Mother washed the frame

In a strippy night gown and her husband's slippers,
With a spray that she tightened like a bayonet knife,
Mum's washing the case with the rag dirty, filthy.
Case, so lonely between shutters closed and denied.

Bitter foam's falling downwards ledge of the window,
Leaved a whispering, hissing and sibilant spit.
Iridescent soap-bubbles, so bright-empty inner,
Met the ceiling with pearly blastering split.

First three words we pronounce are like three golden cages,
Kind of lie for the crowds and a false fairy-tail,
An original sin, through the thickness of ages,
Sinking deep into depth of a tiny palm pale.

Lost in paper-sheet rubbish a poetic bastard,
Who created a sweet with vile filling within,
When passed over in silence about the mustard -
The corrosive lye lather on the gentle hand's skin.

And - you see? - nothing said, that are seen in the meantime
Through the gloss of the glass acrid-bitter pipe dreams:
Carefree fairy-tales through the prism of John Millton,
Like a clumsy dreadnought in the melted snow stream.

An unreachable world of the genuine marvels
Which I see just behind of the transparent gate,
With its infinite love weeded selfhoodish flowers,
Put the Wonderland train on the rails forward straight.

Do not paint graying curl - you won't fire the cinder,
Colored memories bring nothing but rancid shame.
So I beg you, my dear, don't wash goddamn window -
Its too painful to look through this firmly shut frame.