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Mother, you are not beautiful
Father, you are not quick.
Mother, you are not full of ardour
Father, your heels are chipped.
Gods, divine – what were you thinking
Granting the wish of this butchered maid?
Using our gangly ether as fibre,
Constructing your threaded, curvaceous abortion,
Weeping contortion of the anima and animas,
As wholly untrue as same-side magnets in marriage,
Or is it?
My Lord.

She was not sharp, not in Artemis’s band,
But persistent enough to shave an arrow,
Though she lacks a bow, which must be why
She grabbed my breast with her ghostly claws
To pluck my strings, my empirical things, so
With the wish, like some credit-card exchange
She quick-fix downloads into my flesh
Now as good as glittering sewage;
The spam-filled waters only serve to
Emulate.
My Lord. 

She was vain;
I’ll have you know, for she did stare
Lovingly into the ruby pools that kissed her ashen
Crinkly toes, she admired her own,
Absent expression
In the concluding puddle – bloody droplets clinging to
The puerilely snipped toe-nails-
Why not display, and make haste
A crystal display on your social network;
She is not the victim here,
I am the prey
My Lord. 

Mother, make sure that they are-
Father, cursed in the same way-
Mother, if they are to step-
Father, into that dreaded lake.