You could be so pretty
if
your hair was straight
or at least neat 
and not fire engine red

You could look so lovely
If 
you didn't insist on wearing
tatty jeans
Yellow Dr Marten boots
Dropkick Murphys tees
and you weren't covered in tattoos

You could have a better life
If
You hadn't married
that blue eyed
empty pocket
*** smoking
dreamer

You could have more time to clean
If 
you didn't waste it
writing pointless poems
with your head in the clouds
listening to that awful racket

You could be more ladylike
If 
you didn't attend protests
railing against politics
didn't smoke, drink,
swear like a sailor
and stayed away from mosh pits.

You could be better
If 
you were a lot more me
and a hell of a lot less you
After all I've done
You were not what I was expecting..

Well, it was good talking to you
I love you mum
I love you too..
Lets do this again soon!

nothing hurts
more than
knowing that
you could never need me
like you need her

Two monks,
black robed,
picked fruit

in the abbey gardens,
tonsured,
crown of thorns.

I turned the pages
of the breviary,
Latin words,

red ended pages,
black cover,
heavy,

psalms,
prayers,
Gospel excerpts.

The old peasant monk,
smiled toothless at the camera,
a world away,

all things,
he said,
is to pray.

Working
night and day
acidified muscles
curved fingers
being
in resistance

a state of
complaining
the tongue
swollen
painful red
blistered

too much
antibiotics
killing the scream
for liberation
the big bang of life
is suffocated

existence
on mother's breast
or
being bathed by amniotic fluid
doing the best
to avoid the pain of birth

maternally
no disclosure.

© 2014 Marialenn