The Mother, The Soul, The Discontent

The Mother of all holy grails encompassing your weaknesses, and throwing you into the face of the wind, still wrapped in a blanket,

The Mother losing her brain to tragic illnesses and screaming, horrifying you, but still with love, for those blue flowers, that sit rigid on the windowsill,

The Mother of Florence covering you in extreme apologetic sunflowers, whenever she abandons you for primal things, or shopping trips,

The Mother that glistens on the mountain tops, and hums eighty’s songs like you should know them,

The Mother even when the sun doesn’t shine, to stay holed up with you and drink soup to pretend it will make you better, and feed you to her stories, like a backward wind,

The Mother of nonsensical tales and studies blind drunk in an alleyway, screeching with laughter at your immature jokes,

The Mother recreating unfortunate circumstances with a ruler and string, doing all your homework, like a nodding dog pretending you are learning it,

The Mother securing accidental fears and nightmares, when you see a crack, a glimpse, and realise she’s afraid too.

The Mother of screaming and shouting all hail terror and crime, because she secretly wishes, that murder was legal, to stop all the criminals getting to you,

The Mother always with her face in the news, injecting herself, into portraits, to make her everywhere for you.

The Soul that beats like a voodoo drum, and crashes down on cities, making criminals run scared of pulsating death,

The Soul at the heart of aborted children, crying into eternity, for milk, for juice, for all the things they were denied,

The Soul that buries deep ocean liners and their counterfeit procedures, with only humanity as its victim

The Soul that church goers admire and listen to as it counts down to the atomic clock exploding like flapping angels and wax work models springing to life,

The Soul forgiving in it entirety playing music on lymph nodes with cancer, and painting across the skin like stretch marks on the pregnant,

The Soul smoking unsuccessfully at the nicotine tinted addiction of beauty, and semantics dancing round a fire of the mind and learning to like classical music,

The Soul that wears aprons and kisses the cheeks of random girls and boys, to make them happy too, no matter the cost,

The Soul ever great but down-trodden and misled by the brain, the organ of logic that sits on the stair case like a dictator,

The Soul that masters the screaming and shouting of all hail terror and crime, because murdering bad people, really is okay,

The Soul that employs all the organs to do their worthy jobs motivating the blood, like a positive force in the upward spiral of life.

The Discontent of open ended newspaper articles that define crime as cruelty, no foul without a source, the mouth of a river,

The Discontent of ridiculous open-minded efforts to impoverished half crowds, like a badly stuffed dead bird, whose wings still work,

The Discontent that digs itself deeper and embeds until you forget it, pops out and is paved over in the great walking and talking of the day,

The Discontent that extracts itself from happiness just to let you be for a moment, before sinking its teeth back in,

The Discontent that exalts all status of merriment from even your most joyous moments, finally drinking itself to death, writing at a weird angle on the wall,

The Discontent that will burn itself in hell and leave you plain sailing to heaven, white mast and salt blue seas will open like Mohammedan pictures of joy,

The Discontent that marvels at all your significant movements and encourages you away from itself, against the wall of surprise turn around and fair plays,

The Discontent of empty vodka bottles, clinking together in a picturesque moment against a Parisian sunset,

The Discontent embodied in a perfect person crying, embalmed for ever with a sadness of nearly whole dreaming,

The Discontent that knows you don’t want it, but like a loyal dog, returns, forever seeking the wanton flattery of its owner.

The new holy trinity,

waves goodbye,

to useless flattery,

of gods,

and mammals.

By Carl Dawson