Dead-Heading

Did I say I was ready?

I mean … 

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Squeezing between your fingers,

In that familiar ‘pleasuring yourself’ grip;

Prepared as judge and jury to yank

From its life support;

the faded … not quite so flawless.

A small sacrifice for the supreme specimen!

YOU know what is best with an obscene certainty;

Your unflinching fingers,

That sabotage time, tell me that.

How can you be so sure that you choke wisely?

Those hands that feed your greed …

Your need to stroke and invade another’s temple.

Fingers that once enticed heaven,

To soar from handmade strings.

How can you know better than She,

What is beautiful … 

What is real …

What is worthy.

Isn’t Autumn as joyous as Spring?

Should Winter be betrayed for Summer?

Seasons, pitted against each other;

The Mother screams, as manipulated pen or sword

Slice her wrists; dig out her heart.

Are there no deliberations … second thoughts,

As your child eats and a black son dies…