THE WANTON FOLLY OF ME MUM
Once a bad poet but a good man
my mother destroyed both
with the same fiendish barbs
and made of me voracious killer,
mindless thief and demon pawn.
Mother’s harsh words laid me low;
her sexual advances lay like butterflies
atop the cruel weight of her
rejections. But I could deal with neither.
She stood before me, pale hair glowing,
doting matron newly come to mischief
and its uses, bedeviled, dare I say,
with quite a tempting morsel
of a son. I so cared for her,
I stole her soul to gain her health,
long life and pleasures.
She cared for me as well,
and showed me so, though hence
unable to tell agape from eros,
(and what’s it matter – all just words).
Never a quick study, weird magics
and electronics intruded in my brain
before I realized what I should have
could I have only thought beyond the pain.
Once more ensouled, in nights endured
while sunlight shines outside, I cry,
a century later – with mores changed –
and poetry – with lusty cougars on the prowl
in every club and bar, and I ensorcelled
by an inappropriate passion of my own –
Mother, you loved me, I know it now
for sure, in every way your mind and body
taught you and I should have known love
to be true despite the cruel words
in which your demon
couched its benediction.
Alas, had I then but had my soul
I might have raised my hand to you
and struck with more forbearance,
and not returned to dust
the wanton folly of me Mum.