Mothers
Walking vests bulked around me
with meals for grins and saccharine breasts
are like felt on my eyelids
when I taste the pails, sopping and ripe;
synonymous trees in name, as they solder my lips
in the virginity of a woman sewn.
She -
she who is a roach, a hysterical cub of Electra,
who sees a womb as a General,
accelerates the messy soils
of an adult in sense but not in need.
Knock-knee'd and devestated, I rise my scorpion head,
homeless,
for I have wandered stupid
and as such an arid Nimrod, bruised, empty,
but whistling for my corpse to ignite
a map like a lover's will;
Neglected, I spiral every breath like a foetus.
Jeff Dawson
Sat 26th Dec 2009 11:03
Great work Marianne, not sure I understand it all but what the hell! Great use of words though best wishes Jeff x