It’s all a lie,
our birth into this world.
Mourning should have welcomed us,
late, but perfect companion
for all the sweat, tears, blood,
and “doctor, doctor, the baby’s not crying…”

Tube in,
suck,
slap,
and that agonising human meowing,
hoped to follow…

Blood all over,
and that hideous,
blueish maternal lifeline,
drowning abandoned
in a sordid tin bowl.

“What is it, nurse?”
And the embarrassing silence
following a sob;
dad wanted some"thing" else.

When in distress, or asleep,
we have an instinctive reaction;
curling back in a foetal position:
assembled into existence,
tiny, atomic conglomerates
of biochemical memories,
embraced in a lightless quest for temporary shelter.

Something’s wrong outside, here,
in this limitless dimension of suffering,
where we are denied even our thumb’s suck,
because it’s “childish, you know, and silly”.

This is not what I have mindlessly dreamed of.

Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, brothers and sisters,
we are all dead;
tagged, wretched food for an all-devouring Chronos.

Can’t you see,
you miserable clients of Freudian stock,
that life is the opposite of living?

I’ve had enough…

I’ll close my eyes, again,
pretending to be functionally
blind, deaf, mute, numb,
and breathless, tasteless, heartbeatless,
mindful, nevertheless.
I will stay calm, still,
until all material memories
of my mothers and fathers,
shall force my withheld senses to return;
where?
If life’s the opposite of living, what’s death?
The opposite of dying?
It’s just the recipe for it…

Dreaming:
our continuous suicide from death to life…