We hate you, mother –
We want to scratch your bosom raw and bare
And watch your blood stream down in valleys
Over the hilly mounds of your perpetual roundness and femininity.
Then we’ll collect the molten gurgle of crimson
Into a dainty jar with a slap-on label,
and call it Jam.
We will feed on it nightly,
Zealously guzzling every
Puddle of ooze and lump of glop.
We will cry when it’s over and wish ourselves dead,
Prevailing ‘till sun rise to do it all over,
Again because the thing we can’t stand about you mother,
Is that you birthed us retched monsters.
So we will punish ourselves, by punishing you,
And live to taste life’s tortures.