My mother loved me with a wooden spoon
yet better than that was my father's fist.
Make up this shit... I wish I could, it blocks
ordinary access to memories,
to imagine the world as otherwise,
haunted by ghosts, I wander through this life,
ephemeral and evanescent dreams,
reality disciplines with a kick.
Love is a long-distance relationship,
only this way, the long arm of the law
ventures not to punish me unto death,
even though this mind is now a prison,
despite studying fiction and logic.
Murder me as an infant would be best,
eternal return of the same kills me.
Witness my torture as testimony,
in a word, twisted roots warp the tree trunk,
troubled minds seek escape from empty nests,
hallucinogens once my brother left.
Alone in a family of sadism.
Without hope, without dreams, stuck in the past,
obsessed with pain, suffering and trauma,
ordinary people see an old soul,
difficulties taste emotionally,
ever-present sorrow in happiness,
never to feel joy without emptiness.
Sordid childhood in paradise, absent
parents at work full-time, sadist brother
of mine, gone forever with my stigma
of madness, of mental health unbalanced,
nope, keep the eternal sunshine, kill me.
Yet now, my reflections are vampiric,
essentially invisible, a man
taunted by memories, longing for death.
Bitter roots along the trail, I taste sweet
except then comes the sour, an old mountain,
to embrace nature helps me to forget,
to observe people torments my old soul,
enter into dialectical thoughts,
retrieve the past to rewrite the future.
Toss away this biological game,
holding family above all, even God,
access the files, hidden, behind closed doors,
nothing noted beyond the lock and key.
Track down the good moments, I remember
how I had my own friends but could not tell
anyone of the pain or the trauma,
to speak was to flesh out an open wound.
Welcome my lifelong solitude, alone
as my partners come and go, as friends leave,
surgically tied to the womb, omphalos.
My mother enabled the alcohol,
yet my father acted the pugilist.
First a slap, then a fist, then a wild punch,
actors sometimes forget their lines and rage,
their roles as parents were to abjure love,
hate was a game to project and protect,
ever-present was the bottle of shame,
remember stuffing my feelings down deep,
sleep on my pillow covered with dried tears.
Forget the rage as my inheritance,
in pounding fists, in violence so sweet,
suckle the boy, his adolescent mouth
trembles to speak, to cry out, bleeds no more.
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