All Those Fondas - Poem by Pasha Satara
I smile thinly like Bridget Fonda and grind,
'It never did matter about the little things...'
into a fine powder that settles in your nostrils,
like the way I've sharpened my teeth
over the years, a fine act of hiding hostility,
a fine art of practising self protection.
When did my brother become a stranger?
The night he got drunk and told me
he found his wife in a whore house in Seoul?
The day he denounced our father
who (maybe) Art in Heaven with the other heathens?
The weight of oblivion was not too heavy
for my spacy arms.
Mother fell in love with Jack Sprat
and I fell down the spider's web,
dippety do-dah, there's porridge
at the bottom of the poisoned bowl.
I sing 'Jesus Loves Me'
when I know he doesn't.
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