Sightseer; Landseer. — A Poem Regarding A Child.
By A Concerned Mother; Rambling Philosopher
They tell you of their Eagerness, their Gay spirit not chewed unless tongues do not abide such cleavage of Language and mouth pursuits Preached;- besmirching ye, minds of caprice.
Halt this eager advance; Halt this ambling greatness by the amassing man, he doth lie; the steel and cage, by the figure of his aloneness in the courting shield, he hedges by complete socialized badges — My, he doesn’t shock!
Halted in his belief, he won’t refrain by their whopping of his person and mulling arse — yet the child remains his tempted mind-play; broached as the better sum of his courtyard of superfluous groping — by groping, by innocents lost, by childless widower en fate.
Why! For his avarice misspent currency of the youth, peddling his eager hopes to the siring adult over the lackluster child; envious turnarounds, and gross promises — My, doesn’t he elect to shock and upheave us!
God, beheld us to sup ourselves from such tearing and profiling fleshes of Might and Discourse rapine!
Never does he tell the shelling shock of coldness; a dastardly currency he repeats without chiding blames.
Within his heart — this sliver that does shiver the Innocence’s child apart, is just the sex to bide his providence and providing ways.
They underlay the Lie; the precious Lie they tell the child tonight of the wherefores and the sound reasoning Why — NEVER for the currency to stand firm with their fists to guard against the stillborn Germ in the airs of producing Men and their bethinking Manhood —COMES the perfume to infuse lopping hopes for remembrance, Germinating for the days thereafter.
I tell of this and yet remain halted and remedying ever to silence by the ensnaring trap of lunacy.
Come to my daughter, my husbanding child — seek for teak teaches unprompted to you by the male breast, not by the male festering sex.
The passive deception, I grow unpunched by and by; this eagerness for petty pursuit and ill games;
The soundness evermore sound, and the absurd, evermore absurder.
Overhead belies the pursuit, the shown tiding and touchy, ample lie.
Come to my daughter; I loop the locking sire clear from your playful bosom till the tender nests have been ebbed into fearful ire; and such cleavage is out from my shadowing branch. Bechilded— be rid only a pleasure longer when the ample time is nigh over; soft youth, strutted and now lost to their vaunting sex now.
Be brave for the battling cry on these closed-tinged and electric streets. Be the besotted devotee, spotted ever clearer to linger on a spot just a while longer.
Be that — bethinking of this.
Prejudicing the lone Queer spirit in the sea of bitter sharks and belly-cutters for the doublespeak at play, ’tis the night; ‘tis the nagging way! ‘tis the might to contend with.
Come, my precious Child, Where a fortune could slash a wrist, pines the tragedy of a youngin’. Truth is not their game; Or, if at your own choosing, could be the believing force that gets one in a constant motion for living this life, so jostlingly expansive —expensive —and vastly filled thin; homed by the brilliance of humble tones.
Color me Black; Color me Tangerine; Color me something outlandish for a superficiality on potent portents here tonight — Come, drifting to the night!
A Child may cry in an open space in hopes for an embrace never had; Or they may Cry in silence for they can’t stop it, and try — Yes, trying, they are to continue this eager might so rapacious and absurd: Bless my providences Child, beheld to glorious lights most flourishing from stark riptides.
Come, eager child, ’tis not all lost — the children can hear the promise of the name you’ve chosen, dearest Doctor. Sightseer; Landseer.
Thereby, ends my deriving discourse of motherly flourishes and ample worries.
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