first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
“what is it?”
“it’s called Love For Three Oranges,”
I informed him.
“boy,” he said, “that’s getting it
cheap.”
he meant sex.
listening to it
I always imagined three oranges
sitting there,
you know how orange they can
get,
so mightily orange.
maybe Prokofiev had meant
what my father
thought.
if so, I preferred it the
other way
the most horrible thing
I could think of
was part of me being
what ejaculated out of the
end of his
stupid penis.
I will never forgive him
for that,
his trick that I am stuck
with,
I find no nobility in
parenthood.
I say kill the Father
before he makes more
such as I.
© 2011
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Thank you Tony, I love squeezing your oranges…:)
I like the poem
but I a do not agree with killing the father
in Bukowski case I would make an exception
but I am happy that i was born and life is a blessing not a curse.
I don’t agree with the poem, but my heart goes out to anyone who is beaten and abused as a child by their father as Bukowski was, I was fortunate in my dad just left us…at least I was never abused. I understand his point of reference…
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