Posted on July 15, 2007 by Nik

2 minute readPaternal Angst (or Ode to my Stepfather)

Rest in peace you fucker

[look, though ignoble, I’m just ranting to get this out of my system, OK]

his brutal strength crushed my spirit
his iron fist rules made me passive aggressive
his stupid love made me hate – at least him
his dogma though, made me a free mind

fear of punishment made me live life in hiding
humiliation had me living life in shame
an introverted intellectual, living a life of inherited pain

satan devouring his son

what me? acting victim? bitter? maybe.

maybe I’m just angry at the tenacious, brutally limiting shit laid on my soul
maybe I’m angry I still haven’t shaken it off
maybe I’m angry because I don’t imagine I would have chosen this, in the paradigm of conscious spirit.
Or maybe – I’m just tired of dealing with brutally myopic idiots

therefore I bid for your self awareness Phil Bates and
don’t come back till you find peace with your soul, motherfucker

so anyway,

may the pandemic destructive patriarchy annihilate itself
may the matriarchy metamorphise
and may the harmony of human partnership evolve into a true expression of love

Set me free now, a man on Earth.

There’s more:

memories come to me now…
after too many years running away
from a heavy past in my heart

that exists now only in my head
now that the old fellow
dropped off his perch dead

and all that remains is for me to tell him in prayer
beneath all his thinking and knowing and receding grey hair
I never told him, the feelings I hid,
from the man that hurt me so bad as a kid,
that loved me a lie and left me alone,
that beat me and told me I was all wrong,
that overpowered me with what he thought he knew best.

none of it matters though in the passage of time
all we ever have, passes in the wank of an eye,
and all that’s left beneath the hollow faces
is a memory of him trying to love in the only way he knew how.

I lit a candle and said a prayer and played a song on me flute
I could see him cringe in the incense smoke
I shoulda had lessons, he says, I know, I know
but what about these bay leaves on this brief altar for you,
leaves I plucked from me garden, thought you’d like em.

whatever, I’ll give you a thrashing at chess next time round mate.
“Go on, lets be avin ya.”

And blessed may be my sisters who held his hand on the road to grace.

backa the mota