Aren’t all our fathers priests? | Liam Chimba
POETRY
3/25/20251 min read
What fold of the sun makes
me separate from the bottles and ring
a ring o roses? I wonder to noone but your
scarlet attirements remind me of that
one Ernst painting
you know the one–oh–you don’t
I try getting things straight through
the jack and daniels and so your father
is an epidemiologist–how would he feel about the bodies
clutched up beside you–i’m joking of course
in that way we all do–exegesis and call it love
oedipus in the shape of your dorm curtains
so vultures circle the earth–just above the ceiling–
whats new there? and they're the shape of him
bald and diseased and traipsing no man’s land–
I cant cross that line for you i’m afraid–
no matter the symbolic title
for our organs mashing together
I picture burning in that little death–funny
google how to forge a kiss
and you must see through the honey on your lips
or maybe not but I guess that makes me reflect
maybe the performance will turn
to eisegesis if I cross you hard enough
didn't Ernst invent frottage and is that
why i am thinking of him and I could
tell you the name of my mother but it'd make
it all far too obvious–
isn't that the joke that spans the earth?
wont our kids make great reproductions of us?
poor penetrating machines and hopeless
circles of becoming the same–
doesn't the homogeneity of your bleached bedsheets
and fake floral design just
get too much sometimes?
i want to read to you about
fortresses of disgust whose circumference
spans the earth in parabolic smoke but, but, I cant.
instead we play peekaboo with a pure pall
veiling your head and though i think of saying it
–I dont think this is love–
right into your beak but there's no reason
when you're that bride from an Ernst
Liam Chimba (He/Him) is a graduate of Creative Writing and Philosophy from the University of Chichester. He lives on the East coast of England. Published in Fugitives & Futurists.