Do I lie

Do I lie

Is it worth the asking?

There is no poetry in it

None to speak of

As much as my father’s dead

The weight of his hand

Is alive

I can feel it

The flat of it

On the side of my head

On the cheek

Of my behind

All the better to keep me honest.

The lies I told

Were not bare-faced

But ended

Bare-arsed.

If I could bury myself

In clover

It would still smell

Of latrines

Brick built

Victoriana

Shitenhousen.

Roses are too afraid

Of the thorns

To be a safety

Blanket

Every time

I push myself through

The undergrowth

Looking for a cool place

To hide

I come up short.

I was slap-arsed for that

We all were

One way or another

It is part of the lie

We tell ourselves

To explain away

The pain

Of living on,

Beyond the limit

Of endurance

And the poison

Of talcum powder.