A Child's Confession

I am my mother's sixth century glass eye,
feeding me the pink spout of her luxurious swollen breast
pressing that mammalian flesh against my lips
as if without that golden milk
I would surely die,
moving her wide hips against someone not my father
late into the hot night,
in my crib dressed in my own warm brown shit mix
in my feather haired head
and in my little red penuckle heart
I knew something wasn't right,
blood farts in a yellow diaper too tight,
the song of this woman's sex blasting through the vents
like mustard gas might,
the sight of some stranger's hand prints along her lower thighs
made my head swim and my swollen lips cry for that thick curdled milk
she hoarded inside,
hidden in those pale balloons festooned with blue veins
and the calcifying remains of a strange man's stains
was an endless supply of the essence of life,
after you've seen that mound-munching man to the door
let me gum that brown nipple
and be baptized,
arise ye twin mountains of suicide and
oblige this child tonight.

TA