her father died not too long ago...
she wept into my shoulder
with that thickening of the saliva
that drenched my t-shirt...

i wish i could have cried, also...
i wish i could have also cried: died...

today she threw a tantrum because
i think: hell knows no fury
like a woman - i'm missing the scorned
part because...
well she was the one to call
by a tyrant for reasons...
as i poured her a g & t and watched
nothing apart from a reading
of the Outsider stretch before me...

i guess the if and the when mingle
in a sort of ecstatic dangling
of the carrot...
she three a tantrum and she's
apparently suffering from arthritis
but when no one's looking
she can turn into a right'o'tornado
and pull out shelves with
d.i.y. equipment like it was:
shovelling butter...
or spreading it...

            this month there's an apparent
celebration of women...
well... my past girlfriends aside...
my father's mother:
whom i will never know
since she abandoned him
to be raised by my father's mother
and her 2nd husband...

or the impeding crescendo of
razor terror between my mother's mother...
not to mention...
well at least the supermarket cashiers:
who are mostly women...
allow themselves to be human:
an bearably asexual at that...
from time to time...
of course when the odd chance of:
oh you smell nice, fresh... leaves their
lips i'm best left stunned
at what's impersonal...
what's "cordial"...
what's formal in relation to
someone passing through
a supermarket till...

beside the girlfriends i could mention
the "***-workers"...
but then again:
i rather keep that to myself...
back to ol' mutter:
how she managed to sieve through
an entire shed looking
for a screwdriver...
didn't find one the hour or so i had
to clean up her *******-riddle
of a tantrum...
although i'm pretty sure
the Frodo & Bilbo who were installing
the new fridge were supposed
to come equipped...

    i stashed myself with a mahjong solitaire
and thought: pretty pretty "things"...
tendering to equate them with...
napoleon tulips rather than...
duke of wellington dandelions...
or circa...

          mother, dear...
        when he, your father, was alive...
i really, truly, did, enjoy a status
of grandson... so it happened that i am:
the only son... but that i was the only
grandson, also...
with your parting: the hierarchy
changed... a little bit...
i'm 3rd in line to...
a knee-deep inheritance of ****
in a universe that's centrally
agitated by: squid ink or hyena ****...

but the hierarchy changed
beyond recognition...
i'm behind the son-in-law... my father...
petty politics...
     the mother and the mother's mother
feud: i.e. how "grand"...
so she throws a tantrum i clean
up after her...
make her a g & t in the process...
some jacket potatoes for dinner...
etc., etc. etc.

         and there's that looming:
because it's always the readily available excuse...
she's looking for herself
something only adults lose
the child and i guess a tender
father-figure authority which
i can't nor will provide
but that's all too hypothetically
abstract even for me
the point being:

  whether it's really a western thing...
"fyng"...
whether it's that "gynocentrism" through
and through...
well it wouldn't have mattered then,
i.e. whether it was a geocentric model
to begin with... and a heliocentric model
to end "it" on...
the "parables of the folk" would
still retain the agony-aunt /
jewish matchmaker clauses
just like santa claus is and forever will
be... satan's clause -
in the argument for celebrating criss-cross...

point being...
we do not give or make the same concessions
to children as we do to adult
women...
it's a terrible truth...
it's so ******* unavoidable like
gravity is a false step above
the abyss on top of a tall building...
the concessions adult women are given
are not even given to children:
sparingly by fathers to their daughters
but not that far as to...

it's sa-sa-sa-sa-sa-saaaad
that this can and does take place...
after a while when
there's no reproductive dynamic / vector /
whatever noun is in focus
and everyone has exploited everyone's
"function"...
use...
  and there's only this creature
of a person left...

i can't celebrate women...
                 i might wish to go delve in an hour's
worth in a brothel...
peel some raw ****'s worth for an oyster
choke come the oral hiccups
of mostly vowels... caste consonants
as a yummy yum oh and ah shakes
the furniture...
but... sensibly all conversations are
off...

because: my grandfather, also, died...
every summer from circa 10 through to 18...
nay... further... 21...
riding bicycles...
sightseeing... etc.
but i'm... 3rd... 4th... perhaps even 5th
in the category of "mourning"...
it doesn't matter what he communicated
with me...
i'm not the son i'm not the daughter
i'm 50% other...
needless to say that other 50% other
of me-to-"him" is also a cul de sac
for what's immediately given...

it's hardly a tree of genealogy that one
could prize...
so no argument anglo-saxon
existential with Darwin and genes
in mind...
something "deconstructive" like a sticky
toffee pudding baked by a homosexual
or anything post-modern in poetry
(charles olson, primarily) then yes...
but nothing impeding "closure"
with a sense for continuation...
i.e. done elsewhere done by someone else
otherwise i will have to
re-categorise myself as "something"...
well not "less"... but "besides"...
being... human.

        if only: dumb enough and having
inherited all the deafening impetus churns...
for: a furthering of... past-participle...
less a "noun": a complete fraction of gene-me
or moi...

it's still lonesome and bothering...
we give more concessions
to adult women
than we ever give to children...
that phantom "we"...
whatever it is...
it's a tonight and a worthy end,
a goodnight.