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They said it, didn't they?

Plug it down your pie-hole, like a rain-pipe.

It doesn't care that I don't like the taste.

Has no quarrel with the queasy uneasy in

The plumb throb of my throat. 

It only cares how I get there,

How I reach that pebbled wrong milestone.

Truthfully, the poems said the same things as I,

Even when I hadn't glimpsed a breath of the stuff

In years of academia and rigorous forgotten self.

I plugged it in, recharged, and dismayed,

Made hate to the fatherland of my vacancy.

Didn't matter. Didn't even wonder,

My tobacco-skinned lover, jumbled lips of blue.

But, but, my lips would curl with nausea,

And my stomach lining, thickening with blood,

Irreplaceable blood of the victims. 

I slurped it up just to 'get there',

Shitting through layers of cement and eulogies,

Never caring, never even getting there,

Except to the hatred land of fathers. 

It looked like father, dreamt like father,

It went through my liver like a father.