PRAYER FOR WHITE PARENTS
Elliot C. Mason
(PRELUDE TO THE DAILY NEWS)
be careful papa, pretty mama, step down
from the garden path where you plant
dead mint stalks and hide the cracks
in prayers for rain – your children are
not coming back. your teenage daughter
is using your favourite summer flip-flops
to spank a homeless junkie, and her
waxy ass is tattooed with the face
of your ginger cat, Pimples. your son
is storing heroin and wraps of foil
in his blue lapel, hiding needles
in his earrings and little gay lovers
in that rusty Ginsberg slate
he promises to read as soon
as the smack wears off. does your
teenage daughter smile at her grandmother?
she’s using her for drugs
money, convincing senile elders
it’s her birthday seven times
a year. does your son have friends?
he’s sucking them off, munching
cum, he’s thinking about switching
from law to cultural studies, injecting glue
and listening to The Doors. Mama, dear
dear papa, your children have changed.
choo a-choo
clap your hands
call in your saviour
the local Tory councillor
he was a BUSINESSMAN before this
and only took cocaine if it was
strictly necessary for bonus profits
he will fix it
choo a-chooo
like he fixed tax loopholes by
stuffing them with money he
stole from ducking tax laws
papa, mama, wipe your hands of that
cupcake dough, put down the remote,
it’s all on repeat anyway. come out
to the world, it’s wonderful. your party
is in power, all your children have died
overdosing on bumsex and sad slow rock.
look at them enjoying it, emptying
the pension pot, merrily painting austerity
onto open futures, shaking their shiny heads.
i wish i was old like you, i wish i was
terrified and bald and in the constant
comfort of fear and hatred, then i’d love
this century. i’d be so content, so furious