A Cold Bastard
The poison lingers on my lips
like salivation, uncontrolled,
and waiting to ruin everyoneís day.
I get it from my dad, I say,
which certainly isnít a lie.
But really, ugliness is me,
as near the Divine as I get.
Some people reach it perfectly,
projecting only thoughts and deeds
to make an angel blush
redder than a teenager,
on watching with his parents that
scene in the movie where
the leads take off their clothes.
That isnít me.
Sarcasm, and bitterness,
the lowest form of wit:
My dadís an Enfant Terrible
even in his latter years.
Without ever meaning to be,
his words are like thumbscrews,
cat oínines, and other such playthings
with which to sing the blues
in tones of cackling laughter.
Paraphilia, divorce, crimes of war
and wretched hate, the broken whore
of life in all its vicious modes...
itís always, always ripe for jokes.
And I donít want to be a cold,
offensive, mean bastard
(given that bastards donít have dads
and mine, however flawed, will do).
Iíd like to be a comfort and a joy.
But sheer grotesquerie can be
its own strange alchemy,
and we donít notice flowers less,
nor turn away from art,
just because the cut of our jib
is lined with razorblades.