This is the child of
A Milton Scholar
Who found that
Freewill
In parables
Was as lost as paradise
Amid
The sinners
martyrs
Its own
Tortured soul
Cleaving to the supple virgins
Teat
Child angels
Mocking uncertainty
As blissed adoration
Is simple
Simon found
My mother on
The rocky crag
Of a patagonian
Rain or at least
The cataloged
Version
Full of adventure
Errant locks
Of amber
Beaming in
Synthetic down
The promise
Of everlasting summer
Against blue bird
Snowscapes
Her compliance at pretending
Tempered his anguished
Soul searching
Just long enough
To believe in
Progeny
A generation
Unsaddled by patriarchal
Sins
But ever prodigal
And so I was begotten
And soon forgotten
Glossy throw away adverts
At odds
Always with
Musty debates of
Puritanical virtue