Saturday, 5 September 2009


So the sperm donor telephoned and
Said hey, I’d like to meet my daughter
After fourteen years. Mother mentioned
It to her, and she said OK.

So what does that say about me and
My parenting skills. A stranger clicks his
Fingers and women linger. Never mind eh;
We’ve tried our best to pick up the pieces of
Other peoples broken fucking lives and will
Always believe we’ve done our best, but rugs
Are rugs, and the mere transitory fact of their
Fragility allows for them to be ripped from
Underneath us when least expected.

And this appears to be that time, and
Although foretold I thought it would happen
Later on in the flapping future when sufficient
Armour was installed to handle it. But it has called
And all I can do is face it with whatever dignity
Alcohol allows, and if that’s none, then it’s gone,
But I’ll still have my son to concentrate
All of my love upon.


  1. Ouchh... This explains the "stay away fathers" stuff on FB. I like "Pick up the pieces of other peoples broken fucking lives". A totally understandable response to an impossible situation. What will come tomorrow? Eventually we should brace ourselves for another celebration of your daughter. God knows that she's still the angel she was before the sperm donor called. Have another drink on me but stay away from some other pursuits of distraction I might find myself involved with. I just feel this one. I'm not even really thinking of poetry just the whole complex Rorshach-like interrelationships

  2. Thanks Jim, was a spur of the moment, half drunken ranting diary entry I guess, any structure or verse got tossed in favour of flavour. Your critiques keep me sane.