Present

 

The absence of support

girds all his lonely fucks,

of which there are too many.

Like a whore with her impatient cucks

she stirs her pot for life,

if any.

 

His children will be mute and void

all in-utero hope destroyed,

his post coital last cigarette

drawn to the filter of regret,

already she is out the door

the foetus on the killing floor.

 

Future

 

Don't treasure what you hate too much

you'll get a rash about your crutch,

and though you'll sense a little buzz

no-other rub will sting as much,

better yet to let it pass

to birth upon some Midnight Mass.

 

Rest your cheek well in your palm

the clench of it will do you harm,

but gild your fist before you push

there's more than fruit hangs on the bush.

Your seed is not the apples eye

your father knows the reason why.