I do not scream (on demand) unless I am dropped. Do not drop me; you'd never; I am never dropped. The sad mess is I waddle. I'm not, except the hot smell, but, no, never dropped. I lift the pasta, slap it on my head! My teeth! none. My smile then! Woosh!: I rocket my bottle across the room.
Bouncings off the mirror into your makeup. Milky makeup. Breasty make-up, chesty make-up. Rest then wake up, rest then wake up. Spilt milk in your eyelashes. Bat your milky wings and pat your milky face. Give me my nose back.
My meal is from your breast is in your face paint. There, there. A puddle of your breasts! No, that's me: Do I
Two eyes or toes in my mouth. Giggle, for I am your third breast; I am the surprise that is full of surprises, I am the habit that is full of habits, I am the accident's factorial, I am only learning and you'll blame yourself. Trust me on this one.
I am thus far you with your big pea-green formula and breasts. Do I think of you? I don't think. I tinkle, that much is unavoidable. I cry. I sleep. I sleep in public, I cry in public. The narcissist is a word: for baby?
Probably we may call out. For whom? At whom's benefit? A fume heaven whiffs. A broom menaces. A tomb, friendly, sits. Whom's? Infants; who learns? It probably now sounds like crying. My mouth. My gums ache. Tip your nip against my gums. Can you believe that I will stop someday?
I would like to stop Sunday. I watch myself cry, I watch myself sleep, I watch my demands multiply unreasonably, I watch myself cower when the dog trots through the flap. I am tired but I will not sleep, I am not tired but I am asleep; none of it is mine all of it is mine and just being in this high chair is giving me vertigo.
I am not casual, I am not to be cared for, I am not to be cared for casually.
Tags:
art,
artist,
breasts,
crying,
infancy,
infants,
metaphor,
narcissism,
Poetry,
portrait,
prose,
qualms,
shit,
Tom Bair
