To My Parents

Blue sweat on the brow,
Wells comes zoom zoometh,
The edge of the meadow doth smell sweet,
The charred remains of childhood,
But it has it bequeathed the promise of a donkey’s life?
Or a life with the sticky tears of Schopenhauer’s radiergummi,
With the sticky feeling of sticky hands,
Bound by the kirk of relations,
Has gene justified my existence,
Or my existentialism?
Will the kites of Kitano,
In all their liberal brilliance slit my throat?
Have I been a good son, mother and father?