Kill the father


Cursing, I wish I could be done with you,
vomit your hairball words our common tongue
intoxicating us when we are young
the gift that’s poison, is our curing too

Even this harshness, your asperity.
You are so much alive within my head
silent when merely old, so vocal dead
Bitter white notes in which eternity

approximated, and the other lives
unlived. Regret in vicious biting tears
carve cheeks, break love. Pretend mixed nuanced years
waste. Kindness cut from mind with clever knives.

Our horrid parent, you’d wish to disown
so many poets, still your blood and bone.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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2 Responses to Kill the father

  1. That really expresses how much he sticks: thank you. I am not a poet, yet Eliot continues to haunt me in ways I find eery and often unhelpfu;. (If ‘Young men should be explorers’ how much more older women, whose youth was directed to the treadmill of serving men, or is our freedom only in perpetual contemplation of what we cannot be?)

  2. cmcmck says:

    Wasn’t it Dylan Thomas who stated that T S Eliot was an anagram of toilets?

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