Arriving

[Delta40]

I began with no eyes
then they were sealed.
Floating, bouncing
hearing her muffled, whining voice
through an amniotic cushion.
Yet another faceless start in an old race.

I'm well sick of this baby!
She cried, I cried
and curled my buds to fend off hurt.
A vase shattered when she fell downstairs
but I wrapped myself in the swaddle of cord
and held on just to spite her.

For a long time I kicked hard
against the walls that forbade my release.
I was slowly suffocating through my own growth.
She groaned and drank while I remained steadfast.
I was a stubborn streak of her own hair.
At night, she squashed my rubbery shape.

I spun round, put my head down.
She spun lies to anyone who asked.
Distractions, contractions gurgled
inside like draining bathwater.
I pushed forward, longing to escape her prison.
With a final gush, I slid down the plughole.

Glaring lights gripped me
as strongly as rubber gloves squeezed me.
I rose like a prize, held high above them all.
Her glistening face, my slippery body.
She singled me out, gimme, gimme, gimme.
I smelt victory as I was crushed against her breast.

[Jerrybaldy]

Is it okay if I slap your arse and make you scream?

[Delta40]

Lmao.

[deryk]

I like the sensory deprivation of the first stanza. It's like watching sunlight through veined eyelids. "I was a stubborn streak of her own hair" is a particularly good line. It really connotes genealogy in a nice flourish of something very tangible. The rubbery, bathtub images cement the narrative with a humorous aloe. The displacement at the end is a bright crescendo. Very enjoyable, Delta.

[Delta40]

You go off again like a human cannonball.
As usual there is no safety net.
You always land on your head
and I have to pick up the pieces.
Why for God’s sake?
Because I’m repeatedly stung by love bees!
They swarm round me and I run for cover
but its no good. I'm a sucker for jerks like you.
You lie inert while I nurse my own injuries.
But I slap you back to this world
and then crack your spine into place.
I’m hungry you see.
Hungry for what I'm owed.
Eventually, I lurch your dead weight
across the street to Red Rooster.
I drag you along and say C’mon Big Daddy!
My burden is lightened as bits of you come loose.
At the counter, your eyeball pops out and sticks
to a salt sachet lying on the floor
I mimic you to cover up your shame.
I gotta, gotta see if mah te-teef thtill work.
I like how we can both handle hot n spicy chicken.
but I guess now I’ll have to mash it
till it’s as soft as a banana royale.
We loll in the eating booth,
you still smoking from the cannonball
and me reeling from the fiery chilli.
You gurgle, dribble, bleed
and I stick your face back together
with strips of serviette so I can spoon feed you
through the gaps in your head.

[MorpheusSandman]

I think you have a strong sense of narrative here, Delta, and I like how you take your time with the process. Although, there is something disconcerting about a fetus speaking in the first person with all the articulation of an adult. It doesn't quite ring true that a baby would be narrating his own birth so... maybe it would work better as a dream or some kind of regression therapy scenario.

[Delta40]

Thanks MS. I don't think I'm aiming for an authentic voice in this circumstance - only the experience of being unborn then born without bells and whistles.

[Jerrybaldy]

Re: Falling to Pieces
It's a party at the metaphor factory :D
I laughed at the eyball and the salt sachet, its such a great image.

I guess we are dealing with the other end of life here? Quirky and hugely enjoyable Delta.

[deryk]

You go off again like a human cannonball.
As usual there is no safety net.
You always land on your head
and I have to pick up the pieces.
Why for God’s sake?
Because I’m repeatedly stung by love bees!
They swarm round me and I run for cover
but its no good. I'm a sucker for jerks like you.
You lie inert while I nurse my own injuries.
But I slap you back to this world
and then crack your spine into place.
I’m hungry you see.
Hungry for what I'm owed.
Eventually, I lurch your dead weight
across the street to Red Rooster.
I drag you along and say C’mon Big Daddy!
My burden is lightened as bits of you come loose.
At the counter, your eyeball pops out and sticks
to a salt sachet lying on the floor
I mimic you to cover up your shame.
I gotta, gotta see if mah te-teef thtill work.
I like how we can both handle hot n spicy chicken.
but I guess now I’ll have to mash it
till it’s as soft as a banana royale.
We loll in the eating booth,
you still smoking from the cannonball
and me reeling from the fiery chilli.
You gurgle, dribble, bleed
and I stick your face back together
with strips of serviette so I can spoon feed you
through the gaps in your head.

The interplay between the colloquial and the metaphorical is really strong in this poem. You take plain-spoken phrases and give them new identities with new images. These sureal images are effective because they infect the speaker's empathy with a goofy sort of goreyness. Ultimately, the emotional damage is strung up allusively beneath the gaping physical wounds for us to peer into. This is some smokin' surrealism. Nicely done.

[Delta40]

Thanks for your responses. I should have posted the second poem in its own thread really.

I read about a guy in UK died after a daredevil cannon ball went wrong. Apart from imagining the unusual way to die, it inspired a parallel that I wanted to use.

[MystyrMystyry]

The three ages of man as viewed by Delta - birth, food, and ricketiness

That second one reminded me uncannily of a particular dream I had once - and the mood of various minor nightmares I've had down the years

The first left me wanting for an an original philosophical thought from the bub - a certain something to set it apart from other bubs to explain its self-importance - and then I realised it was a psycho-bub! You were addressing the idea that they're born not made - clever indeed!

The cannon in the first makes me now think it's a metaphor for the birth canal, but doesn't really explain the rest of the inexplicable deterioration - so it's a dream - or a surreality - or bizarreality

Interesting Delta

[Delta40]

I like the speculation of the birth canal and being shot out of a cannon!