Respect

It is a cold thing,
this respect you speak so willingly of!
It conjures up images
of starched Victorian children.

Stiffly standing sons,
who call father 'sir'
A no 'dinner fore bed'
'Spare the rod spoil the child'
Kind of respect

It is a hollow word,
devoid of meaning.
Dead and passionless
yet it is the only one
which now touches the listening ear

I am not to be loved
Only mistress or whore
A mad moment of lust
Never more than fleeting
moment of exploding ecstasy

Only dry and barren
Respect
to warm my solitary bed
Its bony back, cold comfort
Your constant retort,
My only compliment
in the web of desire and deceit
You often cunningly weave!