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MOTHER: WHORE

April 25, 2018

It’s nigh on time,

It was ….

The time to change,

The time for change.

We don’t know the change we seek,

We sit and wile away hours, in protest.

In protest of what, they ask,

We have no response.

There is no response,

Our brethren went down.

For the cause, of fools,

They look at the damage caused.

We look at the wounded,

That they wounded.

Yes: the damage was our doing,

And so what? You’re wrong.

You’re wrong in your ivory towers,

And of course some lay wounded.

How long could you have stayed?

Would you’ve been allowed to stay?

Fighting for you know not,

Protesting erroneously, extraneously.

Every protest is a folly,

The police out in force.

The police ridiculing,

The young and all.

Did the police ever protest?

In their youth and all?

Do they still, in free moments?

Paraphernalia, propaganda.

Paternalism. It’s all wrong,

Say the protesters.

We’re too old to understand,

They sit in private halls.

Privately owned halls,

Surprised, by all.

Surprised by the price,

Look! The beauty!

Today is a grey day,

Her wedding day: grey.

Her wedding night: bloody,

We kill for love.

We refuse to leave,

To leave hostile places.

Once, we learnt here,

Now, we pay the price.

But, who will pay the price?

Certainly not the felons.

Twenty years plus ten grand,

Ten grand on a prisoner’s wage!

We laugh, behind our bars,

We talk of our crimes.

We snicker at wardens,

In the infirmary we molest nurses.

In the hospital we are guilty,

The doors are guarded.

But not the windows,

A crude rope: freedom!

On suicide watch,

They clothe me.

They feed me,

Softly, softly. No surprises.

A surprise could kill here,

In this windowed cell.

Suicide or years,

Involuntary death.

Strung up by a crude rope,

But (!), they drugged me!

They strung me up!

Perform a drug test!

A DNA test:

He’s not my father.

After all these years, no more,

No more father, but mother ….

A whore, as we say,

She does as I did.

Here, we speak of another,

She does as I did –

I see their point,

But I’m not implicit.

She, however, is,

This amuses me.

But, she cares, she worries,

This moves me.

I long for her touch,

Her fine features.

Her smooth complexion,

She’ll play and sing to me.

On a guitar, her strange voice,

Strained. I’ll stroke her hair.

Her hair, black. Clothed in black,

Impassioned, yesterday …. she was.

I was glad to see it,

And saddened, and rendered suicidal.

But, this feeling is never far,

Never far from mind.

Who, then, fathered me?

A John, as we say.

Will I ever know him?

Most unlikely.

I need no father,

Mother, whore, suffices.

Every morning, again ….

Frontal lobe, it’s numb.

It numbs me,

Send me to bed.

Back to bed,

Why do I arise at all?

To take antidepressants,

Then, I await the next dose.

And it comes earlier,

Earlier than was expected.

My brain, a mess,

It will never function again.

Function normally,

I’m fine: last words.

Come for me when I call,

They come, for a panic attack.

They leave, displeased,

I smile to have annoyed.

But panic remains, never far,

The doctor speaks of poetry.

And of poets …. my poetry,

This helps no one, few.

Few see the upside,

But I’m a frequent visitor.

He, my only friend,

Apart from mother: whore.

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