Perturbs you, does it,
Daddy dearest,
that I spread my thighs
for strangers
to earn my daily bread
and crème de menthe?
"Why?" you ask.
I don't know.
But my heart gloats
to see you squirm.
"I gave you everything!"
you bluster self-importantly.
Indeed you did.
Your thoughts,
your plans,
your dreams.
Remember that tax-deductible soirée of yours,
complete with rented flesh?
You got so drunk
you would have taken me
(I saw it in your eyes),
but there are some things
even I won't do.
If I married into
your caviar crowd,
would that be any different?
Roll over, smile on demand,
battered, bartered -- for what?
It's killing my mother, you tell me.
She's too far gone
to phone?
Her bleeding heart's reserved
for painted ducks and baby seals!
"Fastest draw in the West with a cheque book,"
you smile indulgently,
"but I can afford it."
Affirmation on demand -- that's her cocaine.
Forty short days, you plead.
Forty days in a mink-lined cell
to make me fit for your table;
clinking your stemware, wearing your dresses,
high on designer drugs
prescribed by your shrink--
courtesy of high-yield
Third World blood and tears.
In the empty morning hours
I waver,
muster a nostalgic tear or two
before the downers kick in.
When I awake,
I paint my face
and go to war once more.
I sell diversion
from
the dreary demons
of inconsequence.
You buy and sell
the lives of voiceless children.
Keep your forgiveness.
You need it more than I do.
