Obsolete

You killed me mother -
a slow insidious erosion of
my spirit, my soul, leaving me
crushed, defeated, obsolete.

I tried fighting back in my own
special way painting you black
on red - cutting and glueing and
defacing paper-cut images of you
but still you returned for unfinished
business, stalking, interfering
like always - your defective gene
firing warnings, reminders, lest
we forget the damaged bloodline;
how could we - alert as we
were to signs and symptoms.

I knew it would be so even
after your final curtain call,
a surprisingly low-key performance
to a reluctant audience of seven
who watched in silence as
God cowered unseen behind
the altar piece in one of his
more anonymous dwellings -
A finale with no closure, to an
Aykbourn-esque tragicomedy.

Alone one night in twilight sleep
I felt the familiar weight-heaviness
as you settled yourself on my bed
your breath on my face
as I fought for mine -
like my father before me
when all we could hear was
the crackling and whistling
of an old transistor radio
left on by mistake, each time
he sucked in air; followed by
his deathly silence......

I didn't hear you leave
because you never went.
We have been transposed -
you are alive and I am dead.
You have crushed me mother,
I am obsolete.