Madhouse Enormity Poem by MARINA GIPPS

We shout like Russians. Ever-so-tragic.
My father, the poor devil, feeling sick.
We've planted our tree on a landscape of vast sadness.
Our tears water weeds that kill us.
An immense saga all night long.

The police with their slugging faces arrive,
baseball bats ready for a homerun. Sideshows
of fellaheen gypsies on the main driveway
of our house of noble where horrified women
cast spells for money. It's like an incantation,
a cameo hotel, a flophouse of Chicago, full of
strange commuting children with milky white thighs.

We talk excitedly below a huge portrait of
the cancer stricken patriarch. We burn our diplomas
and the police applaud us. They beat my father
into bloody anonymity.