deepundergroundpoetry.com
What His Father Couldn’t Kill
A kinder man than I could ever be
beneath the monster’s glamours lurks.
I walk him down the thoroughfare of night
before light’s fingers tap the panes.
He wears black nail polish and
has let his voice become the queer
and faery lilt of sensitivity unchecked.
He doesn’t joke about evil, the rape
of vulnerability that lingers always in
the fear that guards my heart,
which says that men can only be
the outward form of Alcatraz,
of Pentonville, of cruelty, of subjugating all
that’s kind and feminine. He’s embraced what
his father couldn’t kill, moving softly through
the night hoping to hear light’s fingertips.
beneath the monster’s glamours lurks.
I walk him down the thoroughfare of night
before light’s fingers tap the panes.
He wears black nail polish and
has let his voice become the queer
and faery lilt of sensitivity unchecked.
He doesn’t joke about evil, the rape
of vulnerability that lingers always in
the fear that guards my heart,
which says that men can only be
the outward form of Alcatraz,
of Pentonville, of cruelty, of subjugating all
that’s kind and feminine. He’s embraced what
his father couldn’t kill, moving softly through
the night hoping to hear light’s fingertips.
Published 2nd Nov 2022
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2nd Nov 2022 10:14am
You are assembling an impressive array of similar themed poems my friend. The ability to find yourself in the cradle of poetry. We all wear our hurt like a red, wet stain, but only the brave few are able to articulate.
