Looking across at your expressionless feature,
lacking the colourful decoration of your room,
you feel it's insides, tendertongued from last night,

Drinking coffee by the cup,
self-sober, bringing you concrete and back up,
oh, sweet illicit journey.
You go downstairs pleading not guilty,
to various offences,
from a father, firm in station, however officed, condolent,
yet you, always you, remain indifferent.
Still, voluptuary, always a doll.

Voracious now. Less blank.
Pouring cornflakes, the rest of your
body ices over, digging now,
into the milk drenched flakes of corn.

Mayhem of silence knife-edging route
inside, hullaballooned, tortured frenzy.
Can he watch your thought?
All amphetamine sex.
Smiling, smelling this. He lights a sullen pipe
with a damp match, glaring at the ridiculous,
perhaps sublime,
superflous pile of toast, wondering of
cycle, entrance and exit.

And so you do . . .
. . exit. Feeling less numb,
more re-vital, re-vampired.
Ready to weld-wield, to be hammered.
Leaving Father alone.

H.Math