My Sons (inspired by Trust the biopic of John Paul Getty)

I hate my sons. They have lives which aren’t mine,
t
hey have friends who I disapprove of
t
hey have interests which aren’t mine they avoid me
a
nd they’re happiest when I’m not there.
They got married and name their sons after me. Thinking
I’d like that ‘honour’. They bought houses
w
ithout asking my advice. They got middle-aged
looking like wolves with slathering jaws
when they grovel at my house. They’re calculating
just how long I’m going to live.
And I laugh as I torture their expectations.

My hatred isn’t concealed. I know what they want
and I know how to tease. I nearly give them what
they want. They don’t know whether to grovel or protest.
They don’t know what I want. I want men.
They want money. They aren’t going to get money
until I’m dead and I wont have to look at them
gorging in the trough.

But the last laugh is on them. They get the money and die.
Of stupidity

Chris

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.