Mile 999

You've lost me for a thousand miles...

the whisper, once in the garden,
once alive with health and bright dew
is now dead,
has died
with the flowers,
and
is condemned
to grave silence. That thunderous aerial roar is
a deafening static defeat.

You've wasted me.
Do you repent?

Flowers, yes, they are dead.
Daddy's flowers,
they are dead, dead, dead!

The wife and the daughter now shed
now sore, collapsed.
Betrayed. You've really gone and done it.

You've lost me for a thousand miles...

You have been a swine
ever since I can recall.
I was once a tiny girl,
melted into wax, a shapeable fire.
My inner child remembers you now
Standing at the top of the stairs
Like a narrow tower of callousness yelling at the mother.
That heavy growl yells out:
"CUNT!"

Dead Eye
... what a wonderful first memory for a
tiny girl to possess
of her daddy.

Now you see to me you've always been, Daddy Swine,
pushing us down like glass buttons -
we were fragile and clear, then
jabbed with acrimony by your biscuit-colored fascist fingers.

You've always been sharpening your spear,
and stabbing us with some new fresh blade
cut/slashed/stabbed/
over and over and over
again.

But never have you gone so far as this
To cut off my Head. To cut off my Hands.
My Arms, reaching out, are bloody Ends of
resentment
hate
and
Death for you.

The dream is over. Every way is down.

I am not your tiny girl
You have lost me for a thousand miles...

You have lost me for a thousand miles
and their are no convenient underground trains or forgiving cars
for you to travel by to an atonement.
Only your repentant feet can make the walk.
Yes, your sorry feet - blistered, sore, burning, cracked, torn,
CUT,
chewed and ugly
can make the walk.

But you will not walk.
Your ego wears shoes; you will not walk.
You won't be caught dead coming up ripped apart, slashed open with regret, vulnerable, judged,       clean,              sorry.

You selfish Fuck.
You Stain!
You Dirty Swine.

It is no matter,
The road ends on Mile 999.