Unwild childless women strap up after work to walk their puissant
yapping dogs round and round and round the goddamn boring block,
gulp down quickly as prescribed by their tick tock tick-tock clocks
dry thin rye-krisp crackers with white pots of lukewarm tea for
desultory dinners just enough to keep alive at gruesome tables
where guests are rarely seated,
they later sit starched prim in pews of peeling pressed-board
inside churches of no name, pretend to worship any bland mute
and balding faggot gods who remain to bully, conquer fully
the faith-fooled dressed-up vain..
Unbeguiled tired husbands stagger and march weak-kneed
in saggy under/pants toward tiled family toilets in some sort
of weird inhuman trance,
athletes’ feet pad across Berber carpets like Bedouins on sand
as these men vacillate, grouse and rant about sour low-fat cows’
milk spilled on expensive hand-carved couches..
The moral of this poem, the story behind this song, leads one
such as you to think through well (do tell) what the hell
has gone wrong?
No comments:
Post a Comment