This parody that parrots me
This plastic mockery of life
Turned on the axis of a lie
Ah for the Barbie model wife!
Ah the sheer casing! Ah the curves
Ooh! ah! The childish, girly voice!
Ah for the trained domestic ways!
Is this what makes a man rejoice?
No challenge here, no burning swords!
The comfort that a man requires
Is laid on like a smothering grave
To lull to death his true desires.
Here there be wolves
In the quiet domestic parlours, teeth hidden in the teacups,
All strawberry jam a metaphor of blood:
“Come, sit my dear.
What do you want to be?
How quaint! How funny!”
(That would be waste, a luscious thing like you!)
Isn’t it strange they get these big ideas!”
Yes, I can see that telltale mat of hair
Can smell the rancid breath of carnivores:
The poisoned wind that blights the budding soul
Reducing hope’s bright flower to withered stalk
Stealing the very air we need to breathe.
Glove the sharp claws! Tinkle your saucers sweetly;
Let your soft words weave
A nuance of seduction round the planned assault
You justified 10 paragraphs ago
The while we thought you talked of something else.
At least torn souls don’t bleed upon the carpet…
I have bled upon the carpet,
I have bled upon the stairs.
In the cold, clean silent moonlight
There is blood upon my prayers.
Many waters will not cleanse them
They are stains no eye can see
But my house of life is filthy
With their vast impurity.
Let me open all the windows
Let me dare unlock the doors
Let the light of God shine fiercely
On my dirty, trembling floors.
Whose the guilt of this besmirching:
Is it his or is it mine?
Is there mending in a marriage
When the water turns to wine?
Must this frail house be demolished
Ere the temple can be built?
Is the whole foundation rotten
Or will water wash out guilt?