The lactation of spring
A poem
Magic leaps like bunnies from the grass blade stubbles
on grandfather mushroom stools
into the hearth of the sun
that nestles like a pendant onto a ruffled hilltop landscape.
The taxidermies of butterflies,
the bulb of the dragonflies,
the boogers of the bee,
the snoring of the pigs on the pillowcases of browning cabbages
now as papery as the petals of a fresh tooth picked bud of a flower,
roll in their sleep and sniff like wives in shower caps on potbellied armchairs,
and a paunch you could scoop
from underneath
their discreet night intimate gowns,
as their husbands rustle their arousals
against the seeping barks of scrawnier women
far into the lampshade of the moon,
where the grass blades aren’t rerouted in their soil scalp
by flea like rapidity and familial genetics of ants scrambling
as an iconoclasm for working class economy,
straggling against the pebble-like structures
of shack bars or butcher pubs
where women are peeled by their glittery dresses
against the wolfy fang swift metal glint of electronic music,
saturated hearth of drinks
that rim their bottoms of the crystal glass
and black marble tables expect white powdery lines,
as skin on skin
is for waitresses
to be skinned and hung
like chicken carcasses on butcher lines,
for a window barter, mannequin dime.
The rabbits in their flower meadow burrow prance,
such magicians,
more than the card trick semblances of the pigs,
to taxidermies of our cellulite
ejaculate pungent
budding blades of chimney plants.
Their feet and paws as taut and socket-like
as flushed birthed babies
with barely a neckbone
or the silicone of dolls,
you wear out into disability
or toy box plastic nursery anatomies,
their eyes plasticky yet glazes in ripples
of your face against eye goop
and beady-eyed marble
mosaic porcelain doll pupils
against glass corneas.
The mosaic of moss, fungus, roots,
powdery clayey pinks of cotton ball flowerheads
in guillotines of chewed up stems,
and the munching rusty teeth
of the gardener’s scissors,
jagged as pliers,
glinting and swift
as a plopping jaded blade
sliding down its baby doll head.
The petals battered and soaked like garlic cloves,
in a trail of breadcrumb elf hunger,
flung off of baskets,
scraped and sliced by pebble blades,
in an alcove
where steam and rusted stoves
in its marriage to griminess,
in potbelly stagnancy,
swivel around ravine chimneys
through pink teapots fashioned out of watercolor
plunged out of the wrinkly, sagging breasts of smushed berries,
pencils
out of the forgotten junkie home of bedrocks,
soot out of the nails and tooth
of the bunnies that slapped themselves
into the earthy chocolate fudge
of shade, gloss, stench,
coordinates and angles of colors.
Fur, when petted on a little drooling,
sniffling, wet-nosed, baby things,
gets rusted, pale palms to brush against insect-colonial grass,
the mosaic of the sun chiming into the steepness,
by the rustling of these animals,
that curdle themselves from sleep
into an evergreen baby nursery play date joy
against repulsive monolithic eyebags,
chimney nostrils
coated in the pollen of mucus coal,
the gurgling of stove steam and stove esophagus,
bricked nostril puking carbon onto the pavements
of the white gassy
grey-blue sky.
So much for the earth and the animals
and the grass blade ribbon houses
or sand hammocks
and anthill bungalows
being vacuumed like carpet dust bunnies
or fur couch lint into the tunnel where
the fairies and elves linger on grass
skipping amongst blossoming jingling cherries
in cheese reeking nakedness
and rancid butt cheeks
concealing yet
baring enough for Lolita magazine insinuation.
So much for the earth,
being skinned and peeled alive
and hung onto our butchery shop’s windows
like a mannequin’s new dress,
so much for the sniffling babies of the earth
nibbling on plastic cabbages
or sleeping in cardboard sanctuaries
to incubate themselves into a womb
till the next morning’s garbage truck
was their scampering and panting sniffling
for another Noah.
Cause, we seem to forget,
we’re merely nibbling,
sometimes in baby teeth grazing and tantrum-like beating
against the breasts of the earth,
her menstrual conflict of cold and warm,
from December to February’s navel,
her pregnancy within the bosom,
nether deep of the year,
only for grassy, flowery motherhood to lactate in spring,
and then she’ll gurgle and guffaw
and swallow us whole one day
until we’re vacuumed in her tunnel
where the warmth of the soil is the
slobbering boogers of her nostrils
and her esophagus and chimney puking gut
is as green and replenished than
ever
Than we ever got to drink or feed from,
and here we are,
a nursemaid or a surrogate’s dollar wad
as we chew on her dried nipples for cakey milk,
sucking on a metal pacifier
of tinsel aristocracy,
tinsel reproduction,
industrious lactating maids
while being cheek to cheek,
skin to skin at the bosom of the earth.
