DREAMS OF A MASTURBATOR
Before the nest room consumes me
I softly close the door.
It is the last tread of needs.
Books, bed, clothes, meds.
There’s a single red rose looking dead-
I love yous dried, their skin wrinkling.
I find the spilled smell of us twinkling.
But inside of me an ominous welling
Hint of a high tide and a rook of dread
Combine spread wings and waves
And share my desire to bare teeth and feed.
Naked, I make a fat-boy foetus,
Soon to be at it in our field of cotton-
Tears kissing pillows whose songs
Of former re-births long forgotten,
Have me writhing as if bound again,
Loathing the restraints of recent change.
Ch..change has me painting a new life.
To watch me folding then unfolding
Like flesh origami would be shocking-
My infant bright fluids running oily wet
Then drying invisible, the magical
Organs pleating in and roundabout.
A brand new umbilical begins to spout
Today’s lewd nutrition and erotic waste,
And, in the devilish overbearing air,
The sweet taste of a fresh tomorrow
[That I’ve borrowed yet again from hope,
So I might breathe once more and cope.]
Makes me suckle on a fucking thumb
For want of a live nipple.
Oh God..God love us! Here I..here I come.
I knee-jerk,
Languidly killing the tired porn,
Then sleep some.
Later waking messed and cold.
I see my glut of guilt taken by ravens,
Torn like dead fish from a flaccid ocean,
The dreams of a masturbator
Creamed off
By baby rosebud lips, stirred and shaken.
© Chris Madoch 2007