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
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,