bumps: bumps

It’s early morning when I finally return to my father. The weather is as dreary as his disposition.

I’m his daughter, but I must wait my turn, after the acolytes and inamoratas. I pity those who seek his audience; the majority are somewhere between vapid and resigned.

A brave few are too disgusted to put on their best face. Their protest is aesthetic at best. They’re the pragmatists of the bunch; I like them.

The sullen ones remind me of my mother, not that I ever knew her. I just know she was like that. Some of us need these little fictions to get through the day.

The queue dwindles, and it’s my turn to receive the gift of parenting.

I tower over my father these days. He smells the same as he always did: like dried grass.

But I have no opportunity to reminisce, as my father is a personality:

did you visit your sister: sister visit sister

Would I be here if I didn’t?

tell: tell: tell: you tell: confess confess

The Archangel agreed-

confess confess confess conf-

She agreed! We’re moving to the brackish water! Allow me the dignity of a response!

That shuts up him for a heartbeat or two.

I’ve been staring at my father the entire time. I could destroy him if I wanted to.

I could rip his head off. I’d be dead by nightfall, but he’d be dead, too.

Everyone would be fine for a few months. Even those who put me in the dirt would breathe a little easier.

But then, unannounced, on a summer day, he’d come back.

The Prince of Scum would come back from the dead and kill everyone who broke rank.

My sisters would go first: negligence of duty, I suppose.

So many would die, just because I can’t tolerate a single conversation with my own father.

Fortunately, his attention span is as short as his appetites are vast:

sport: sport: sport: sport: sport

Yes, Harmonious has adjusted our trajectory.

He would’ve known that if he paid the slightest attention.

It’s prudent we visit the river anyway, I sigh. Dorset picked up some deep-earth motion nearby: nothing tectonic, and likely irrelevant.

bumps: bumps

He’s had so many daughters, I’m not sure he can tell the three of us apart.

In any case, he flatulates a feeling, out of performative fatherhood:

haven’t been to the river in a while: looking forward to sun and sport-

I’m already walking away.

Save the rotting star, this sunrise is weak.

I should rip his fucking head off.

Outro: Uffie – “First Love”