BABY III

The monster’s awful to look at, but its meat might be delicious to eat.

what even is a baby? each event has its baby, growing like barnacles boiling on the rocks. with the long-bodied babies stretching through time what with all this needing baby zits what do you want now you zit. want a revolution zit-baby-zecken-kind? want to be beginning? water under the cadaverous moon. almost-nothing-baby, imaginary-baby, the-shit-was-in-the-milk-baby, undeserving and born from stone, from st teresa coming to nothing babe, all muscles, oceanic-babe lives in hordes, in limbo, subaquatic-baby-hordes with sharp teeth, writhing in bastard logic, what just the other day was bathing, or sleeping, and one came out and was coming on to me strongly, covered in poop, vogelfrei-baby-starfish-kiss, eats plastic, all blushing, ganging up on sharks, hot hot babe. got bastard logic in the muscles dear, like because of love of life, not afraid of dying, no more needing yet all fragile, no trash sex, no natural conception, grow themselves babies on their long-life-bodies, like barnacles, swim through the border hum hums, being a tingling, masturbating to the breast with no circumference, they sing-song the songs of the now-time, of-the-un-incarcerated-breast-time in the incarcerated breast, swimming on the green abyss, oh yes, yes, telepathy of lost civ unfolding crystalline through the waves, takes all kinds of dog-babes they sing, underswim the state of emergency they sing, don’t believe the conditions, that created a situation, that demanded a song like that, they sing, feelings, grow like contradictions, might just make the streets melt today, lick it up like ice cream, might just go burning into the sun dear, might just love a fish-fist, might just go on no pain, or be all pain to be opened up by barnacles, by swarms, by the very one and only image of you sitting on a ladder with a cloud hanging from your head into the universe, might just be nothing-like-any-of-us-baby, mutant-robot-hell-yes-baby, baby improvising on the life-string, kiss and choke, the very singular smell of you taking off your mask, might just be the cycling- through-the-night baby song, under three moons, and dancing, searching for a permanent gravitational centre babe, then flying off to be the field, bloom boom baby swaddling groups in the wound, laughing in the choir, singing you think this is life, knowing this is not life, shouting life is splendid like a breast with no circumference in the now spreading through everything, in the fruit-trees, the fruit falling on your head, no other link than a reckless gravitation, might just be a burning motorcycle for a birthday cake, all music we can walk on, bursting fossils in the thoughts, alive in phantom pain, darling hungry hungry babes, the monster’s awful to look at they say, but it might be delicious