If your biological daddy was doing his job he'd tell you to
get a man to handle it, and then say before excusing himself
I love you but I've got to get back to the game, talk to you
later.
If your surrogate mommy was earning her fee she'd advise
a change of man, change often, that way you won't expect
too much of the the sorry bastards who'll promise to waste
your neediness head-on but won't.
What he and she will do is slip away to fish-fuck in shadows,
no bait, no hook, drop a line in the dark and something will
grab the lifeline, something always wants a helping hand,
magic rub a newborn into light.
Pull in the line and there you are, artistifying, creating, a
wriggling body trying both to escape and hold on, tugging
against the tether in hand and ass-waving for the next dipper.
A Chelsea gallery shows pickled unborns, some stillborns,
some may be trimester almost humans, almost innocent,
doomed from day one to be admired never loved without
strings attached.
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