Domestic Bliss Report

Motherhood is hard work. If we don't stick together, we'll all fall apart.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Today being what it is...

I'm re-posting this.


Spread-eagled like old hookers in the sack,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge
Till on the smoky bars we turned our backs
And toward some stranger's bed began to trudge.
We screwed asleep. Many had lost the thrill
But screwed on, a fraud. All went numb, all blind,
Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the kill
of deadly HIV he left behind.

Sex! SEX! Quick, girls! An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting on the clumsy condoms just in time.
But someone was still holding out and waiting
And looking afraid she'd run out of time.
Dim, through the drunken haze and culture lies,
Another girl like me, I saw her drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
She plunges from me, smothering, choking, drowning.

If in some college dorm room you too could pace
Behind the student that was taken in
And watch the salt tears rolling down her face,
Her hopeful face, dreaming that she'd hear from him
If you could hear at every jolt the blood
Come gargling from the fun-corrupted wombs
Of us deceived, our babies less than mud
Our bodies scarred, small secrets taken to our tombs
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To women ardent for some interesting story
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
pro voluptate mori.

With acknowledgement to the late Wilfred Owen


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