10-02-2010, 11:54 PM
the library windows,
tall and narrow like models, expose
the willow's diseased hands, and I sit here composing
a poem for you, my father's tragic wives.
I examine - like a young soldier
his fallen comrade's diaries, knowing that where they went,
and died, their limbs scattered across the sands,
he too will soon be sent -
my memories of you, a pair of mermaids with long hair,
hiding scales underneath your denim jeans,
black slacks, and pound shop skirts.
mother, you queen of the
pill cabinet,
Samantha, you toy of the
Frinton shore,
how did you meet the same dull man,
as solid and whole
as my mum's china clowns,
with a tongue mean and viscious
like an alcoholic's breath?
in detective stories I once read,
inheritance meant increased wealth;
men killed their families for dough,
but what could you give me?
plentiful disorder, yes, self-loathing,
rage, ego problems,
a penchant for lying, pointlessly, and an
obsession with sex.
but whereas you were beautiful,
I seemed doomed to chastity
through my giant's appetite,
my pallid, mole-strewn flesh,
like a white mattress cover
left too long on the line,
so it accumulates mould
and much rain.
when I eat I come alive,
the taste of chicken, bread,
burgers, fried fish
and chips and chocolate cake,
monopolises
my senses, like love or death
or even joy, joy as plain
as a prom queen,
with her standard curls
and teenage breasts.
you two had prozac,
drink, and drugs, sex with men
and other vice, and I,
I have my gluttony, sewn to my breast
like a big scarlet "G."
inheritence will never die,
not when it lives inside our genes,
but how we deal with it changes
(though the outcome just doesn't,
I fear.)
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe


Yeah, I'm not fond of that whole final stanza, really. I thought the poem needed a summation of what the point was, but it didn't turn out so well.