Mother may I say I’m sorry? Is it allowed for me to reach back behind aeons to which I have no claim? How do I apologize for my cancerous cannibalism that led me to milk you dry? There aren’t even words that I can use to reach myself around you, to try and choke back the sobs and tears that aren’t meant for me but signified by me. You gave me the love that even mother’s dream of, with only whispers of complaints that I managed to drown out in drunken distaste. I can’t not say I’m sorry, though. My whole body aches from the fullness of an empty sorrow that only a murderer can own: I. Am. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry. But sorry doesn’t bring back brittle bones from telluric internment, does it? Apologizing doesn’t really pay you back in kind, but just takes advantage of that lovely love of yours that I haven’t even managed to fake yet. I’ve spent enough time around you that you’d think I could at least craft a mask of artisan quality, to hide the fact that I’m lost when I look away from your face. One would think that I could at least conjure up some liquid regret to wash away my guilty jester make-up. One wouldn’t even think I was human, the way I’m talking to the wind.
Father, please forgive me. It’s too late to come to terms with my mother’s murder, but at least with you there is…hope? I know you won’t answer me, because it’s not expected. It’s not even proper; we are proper men and as such have a cool relationship of distance. That is the way things are. But distance does not beget disowning, so the sin is still mine in my abandonment of you in a nursing home, where the walls of the past close in on you. I denied you your dynamicity and in such, I took away your freedom. And so, the backwards Oedipus-murderer locks away the free man and is worshipped as a modern hero. This is your justice, just remember. I did this to you, and deserve the responsibility, but you asked for it. This is what you wanted, you foolish old man. You could have just listened, and I wouldn’t be an orphan right now, and you wouldn’t be a sad caricature of Father (Stuck-in)Time. You are the one that made me steal your own children
away, and raise them as my own. I gave them my mind to fill their souls, because I
was not afraid of their hunger. I did not starve them or gag them with flesh and bone, for I know the hunger of a child alone in the world. I know the need for light when all your curtains block out the Son through Sun-worship. I miss you, and I wish it could have been any other way but you left me no choice. It was for the good of the innocent’s innocence and I can’t go to sleep with the thought of my brother’s bloody hands reaching out for me.
Brother, it’s time to go.
This isn’t the portrait of our soul anymore,
This is the scene-scape of our nightmare-past.
Take my hand,
So we can run away from our mother-fucking father,
And our father-forsaken mother.
We don’t need them anymore,
I made sure of that.
We are children of the future,
With only a past to forget through remembering,
Don’t you see?
Confusion creeps up: “Why have you forsaken them?”
How do I tell you?
What words do I use to make you feel alone?
Because it only comes with time.
I did not forsake any father,
I did not murder any mother.
I shone a flashlight in my solitary confinement,
Making my fears fade away.
We are the Sun’s brother’s now,
In a world with no more children to beget,
No more mountains to overcome with paternal peaks,
And no chance of matron saints stealing our breath away.
Don’t believe the ne’er-do-wells:
The wasteland is pure freedom.