Mother Dearest

Mother restless wakes to the sound
of small eager feet padding hardwood--
and the whining, oh the whining,
for clothes and food and love.

Enough!

Mother sends them on their way,
still screaming and crying and begging--
so annoying, so foul and misguided,
and then she is rid of it all.

The phone rings and Mother answers,
and she smiles slyly as he speaks.
He's coming, coming oh so soon,
the prude now primping, needy and nude.

He enters.

And soon to follow, he enters her,
crammed against plaster and paint--
and Mother bellows and begs for more.
The cougar calling the coy lover.

Claws sink into a canvas of flesh,
staining ivory artistries of skin--
and from her fingertip, to his quivering lip,
she shares the taste of lustful sin.

And now SHE screams and whines
and cries, Mother dearest indeed--
not even sane enough now to see
or care the pain and perversity pursued.

Choked and cut she shatters the dawn
dripping upon the shaft, the cunnilingus--
and he, the beast, reveling in the seed
marking his terrain, her still heaving chest.

Mother dearest may rest once more--
by morning the lover, by evening the whore.