Old Man Bill

Old Man Bill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old man Bill,

Ever since I was a boy, there

was an old man in my life who

came and went with poisonous

tongue and fists of steel.

 

The whiskey and beer flowed in his veins

as tobacco ringed his soul and whiffs of it,

could be smelled throughout

our nights of hell.

 

Blood stained shirts were left on

the bathroom floor, for mom to pick up

and clean by hand, with ringer washer hands

and scrubbed bare knuckles, bent over in shame.

 

Sometimes puke was left clinging

to the toilet bowls and blood was mixed

inside, spawned from his cancerous soul, and

piss was left not in the toilet bowl.

 

He slammed the doors and

slurred his words cussing, wobbling

knees, and bumping into tables

and chairs trying to find his way

to another shot of whiskey or beer,

he pulled from secret places

hid under the floor.

 

Children slept yet woken in

beds confused by cursing tongue,

we cried in fear,

and pulled the blanket further

up over our heads, and prayed

he would not enter our room to

pick someone to play

his filthy game of abuse.

 

The froth flowed from the side

of his wretched lips, like a rabid dog

needing his fix of colored pills

he hid under the stinking mattress,

stained with piss,to stoned to get

to the bathroom so he slept in it

with his shit.

 

Mother would bow to his will and

feed him bacon, eggs and blood sausage,

the smell was rancid and made me ill

to see him feed, his gut that hung over

his belt like a fattened

walrus going to slaughter.

 

Not a day or night went by that

I wished for his demise that he would

find a knife stuck like a pig, while drinking

his ale at the local bar, and is found

in the alley where he belonged

among the infested diseased laden

rats that licked on his swill.

 

This old man scarred and pocked faced

and given the name Old Bill, was a demon

who terrorized our young lives?

and brought us nothing but pain

with the yelling of four letter words

a constant companion within our paper

thin walls of tormented shame.

 

He found the end of his rope when

we matched him up in a prison cell to

those who found him a child molester

no more who deserved what he got

to be choked to death for the

taking sweet innocence of the

poor children he abused without remorse.

 

To all the children in our world

who fear their safety and hide

in their nightmares from Old

men like Bill then find some solace

knowing that he will leave in

the end kicking and screaming as he is

dragged by his heels to the bowels of Hell

and freedom will finally be yours

and Angels will sing praises and

hallelujah from God’s throne on High

All for the Sake of the children.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

8 thoughts on “Old Man Bill

  • August 27, 2018 at 7:23 PM
    Permalink

    Sad but beautifully penned with emotive phrasing and stark imagery. Well done Vincent. Cheers!

    Reply
    • August 27, 2018 at 9:51 PM
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      Indeed the imagery was stark for very young eyes and minds. We lived through this brutal demons fury and vowed never to treat another human being as he did to our family. This happens all too often in families where alcohol is prominent and easily consumed by reckless animals such as he. Appreciate your comment Tony.

      Reply
  • August 27, 2018 at 9:39 PM
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    Very well penned, Vincent. I remember reading this long ago and it is still just as emotive as the first time. Well done, my friend.

    Reply
    • August 27, 2018 at 9:52 PM
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      Thank you Phyllis, it’s one that I remember writing with a very disturbed soul. I appreciate your reading it once again. Cheers.

      Reply
  • August 28, 2018 at 2:31 AM
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    Vincent, Old Man Bill lived in my house also. I walked in the same shoes and slept in fear in that same bed. Nothing good has ever came from someone who abuses the drink. You either have to follow the same path as our Bill’s to try and cope or you learn to rise above all the misery and trail blaze your own path. In my case I have never drank.

    Reply
    • August 28, 2018 at 7:10 AM
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      I’m sorry to hear that your had such a demon as an Old Man Bill ruling in your home as a boy Kurt. Living in fear and tear filled nights was horrible. I remember it all to well, huddling with my siblings under a bed in fear with tears running down our cheeks. I vowed to my mother when I was a child that I would never treat a woman or child like we’ve been treated. I lived out that promise, never lifting my hand to either. Although I have had drink in my life I was always a moderate drinker, new my limits and kept my fists to myself unless provoked by another man. I’ve lived a pretty decent life except for not being able to keep a marriage together, but I’ve lived with that as well and in my senior years have accepted my reclusive conditions. I’ve loved and lost like many, but I’m left with great memories my friend. Thank you for sharing and your comments on this piece. May all children and mothers never have to go through what you and I have Kurt.

      Reply
  • August 31, 2018 at 1:21 PM
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    Sad story indeed. Such a bad addiction which usually gets coupled with violence. Monsters like that deserve so much worse than what they normally get. Sorry you had to live with such a nightmare.

    Reply
  • August 31, 2018 at 11:01 PM
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    Thankfully it’s all in my past Paul, although much of it comes back to haunt me from time to time. Some things in this life a vivid mind can never put aside entirely. I’m just happy that me and my siblings all survived this monster. He died in a prison cell, strangled to death with his own filthy tee shirt. No tears were ever shed for this demon, his soul belongs back in hell where it came from.

    Reply

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