House-Father Has Shit on the Carpet
Love is not a lump of shit on a white carpet
when the carpet is no longer white
when it can be no longer called a carpet
when there is only Calpol on a spoon
with a baby screaming into a room
with all of its contents now crammed inside
this House-Father’s head. He starts to question
the apocryphal power of this purple sugar-based syrup.
Maybe baby is hungry. Father smokes a spliff.
He always wanted to do a philosophy degree
or an engineering degree or better still
a philosophy of engineering degree
that by degree would show him the mechanics
of a quiet world. He could do it in France
they love theory. Now House-Father thinks
he’s shit himself. Will nobody help him?
He can’t do this by himself in the middle
of a night when everyone is dead, refusing
to rise and all the others who now realize
that we are put on this earth to wipe away
all of the shit we never shit in the first place
but are still meant to call it love. Shit!
Peter Raynard is editor of Proletarian Poetry (www.proletarianpoetry.com). His books of poetry are: ‘Precarious’ (Smokestack Books, 2018) and ‘The Combination: a poetic coupling of the Communist Manifesto’ (Culture Matters, 2018). ‘Rumbled’ will be published by Nine Arches Press in 2022.