Osmatic Poem by Rachael Delamar

the smell of gasoline

and her lita ford hair..the sound of static is the schizophrenia buzzing through the air..the sight is my lachrymose mother letting her conniving tears fall into the glass of vodka in one hand and the ash on her ciggarette in the other is dangerously close to falling...

'im feeling a bit manic today...a bit depressed today..so refill my glass won't you? and get that damn orange juice away...it's the vod-ka, my dear, i covet you know....You seem a bit stressed dear...'

as she reaches into her pharmacuetical bag of magic tricks...positioned just so beside her femininely crossed perfect legs...similar to mine i now know..

'take a handful of these to calm your nerves dear...Oh but those aren't right..'

she fumbles mumbles and slurs...

'those are for my anti social personality disorder... '

for the 1% of the female population...when she feels the urge to lie cheat or kill...or to torch the houses down the street...

'and oh no no these are for my epilepsy...'

of which she may or may not take depending on the need for sympathy thereafter....or...the need of the pain killers..that come next...you musn't mix you know

'and yes my pain pills...one for now...one for later..

(after the grand mal once the migraine ensues)

'You're still standing there, daughter dear? '

........yes mummy....sarcasm-my saving grace- and i are still standing here clutching your handful of pills...watching you cry...