Gee, mister, That pang of the pan-sexualised medium has drawn my tween heart-box in twain What is ‘gosh!’ if not in the cleft of my hope and the turbulent theft of my pain The hat of that brain that left my eyes slain the appeasing aesthetic re-fashioned insane Wow, Sir, I was taught of the help we must give, the reaping of paper and grain- I learnt to point fingers to any that linger: For God’s and the morals we feign Gosh golly gee, It can’t only be me that was told to respect the arcane, our Father’s impression: Thou art a profession! And yes, I learnt just the same— but can you believe in the morbid reprieve of My! How shallow thy shame. I remember his eyes and the pitch of his cries more than I remember his name, but that’s all that he is, not the burden of his, not the synaptic stints in his brain. You never taught ‘Wow!’ or ‘I wonder how…’ and I’ve not learnt the price of our game- the rules of affection or loss in rejection or the appeal of Kingdom and claim Whether it tea, PCP or the calm of the sea that leaves our synapse awash- I take from the books of the cad and his crooks as the grappling hooks to the heights that the haggard would floss I read in the strife and exhaustion of life and bathe in the horrors of ‘gosh’.