by Eli Skipp
if we made babies their eyes would be so far sunk into their heads they could see
their own minds bubbling and gasping (grasping?) -- elegant. berm.
the probability of them having lightly eyes increases and their hair is dark and
when they cry it sounds like ambient electronica. when we tear away their faces it's
all arduinos and wires clacking against wires clacking against wires.
if we made babies they have a fifty fifty chance of being fuzzy or not fuzzy, they are
unlikely to go bald, they have a nearly one hundred percent chance of finishing
seeing as nurture has been disproved then all of our innards knit together in great
big furls of protoplasm. our babies might taste like peaches and would more likely
than not have a greater than average understanding of spatial planes and literary
rolling around still dressed after watching each other's faces covered in projected
flags and geometric shapes: you don't smoke but we're both caught up in the smell,
it's nestled in your funny beard and your funny hair.
shoving food down our faces at four thirty in the morning, wrapping toes around
fingers and pressing forcefully into each others chests. because we are in the same
time zone you are dead asleep -- i want someone to know where i am, why, and
how i am forced to pantomime for a drink:
bitter lemon. shoving food down our faces at five thirty in the morning.
Author's Note: a poem from stream of consciousness written in Vienna
and Prague this July. here is a link to a .wav of it
being read aloud:
Posted on 09/12/2009
Copyright © 2022 Eli Skipp