or is it to his wand?–
if only fatherhood could sell my child,
what bitter winter would I endure?
May I fall in the death grip of deep snow
banked and girdled by the cold winds’ ice.
May I freeze if beloved Angel fall
under my husbandly spell and smell of men
intent on crowning themselves patriarchs.
Wand that once wove your way
into her late mother’s pouch, spill your semen
like the Torah’s Onan.
Ah, Beasley, aren’t you the right-thinking ass
off the market for a season or two
until you tire of No Man’s Island,
limp back to the city with your cock hunched
and prodding your thighs to keep moving on,
opening your buttocks to a mirror
you cannot see with your back fully turned.
Angel can’t be both Ariel and Miranda.
Who plays your daughter sucked your cock
one day. Jacqui thought you more male than I.
So Dee says and curls up with Poe’s tales,
wondering if he might emulate Prospero
a la Beasley and complete The Narrative
of Arthur Gordon Pym. Gods surely know
it’s cold enough now winter’s falling down
with the rain, snow having found its haven
north and east of where Olympus
is visible from this shore.
Jacqui misses her trade. She would like to suck
Dee’s cock if Gerry insists he be her father
in his ersatz Shakespeare. She wonders then,
Did his mother take Dee for pleasure
to her bed? Not in the slightest
does he resemble Elvis or JFK . . .
Jacqui wonders who will be her Ferdinand.
She has fallen into such a world
where her cunt was fathered
by this incestuous male whore.
(2 May 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander