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How did I know fathers talked to their children, kissed them? I knew, I saw him and judged him. Whatever he poured into my mother she hated, her face rippled like a thin wing, sometimes, when she happened to be near him, and the liquor he knocked into his body felled him, slew the living tree, loops of its grain started to cube, petrify, coprofy, he was a shit, but I felt he hated being a shit, he had never imagined it could happen, this drunken sleep was a spell laid on him-by my mother! Well, I left to them the passion of who did what to whom, it was a baby in their bed they were rolling over on, but I could not live with hating him. I did not see that I had to. I stood in that living room and saw him drowse like the prince, in slobbrous beauty, I began to think he was a kind of chalice, a grail, his love the goal of a quest, yes! He was the god of love and I was a shit. I looked down at my forearm-whatever was inside there was not good, it was white stink, bad manna. I looked in the mirror and as I looked at my face the blemishes arose, like pigs up out of the ground to the witch's call. It was strange to me that my body smelled sweet, it was proof I was demonic, but at least I breathed out, from the sour dazed scum within, my father's truth. Well it's fun talking about this, I love the terms of foulness. I have learned to get pleasure from speaking of pain. But to die, like this. To grow old and die a child, lying to herself. My father was not a shit. He was a man failing at life. He had little shits travelling through him while he lay there unconscious-sometimes I don't let myself say I loved him, anymore, but I feel
those waste foetuses.I almost love those shits that move through him. shapely. my brother. and me in that purgatory. my sister. . my mother.