Breast-Fed

image borrowed from bing

Breast-Fed

“I heard the night as if it were a chorus of women

beckoning me to their breasts.”--Anne Rice

Come on,

it is simplicity itself, remembering

when your mother lactated just for you,

and soon after traumatic weaning

you discovered a world bursting

with mastoid symbolism;

feeling aroused by the curves of a viola,

prows of great ships,

foothills and peaks,

silos and twin turbines,

Buick grills, stacks of torpedos,

forcing most real men to rhapsodize

over Victoria’s pushed-up commercials,

forming cadres of bosom worshippers,

earning eagle scout “chest rover” patches,

fighting that infernal need to give in

to breast-fixation,

feeling quixotic about reoccurring dreams

of being held prisoner between

Salma Hayek’s beauteous breasts,

never having an intermezzo

from the prevalent chesty temptations

on every corner, billboard, and media-pitch,

and constantly feeling bilked

when nipples fail to appear,

needing to suture countless hearts

broken by buxom beauties;

needing to palaver with other tit-men

for validation regarding our visceral instincts,

and finally knowing that only an atrophic wit

can be the primary sanctuary

for twitchy hands

and spontaneous drooling.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted over on Monday Melting 15

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