Child Abuse 2

Befi_time

I

Through the carnivore eye, the clenched jaw
The brutal canines, there is a strain of predator

And here you find a man who was supposed to nurture
Like a wolf, become the lion and then the hyena

Lions are for the chase of preys, gazelles, antelopes, elands
And even ungulates such as zebras that play

On the parklands. And hyenas prey on half-dead
Carcasses that are rotting to their own stench

Carving upon the flesh left on bone.

II

And a predator, is a diabolically slanted creature,
Wearing masks or mane, that only come off when caught red handed

He pries the parklands, for innocent prey
Like the pigtails and mohawks that climb little railings

Of a mat slide or swinging like Sweet Chariot
On a swing. Here you have an interface, a food chain

When a little body becomes shattered to the claw marks
Of wild animals, obsessively compulsive on their

Food for the diner.

III

And the footprints of candy men, are the legacies
That drift from generation to generation.

The batons that are gifted from shattered
To the shatter, in relays run by the battered bodies.

The apocalypse of when innocence is sold
To the lowest bidder, in an auction of flesh

And they say, Hansel was a little boy
Who didn’t have a bone to poke out of his cage

Instead he poked out a smile, trusting
A large hand that took him home

And home is where the heart shatters, like
A little rubber ducky rolled over by a road roller

And that noise he makes as he is crushed
Will haunt him forever.

IV

And reality will fall like a hailstorm. The child will be
Just as animalistic as the man in the park

Predator who looks through the eye of a periscope
To hunt penguins on ice-shelves

And legacies do not fade or dismantle
They become gametes of inheritance

And that little boy will grow up to be
The candy man, searching for a little confectionary

In a tiny body. He will play his flute music
Until children come out from playgrounds in Hamlin

And that hold of the shaman, will become
A little voice inside, crying of its primeval need.

V

Love was supposed to be a discovery, a treasure
And not a carcass smelling of alcohol

It’s tragic that a rubber ducky who was only meant to sing
Could only squeal.

Advertisements

Author: meandererworld (Dilantha Gunawardana)

Dr Dilantha Gunawardana is a molecular biologist who graduated from the University of Melbourne. He moonlights as a poet. His poems have been accepted/published in Forage, American Journal of Poetry, Kitaab, Eastlit and Ravens Perch. He mixes science with poetry for a living, when what matters is the expression of both DNA and words into something serendipitous. Although an Australian citizen, Dilantha is domiciled in Sri Lanka, his country of birth.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s