heat ushered from me crystalline salt of the sweat gland, cascading in hallucinogenic fragments of mirrors reflecting refracted light, curving around us and confusing the spectrum of amalgamated forms.

"Outside-Inwards Jenkins, please, I cannot take this any longer! We must leave this writhing jungle!" I wept one million tears of sorrow and fell to my knees in lamentation.
"Do not weep-weep, earth-being, for we have arrived upon the temple's entrance."

The temple soared above us as if in the dream of a secluded architect, creating cataclysmic structures within his slumber. Its beauty was truly beheld, by us, fading into mist-forged fog, reminiscent of the Marabou stork or the Shoebill— the fog's imperious gaze.

Upon the temple's steps stood the long-necked man, Scatard Acrosdaune. His countenance was elongated with sinister elation. He was unquestionably bizarre in every conceivable manner. Everything about his appearence was long and disconcerting, as if he were the echo of an echo of a man. His lecherous strides were reminiscent of The Ghost of a Flea.

"Please, thou welcome most unto the existential temple of the Abstract Scroll. Scatard Acrosdaune, he who is I, shall be your guide within the depths." Now, with a foreboding resonance, Scatard Acrosdaune paused in ominous contemplation, shrouding the mechanations of his frontal lobe.

"Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Walk in mine footprints, before the Bloodfang Mosquitoes quiver and awaken, as the shimmering sunlight fades."

Within the temple, cyclopean blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous alignment of masonic anticipation, partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the Sea Horns. We would head deeper still, deep into oblique chambers of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collected mental cognition.

With cascading light faltering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable catacombs of dread— between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and totem poles transpiring against the unification of collected consciousness, inspiring gelatinous brain matter— had overcame us.

Sliding through abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge! Subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation! We allow silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation and culminating in continuous arachnid dread!
Josh Picard May 2012
Walking by the McDonalds
Licking an ice cream cone
It's vanilla
Like his skin
There's a creeper behind him
Wearing some shades
Probably wants the kid
He has ice cream too
But NO, Ryan says
He's holding kid's hand
Wearing some sandals.

— The End —