For Dverse


OUT OUT OUT, damned spot!

Don’t you know we want you not?

You can’t come into my parlor

with your unseemly squalor.

We don’t see fit

to have you sit

amongst our caste genteel.

We care not how you feel;

don’t sully us with likes of you.

Begone! Begone! I never knew

what serpent vile

we nursed and all the while

you  darkened our door;

You drank and you swore

and laid with the men

while you lived in sin.

Shame shame shame my vile

unrepentant child!

Some day you will come

A’begging  me for some

TLC, and all you’ll see

is my  back turned on thee.

We don’t care

what you bare.

You can cry and you can beg

and show your pretty nyloned leg,

and though I know it’s very sad,

young lady you’ve been very bad!







About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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18 Responses to LOCKED OUT

  1. lillian says:

    “and show your pretty nyloned leg” Love this bit of reality here.
    Interesting take on the prompt! So glad to see you here this evening.


  2. whimsygizmo says:

    I like the voice you take on in this. 🙂


  3. young lady you’ve been very bad!…. shades of Mae West here, ha


  4. Bryan Ens says:

    Wow! A naughty girl indeed!


  5. vronlacroix says:

    A door keeps out the undesired. Your poem expresses this with humour.


  6. Sanaa Rizvi says:

    Love the powerful voice that rings through this poem 🙂


  7. Kind of sad, a parent rejecting a child who is messed up. Guess that’s why I like the story of the prodigal son’s father.


  8. Please forgive her!!


  9. Grace says:

    Love the scolding voice, yikes ~


  10. SMiLes..
    girls bore
    now most
    for FREE
    don’t stop
    with the first
    dogs begging
    for bones at the door..
    DiVersiTy.. iT’s what God
    has fOr DiNner aFter aLL iS
    The trUtH anD
    liGht don’T giVe
    an F whAt thE
    F hUman books thInk..
    hehe.. bet i aT lEast lose one
    so-called followeR
    for this little
    i shine
    oF Truth JEWeL
    but Jesus.. ‘they’..
    the whore dogs..
    Neutered Jesus..
    noW thaT waS aN ulTiMate
    sIN oF ForEver fOr MaKinG liFe REAL..:)


  11. PSC says:

    LOL Funny! And I was certain it was a puppy (despite the swearing)… until the nyloned leg appeared. 🙂


  12. ladynyo says:

    It has humor, but it is also sad….rejection for any reasons always is sad, and usually points to a cabal of narcissism. But that is not to detract from your poem…it was good.


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