Sunday, 4 August 2013


Charles is putting out his bin alone,
At ninety degrees,
He has his set square,
And protractor.

Sam is taking in her sin,
Revolving, endlessly,
Throwing out pieces of shit,
From centrafaecal forces,
Uncontrollable by her.

Supergods could give
A place to live,
In a caravan,
Clad with cloud,
With feta cheese,
And anchovies,
But history forbids,
She believes,
She wants to live,
In the real Scotland,
But cannot find it.

Charles has a map,
Can afford to take a nap,
And tolerates no crap.
But Sam has half a bottle left,
While of morals, she believes,
She is bereft,
But actually,
The structure does her good.

When she thinks about it,
It isn't Charles,
It's someone who should be closer,
You should have been a mother,
Twisted, bitter, loveless victim.

Supergods say
She's doing OK,
And Charles is alright,
Although crazy compulsive,
He's not filled with spite,
Regret, remorse,
Or resentment.

Come to think,
The caravan can go to Hell,
Along with you,
The supergods,
Are soon to come.

There never was an ounce,
Of motherly love,
Of affection,
And Sam had to deal with that,
Her whole damn life,
Wondering what was wrong with her,
Her mother the victor,
While Charles was exacting.

Supergods and
A mother,
Who never had the capacity,
To love her child,
While clouds and caravans,
The daughter alone.

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