Abortionist - Vic Gamble

Bleeding every one for her fee,
downstairs
there lives my friend the abortionist;
Merlin of the hot oils
she knows the vicious kick
of the pain beyond the pale of the Holy Union Grail;
but I am a full blooded male
and the mysteries of the unborn child
tend to get lost on me.

When those cries come skinless
from downstairs,
I dream of candy floss
and turn the hi-fi loud as sin
and smile my terrible smile
for every bleeding woman
pregnant with the loss
un-conceived by a double cross.

Downstairs there lives an abortionist
she shares my whiskey time to time
and talks deep voiced
on children she has worried to the bone
and all the arteries
she has broken, and all the clients
who took a loan;
she keeps her pain killers
in a petty cash box
scraped and scratched with dealings,
but I know she is the salt of the earth,
I see her dreams bloated with the
blur of her nightmares.

Downstairs,
in a cupboard
forceps shine
and slivers of surgical thread,
but I am a hot blooded male
and I do not have to give birth,
to the living,
or the dead.

Vic Gamble

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