dannyboy

The Road to Unger

Underneath the tar,
an old fist, rotten to the core,
still good for a cuff around the ear,
shakes in defiance buried but never lost.

Within the curled, squeezed fingers,
hard as the feel of a steel capped boot
to the ribs, words breed.

The words are heard in the crinkle
of venetian blinds moved in the dark
by mothers who fear their children
will never return.

The mothers sometimes pause
in their vigil, rest bruised cheeks
on the cold glass - windows as ice-packs
for the swelling hidden within
domestic bliss – behind them the pots bubble
on the stove, demand their return.

Their eyes stare into the dark – their vaginas,
stuffed with urban myths, weep - their pain
seeps down thickening legs,
becomes the disguise of varicose veins
so the men are not reminded of their acts
and turn too soon to violence,
their fists as urgent as rubbers pushed hard
across the misspelt word.

You can smell the words
in the meat tossed on barbecues
while men stand with legs apart
as if their dicks are forks,
their children nightly skewered -
their happy childhood songs forever joined
to the hiss and spit of the split sausage.

The bitumen has lines painted
in white; straight, regular and ordered
as a priest’s dream of a white thigh, his tongue licks
as if chicken fat dribbled between his fat lips
while he recalls a boy’s first exposure
of the tongue for His Flesh.

The sun refuses to relent;
the weight of car and feet
and the movement of the world
allows cracks in the tar to become fissures
and the words escape.

Doors open at midnight
in the bitching heat of summer
catch the words,
turn them into a hunger
stronger than any belief.

In the minds of sleeping children
the sound of cars starting up,
the vision of wide open roads -
like a mother’s arms - waiting
for them to leave
and not care where they head.

Jay Kay

is part of this piece about child abuse? I'm not quite certain ...
"as if their dicks are forks,
their children nightly skewered..." and
"while he recalls a boy's first exposure
of the tongue for His flesh." these lines make me ask the question.
for the most part i find it a a moving work but this jars a bit ...
"...their vaginas stuffed with urban myths - weep ..."

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"Life is just a bowl of All Bran,
You wake up every morning and its there."
The Small Faces ... Ogdens Nut Gone Flake ... 1968.

Olly Buckle

Abuse and flight from it, but the capital of His tells that the tongue is out to receive the sacrament.

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Jay Kay

yeah i get it olly ... six hundred million dollars was it that was paid out the other day for child abuse by the church in la? where do they get this kind of money?

__________________
"Life is just a bowl of All Bran,
You wake up every morning and its there."
The Small Faces ... Ogdens Nut Gone Flake ... 1968.

Olly Buckle

Do you? What I am saying is that His Flesh with capital letters refers to the blood and flesh of Christ as in the bread and wine of the sacrament, you stick your tongue out to receive it from the priest. Danny boy might have meant us to read more than that into it, probably did, but I don't think it is explicit, not there anyway. One of the few things I like about the church, it encourages you to stick your tongue out at the priest regularly.

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Triquediqual

Didn't have to quote as I couldn't really find anything wrong -- except a few words and lines.

I thought it was fantastic Danny.

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dannyboy

thank you for the feedback

this is about all sorts of violence that lives beneath the suburban smile.