Fathers Foie Gras
lycalias
January 14th
Fathers Foie Gras
The limo home was where I learned, Father–
Duck only tastes so, very rich
When bursting out its seams.
Father, look out at your silly citizens!
Grazing the streets in their wheat sacks,
The contents lining your plump red lips.
Oh Father, you were so, very correct.
Mogul of my eye,
How I love seeing your big flag fly!
Fly me up with you Father!
A baby Blue, A fascist Red,
A deep black crude trailing us.
Father, the table has been set.
The boar head is golden, crisp, perfect,
Melting morbidly into its own fat.
Look at me, Father,
Look as I gaze into your blackened eyes,
As I kneel beneath your throne of bones.
Look at me, Father
Look as I shudder beneath your weight,
As I choke on my own blood.
I will never learn how blood lunges, daddy.
