Turpentine Reminding Me to Listen not to the Critic https://bloodforink.com

Turpentine longing.

The caustic edition.

Gold-flecked.

Morning dreams of night, again

The stoop half-crazed with light

Thump, thump,

I hear you on the stairs

With your belt,

No coat.

My skin is twitchy Dad

My underwear is doubled up

Fear now huddles around the water source

Neanderthal style,

Hands, arms between legs

Squatting

Poking at the Zoe-less

I shifted in his clutch

A bit

So he could see my face

Reflected in his shiny military brogan

Time to make it rain, son.

Already they have emptied out the complaint box, Accepting no more submissions,

Choosing what they expect to eat, With so much care.

My rear is still sore from my youth

Ill brook no guff from you.