Was it your pride, Father, that kept you
spitting up reams of a gilded river
lavished on the shallow utterances
of daughters who love you least?
If the myth were true, imagine:
we, as spawn of the grotesque,
sprouts of the beast’s fecund underbelly;
legions of unceasing worker ants,
a seminal mess of a mercenary mass;
we claim this dot, now, hence, hereafter;
this is our lot, our blotch,
our orgiastic spot.
I will root for you, Lear, when in years,
you age, sputtering still, nonsensical diatribes
of how best to run the house in order;
I will weep for you, Your Majesty, reminded of how your
humble hubris of your limited vision
blinded you to the loyalty of
your uterine eunuchs.
Be proud, Father, be very proud
of your homemade hybrids,
your pure lilywhite curdled cubes
of roboistic square thoughts.
You made us machines, plugged us
to the wrath of the lightning gods.
In this debris of consumerist molehill trash,
I will search for a soul, somewhere,
and fish for the skeletal remains of
a barely recognisable
amphibious feline, the legend
that branded me my anthropomorphic