McAdam’s Trendy Son

I am muttering mad, a fool

who swishes for trout in hillocking streams.

McAdam is not my name

but my father made me my mother’s mule

(and left me) to run away with Mace-

y Mullins who keeps her face in a public place

with plenty of others. I’m turned out of doors

and topple on cities, muttering mad over pubic pretties.

I’ve never noted a face before

it has gone to seed

and distorted more. I am not McAdam. McAdam’s dead.

I am not the apple. My father’s eye

was taken by any shit who bit

and dropped her knickers and showed her tit.

I sweat like geese.

The summer day Dad changed his spots,

he prattled to me: “McAdam, my son…”

“I’m not,” I cried. “McAdam, my knot,

“you’re my progress-fool; you’re released by rule.”

“But, Daddy,” I cried, “I’d love to live

“with you and mummy inside the sieve

“your head runs through…”

He hit me hard and Macey laughed.

I am muttering mad, a fool.

(from “The Light Of Day (I)” to be published soon)


What do you think?


Written by Jonathan Finch

Years Of MembershipStory MakerContent Author

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