America in Verse
America in Verse

Our Fathers...

"Sickled tongues chopping the tall trees..."

Our Fathers...
The Cult of the Father

Sickled tongues chopping the tall trees,

Racist and sexist with every remark.

I embark on the same journey as thee,

But I occupy a different pit of shit and despair.

Surrounded by the dead whom share my magnetism towards life.

I see my pulse as a contrived torture.

Given to me by Mother Dear the sterilised Queen of Pont-y-clun,

Where babies were taken to ease racial tension and sent to Mynachdy to Be.

My Father the Crier.

Succubus of the English Civil War.

Fucker of Mothers and more than just mine, he had his fill,

'Hero to Mankind'

Living a life with a spine full of knives alone.

Fuck all your labels, I will rip my veins up and bind them,

Lacerate this plat of blood, one swift cut and done.

Shunted into nothingness,

And still not able to see God.

God! Fucker of Virgins, Gut covered padre of liars,

Creator of Rape and Humiliation.

Whistle free Referee of humans been and gone brutally.

Why do we patronise ourselves with prayer?

We evolved from Apes wanking with sticks;

And because we're so small our deity must be so big,

Complete with power and rage,

A Sage yet vengeful, your logic wanes and my patience for you fades.

Rulers of Robots, Androgynous Knights,

Testicles hidden between thighs and lies about all sexes having equal Human rights;

Continuing with genderless crimes that affect all sides,

And clouding it all by making us fight.

Prick versus Cunt!

Peck against Tit!

Gooch on Gooch and the holy is flaccid.

Scared of what an erect penis must mean,

A true WMD, a savage pusher of tears, the ugly creator of us all,


Crying pollen, making droves of clones that pose for those who care,

And whom reciprocate with groomed hair and Boob-Tubes,

Arms in the air, sending scented signals to attract 'Les Hommes Militaire,'

Seeking emotional security from a grunt, who ruts and cums yet needs no 'Love.'

A scar making thug with confidence enough,

To make you feel culpable and without lust,

So his constant advances are dry thrusts and yeast infections.

You must be happy now?

Wasn't it worth dressing as a clown, out on the town,

With the girls whom say yes but mean NO!

Are you happy though?

My happiness is the darkened sound of breathing,

The unconscious air tickling my spine that causes a tremble of a good Kind.

The warmth of a hip against mine,

Side by side we ride the motionless night in silence...

A furry friend makes a den beneath our legs and for a moment you stir;

Then descend again.

Impending dreams,

Taking all your fears and using them against me,

Your minds eye awash with false realities,

Your subconscious sleeping beasts awoken by neurosis and skewered memories.

Crazy thoughts set free and forgotten by your morning Tea.

Overcast by news of sexual abuse, affecting youths that are now our Parents.

Left confused and not listened to by men with throbbing knobs.

Intoxicated, Flare clad cops with perverse ideas of right and wrong.

Our Fathers...

Whom sang the songs of the guilty,

Encouraging the filthy actions of all,

Standing around a proverbial bed chanting for their own.

Unable to see a female soul bough, stretch and distort.

Striking blow after blow for previous shattered egos and feeling powerful

Our Fathers...

The Betrayers of trust with customised lies to disguise the monsters inside.

A suited exterior to hide the corruptible and untouchable nature of 'Incesticide.'

Their children's tears testify to creaking wood and the bitter smell of ale,

Nights failing to sleep, sweating the sheets, pissing themselves with fear.

Windowless walls below floors,

Giving birth to their own, and forced into more,

Not knowing a bird's call, the outdoors.

Where freedom flies and falls, but exists.

Dungeon Masters aborting babies, folding out tables, rusty knives,

Slashing at the endless creations, putting life to the scythe.

Crying for your Goldfish child, flushed and forgotten 'til next time.

Acts of violent passion described in cells to knowing looks and smiles,

Whilst sentenced for different crimes and with more in mind.

Our Fathers.

Whom taught their sons rhymes about hair on wickets, and getting caught Short,

Cunning tricks to get a bit more and how mini skirt means whore.

“Fuck 'em all Son!

I mean it, you only get one life, strive to do as many in that blink of an eye,

Before you get a bride, pot belly and your sex life dies.

Before your existence becomes like mine.

A pathetic mix of old jokes and mortgages.

Waiting for a knock at the door to take me away for things I done before You were born.

When the world was different and I had the horn.

Your mum was pregnant and it was open season to debauch and torture Teenagers wearing Shorts in Cortinas.

Girl or boy, the same blame is on them for wanting it so,

And not listening to what they were told by family members,

Who know from experience that men have cold souls and warts.”

Our Fathers.

Tapping on veins, to keep their ex-virgins in step.

Deprived of choices and pepped up on Goof-Balls instead of catching bears in bed.

Sweating out and giving endless head.

Bred to be controlled by men and then abandoned to various nefarious Ends,

To so called friends who finish the job...

Street girls left unprotected by male driven Bureaucratic hypocrisies,

Spreading fear and blindness and choosing not to see the legacy of daddies Filthy needs.

'The Bleeding Queen of She' guilty of complicity through inaction.

HIV, 'the Sub-Saharan disease'.

Raped into humanity, infected warriors don't say please when they take.

Making stricken babies in lands without GPs, Mosquito Nets and peace.

Our Fathers.

Turning a blind eye to lies told by guys they know.

Drinking buddies with wandering hands and Gaul,

Idolised by those who give little and take it all,

Appalling everyone if they're caught,

Though all of them knew, and did little if anything.

Wives hiding trails and tracks to remain in the dark.

Self imposed ignorance to avoid gross facts about their children's dads and Bruises on arms.

Lies told to 'Reduce Drama' and to satisfy suspicious officials,

Who want the best for children or an easy time.

Ignoring warning signs and broken backs until infants die.

Our Fathers.

Whom bleach-off genes from crime scene clothing to mask obscene stains,

That never fade.

Craving Vampiric rewards of strays that prop up patios and window Frames.

Random youngsters, who won't be missed and will never go grey.

Saved from the everyday mundane and the endless shame of existence.

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Johnny Vedmore
Johnny Vedmore
Read next: Poem: New Life
Johnny Vedmore

Follow me @JohnnyVedmore.

I'm a UK based Investigative Journalist, Musician, I hunt child abusers online, and I believe that the UK government should legalize cannabis! Come to my website with lots of content at:

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