lexicon lost

Page one hundred twenty-four

wandering through things lost… again… as ever

the dear, important things lost this time are words. some I rarely hear anymore… out of strangers’ mouths. some I never hear. but these words were part of the years before I was excised from my human family as if I were some kind of putrid, deadly tumor. as if I were worthless, deserving of no love, no respect, no regard. words of forty-five years. I can’t recall them all at one sitting, and so will have to edit and edit this page as lost, missed words come back to mind. words as much a part of my lost family as our meals, our furniture, our house, now also lost.


you’re standing in the way of progress

you’re a pimple on the posterior of progress

you’re giving me agitta

oh go soak your head

take a long walk off a short pier

standing there posing for animal crackers

like a fart in a windstorm

that was a doozie

that was a blinger





if he was any slower he’d be going backwards

if he had a brain he’d be dangerous

a la casa linga (sic)



licky locks

the great one

the piazza

god love ‘im


ha-past eight

clam up

go top shelf

that frosts my cookies

(more in future)


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go bron go deo

Page Ninety-seven

words from a traditional folk song. in my own life, I had this hanging on the kitchen wall. haven’t had a kitchen since, over two and a half years. haven’t had a family since. nor my own life, as I knew it for over fifty years.



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ag inse scealta liatha go deo

Page Fifty-eight

Tuesday 2 March 2010, Turners Falling Down

I have lamented before in other places — and the way I’m feeling today, lamented is not too strong a word — that most of the blogging I have had a chance to read on various websites is either adolescent or fluffy in some other way, and full of jokes (mostly bad ones). It’s true that I don’t get much computer time, and therefore not much time to read other people. But in the reading I have done, I haven’t found very much of substance.

But the stories I have, the true stories, the things I first came to the internet to write about, are neither fluffly nor badly witty nor fun. They are grey, black, sad, infuriating. And for me, there aren’t going to be any other kind. The only things I have left to tell are these grey things that just about no one wants to read. It takes some courage to read about ugly things that have happened to someone else, and it takes compassion.  I haven’t found large amounts of those things on the internet as yet, but still keep hoping (foolishly?) that at some future time, I will.

Ag inse scealta líatha go deó — cailte gan mó charaí
grá agus deora, deora agus grá, is uaigneas ró-mhór
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009 – 2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.