A Song for Caliban

Who will sing our songs for us?
Who will tell others of my life?
Do I not bleed, am I not a man?
Poets write with honey tongues.
Your songs all for Ferdinand,
Full of tricksy, pretty lines
Telling of his anguish and his love.

You caress Miranda with your tongues,
Wash her with your cleverness,
Then laugh at my coarse thoughts.
My thoughts, my wants and all I need
Are just as strong. So why no words for me?
So, what rough beast am I?
I would have you stare as my rough hands
Grasp your throats and sink my thumbs
Till I hear your gasp for life.
Then I'll have the rattle of your song.

Can you not feel as I feel:
The war between my fear and what I want,
My joy as I find some trapped and broken thing
And sink my teeth to suck the warmth.
How I love the flavour of its fear.
The same moon and stars fancify
Your poet lives that light up
My lustful kill.

I ache for the warmth of Prospero,
To hear him say 'Dear Caliban,
You are good and strong'. I long
For his head on a spike, watching
As I devour Miranda with my rabid cock
And sharp teeth, till we both flood,
With my shoot and her life's blood.
What then of my sorrow, when
I am done and all is dead and wan?

All men are the same. Yes and women too.
Rapists, perverts, everyman,
We want what we want then twist
And say that it is right and true.
We bend all, then shut our eyes.
You dress in silks and subtle scents
And cover yourselves with words.
But my nose smells out your fear
And my nose smells out your lies.

Are my colours less rich?
Is my blood less red than your rosy hues?
My agonies, my sorrows, my self-deceits
And the glory of my wants.
Who will tell of these?