by Eli Skipp
It is discovered that there is enough oxytocin to
go around. It is as though the small quantity once
reserved for the genetically beneficial has ballooned.
Everyone is full of the desire to draw everyone else
to their breasts.
There is a constant feeling of internal swelling and
everyone quits work. They spend their newfound
free-time sending each other postcards that dictate
their intense missings, and playing with each other's
Despite the infatuations floating everywhere, the
problems are not what might be expected --
cheating, for instance, is no longer an issue because
tenderness is universal.
Rather, thrown suddenly into the drug-addled
turmoil of constant affection, people begin to grow
tolerant. Every day it takes more and more to feel the
same attraction to one's fellow human beings.
The world tries to spice things up. They schedule time
for cuddling, to make sure they get around to it. They
engage in quirky notice-ings, making sure everyone is
aware that even though the magic has worn off, we
still feel the same way. It quickly, however, becomes a
Soon society as a whole is jaded. Despite the oxytocinal
surplus, the population's tolerance overcomes. Everyone
is bored with everyone else, and they long for an affair,
but there is no one left. Regrettably, the world takes an
indefinite break from loving, shoving the memories of
breastbones and tangles into collective repression.
Posted on 04/06/2011
Copyright © 2019 Eli Skipp
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Jo Halliday on 04/08/11 at 04:27 AM|
Stunning work. Though even the words and the poems now seem superfluous; the inertia of remaining jaded has even transformed into a propulsion for becoming jaded. We assimilate too much, we think too less. We lose wonder too early.
|Posted by Clara Mae Gregory on 04/08/11 at 10:36 AM|
Very imaginative in a twisted philosophical sort of way. I was intrigued left wanting more....
|Posted by Sarah Wolf on 04/08/11 at 03:45 PM|
|Posted by Jolie Jordan on 02/02/12 at 07:59 AM|
How depressingly whimsical. I mean that in the utmost complimentary of senses.