|Posted on September 10, 2010 at 4:19 PM|
His father thought women dumb,
Creatures to be exploited and set
Aside like soiled linen. He saw his
Mother spirit broken, take to the
Bottle and her bed, until he came
Home one day and found her in a
Bath with slit wrists, cold dead.
He sits and puffs out smoke and
Stares as it rises in an odd pattern
Upwards, then lingers, the cigarette
Held limply between two fingers.
Father was never proud of him,
Thought him too weak, too shallow,
Just like your darn mother, he’d say,
No guts, no backbone, no marrow.
His words still bite, long after the
Old fuck’s death, long after his final
Words pushed out on his last breath.
Both dead now, both equal in death’s
Claim, both ashes beneath ground,
But their spirits, if such they have
Beyond this dark coil, this cynical
Circus, he hopes will find their level.
His mother’s spirit looking down on
Him from some lofty noble height,
His father’s spirit icy cold and cruel,
Staring into chasm of the darkest night.