a child of God.

Your fingers

are inside

         my

                 wet

                          warm

throat

pulling out

                        sighs

of desperation

and cries

that thunder down like rain

the petals are wilting

with no water

no sunlight

no one to brush the dust from the stems
and ask them how they're doing

the taps rusted over
but i'm yet to know if the beer tastes any more bitter
than trying it as a child.
sat in a dingy leather seat
with the ribbons of cowhide at my feet
after some animal had
its way.
where the people perspire through conversations
about the weather
and the tax man
and the never changing politic.
staff and regular alike
do not remember my mothers name
like the stint she pulled was lost to myth, my name
meant nothing.
maybe that's why i sat in the pub my mother used to work
once upon a time,
to see if the atmosphere could conjure her
like the football brought fleeting happiness
five rounds in.

was i turning into something that you hate?
did my face, or name not feel the same?