The Breast

(loosely in light of Melanie Klein’s work on Envy and Gratitude : )

The milk’s rivulets had gaps and refrains

My stomach had hints of pleasure

But, before my tentacles could slap

onto this sensational feeling

Vanish

A wailing full of reverberating sounds

Bursted into the stark silence of empty spaces

Alarmed by my voice, I frightfully dart 

Comfort

The warmth from her body 

Cradling my impotent frame

was not enough for the 

hunger that bellowed before the gods

Insatiable

And now enters into the looming empty spaces, 

blame

She withheld life

She repudiated the possibility of pleasure 

Ragefully traveling inward,

abstractly constructing my means

for attaining my needs

I am forced, in light of my humanity,

to erect structures, creeds, polarities

to follow and embody

Goddammit

I will be cursed till the day I die

with the flaws of her and, 

the routes of mine

Unto life, yet unto death

without bodily termination

Just the tangled messes

Circling around

Round the impressionable, unguarded rooms

I watch and often help the little people

tie. tie. Tie up the once fertile rooms

And I watch myself turn away

Finished

Her goodness is not nestled inside,

as I am held by my destructive impulses, dangling

over my unconscious pangs for Protection

Love me, protect me, please dear God see me

These being the keys for unlocking

the rooms strewn with passionate vows

Come

But do not, because once you loosen a strand

I will hang you with it

Your goodness will morph before our eyes

Defective

Let me heal me

Let me erect my vivid phantasies,

As lovers, composers, magicians call to life theirs 

But, they are groaning and pushing

their phantasies into ripened, holograms of truth 

for all to feed on

Whereas I, I stay fastened to my frustrated emptiness

Despair

Becomes me, raging haphazardly around the good

Meanwhile, I greedily embrace myself as bad,

sending myself into the forbidden circles of lust

There, the reverberation of echoes answer “yes”

You, are, alone, yes.

Dizzy

I find myself singing

“ring around the rosy pocketful of posies, ring around, ring around

Ashes. Ashes.

We all fall down”

I am down in my remains and without the pockets of posies, I say

while my fingertips gently brush past them,

a hand gently moves my face

Surrounding

Posies, upon posies whispering to me

Love is here

Love is here

Love is here

Ashes, ashes we all fall down

Together

I will be failed and I will lust, I will fail and they will lust

Yet, love is somehow finding me,

filing into the unkept rooms of secrecy and deep pain,

and slowly, very slowly filling them

Life

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Filed under mythology, poetry, Psychology, Uncategorized

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