Why I'm not a mummy 2 [the wrap] by Laura Doom/*-----------------------------------------------------
Mummy?
Yes, my precious paradigm of perversity?
What's a mommy?
Well, someone just like me
but dependent on therapy.
Ah -- you mean, like the therapy you take between meals?
Uh, no, my illicit icon of ignorance;
therapy is way too expensive to be taken
between meals and you are not to discuss
with anyone, under any circumstances, narcotics
and if anyone ever asks,
it's medication, ok?
Ok. When will I be old enough for medication?
------------------------------------------------------*/
Mummy -- I'm having a bad dream.
Yeah? Well don't worry yourself;
it's called a nightmare
and it's all part of growing up.
Oh, right. Do you have nightmares mummy?
All the time, especially during waking hours
my priceless prince of posterior pain.
When the nasty people do nasty things?
Of course, though in disembodied mode
I'm utterly indestructible, immortal even,
so bad things, even those I deserve, never happen
to me. Think black ops, but darker; first
I search out the value-orphans that prey
on the vulnerable...
What's a value orphan?
Uhh. It's a euphemism -- a fluffy word
to describe a particularly distasteful person
and, before you launch those lugubrious lips
I'm telling you, you don't want to know.
The word or the person?
Both. Neither. Either/or, neither/nor,
just take my word for it.
But how will I know that I don't want to know
unless you tell me what it is
I don't want to know?
Ok, ok, but this is destination done and dumped.
No more questions -- give me your word?
If you give me yours.
"Sociopathic bastard".
That's two words.
End of the fine line, fastidious freak...
Sure. Besides, I've been called worse than that.
You have? When? Why? Who?
By whom -- don't you remember?
??
That time I fed your medication to next-door's
goldfish? And you told me they'd turn into piranhas
and...
Enough! We were discussing nightmares, right?
So, chauvinists, xenophobes, that guy down the street
with a scouse accent, bigots, child traffickers,
recreational hunters...
You mean like the list of the listless?
Yeah, right -- so how did you get to access
a hardcore site?
Don't you remember? That was the time you made
the trip to Fugue State.
For real? No, you've lost me there.
So then what?
Then I destroy them -- a slow and painful
death by dismemberment, followed by a triumphal
feast of gloat steak and righteous fries.
Wow -- way cool. Does that mean
you don't have nice dreams?
Ah -- dreams...
A few, I guess; well, a couple.
No, make that one.
Just one?
Yep. Just the one
recurring dream -- the nemesis
of nights when my signature frenzy
of rage and frustration
wipes me out and buries me
in a comatose quilt of confusion...
So, what happens in the dream?
Uhh -- I don't really recall; it's as clear
as merde -- everything's fine,
everyone's good, love and light everywhere...
the usual sickly-sweet fictitious fluff.
Huh -- that sounds really dead.
Well it's nothing to lose sleep over
my enigmatic goth-monster embryo;
it'll never happen in this house. Dreams
are routinely confined to the well-adjusted
or the motivated, though that usually
spawns nightmares for the rest of us.
Are they the happy people?
Ha! Don't go there, my misguided mutant
minder of myths. Those are not actual dreams,
they're fantasies, and that way lies
euphoria -- worst case scenario? Achievement,
fulfilment, self-actualization; a drift
of dysfunctional deluded visionaries
and they're being scraped off the pavement
every day. Well, maybe not Saturday's -- no-one
cuts the line on the eve of the lottery draw.
Now, why don't you go answer
your Call of Duty and re-enact an authentic
theatre of dreams?
Mummy?
Yes, malodorous orifice of my darkest fears?
Would you really kill people?
What kind of rhetorical question is that?
Of course not, there is no way -- I'm afflicted
by the curse of conscience, which elevates me
to the status of Saint, a purveyor
of pure virtue, the epitome of tolerance,
restraint and moral rectitude. When temptation
rears its handsome head, a vestal voice
whispers in my ear: "Who are you to judge?."
Freaks me out, that divine intervention stuff,
but I guess that's the price you pay
for being a lapsed agnostic. I am,
for the benefit of public consumption,
the epitome of socio-political correctness.
But don't let that fool you; what you get
is what you see -- a merciless vigilante at heart.
Either that or a coward; you make the call.
Daddy said you were a coward.
Yeah, well, daddy was a hunter, so he'd know
all about cowardice. Still, at least he didn't
kill his prey.
Why not?
Well, first he stalked them, then threatened them
with his semi-automatic charm until they submitted
to consensual debauchery. Why kill the golden gosling
when what you want is getting laid? I'd call it gross max,
but then I'm just an old-fashioned girl. Anyway,
you weren't even speech material when he left.
So when did you ever get to swap seditious stories
with your daddy?
Oh, most days, out on the patio. That's where
I feel closest to him.
Fuck! Are you serious? Sorry -- I didn't say that;
just trauma talk, you know? Separation anxiety,
emotive echoes of estrangement. You know he's gone
for good, don't you? He's never coming back...
I know he's not coming back; he's been here
all along. Don't you remember?
I was there when you paved over his body...
/*--------------------------------------------------------
You do know that asking too many questions
can land you in grave trouble?
Yes mummy, I know -- I don't want to get
that close to daddy.
Wholly Crap! What do you think I am?
Now you're asking too many questions.
--------------------------------------------------------*/
11/15/2011 Author's Note: I know this goes on and on, but I rarely get to spend such 'quality' time in the realm of fantasy parenting.
Posted on 11/15/2011 Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Jim Benz on 11/15/11 at 11:06 PM Sure, you can go on and on all you want, and I can't even think of one single lugubrious word to write in this comment box. Of course, I can't think of any malodorous words either. Maybe I'll just crawl back beneath the patio instead ... |
Posted by Linda Fuller on 11/15/11 at 11:07 PM Made my freakin' day... |
Posted by Meghan Helmich on 11/16/11 at 01:24 PM I wish my Mummy had such a vocabulary. Great dialogue. |
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/16/11 at 03:31 PM Spend some more time there. This sure as hell didn't get old. |
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/17/11 at 04:11 PM Fantastical alliterations alerted my awareness to this perverse (and, yes, pathetically perfect)project of pharaohic parenthood and concrete re-coverings. It is embalming, truly. ;) |
Posted by E. A. Pugh on 11/20/11 at 09:31 PM Write on! A moody, honest, black hearted, gothic punch into the warped world of many parents who do exists, who are real and who raise real children. You have harsh truth here in spades. The language is great too but I enjoyed the rhythm and the beginning that reminded me of the Butt Hole Surfers… "Daddy, what does regret mean? I loved your writes a female perspective. Rip its heart out woman and Write on! This looks like a fun slam poem.
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Posted by LK Barrett on 11/21/11 at 02:45 PM ...deeply, darkly, deliciously wrong in so many, many ways...what a headlong tilt into the abyss this is! Happy bad madness and luscious alliteration to warrant a fave for sure...ty for more fun with that new head!...lk |
Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/10/11 at 12:21 AM Defintely fits into the epic category, with its own unique sintax/arrangement. Refreshingly different to say the least. Can't help but put dittos on all the great comments before mine. |
Posted by Lori Blair on 12/14/11 at 11:43 PM It may be fantasizing parenting but reminds me much of earlier days..Brilliant! Not lengthy at all..wished for more! |
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