Suckling, pulling, drawing close.
Over-looking, not even being able to look.
Beneath closed licks, feeding.
Enclosed, bundled, and beating,
Heart.
Nurtured, safe, warm and mild.
Needing, susceptible, spotless child.
Fresh, untainted and yielding,
Skin.
Flaky, like feathery peelings of paint.
Stretching, spreading, swelling.
Uttering, jabbering the puerile patter.
Dashing, darting, a single grain of sugar.
Beating little heart and watching
The box.
Toys, messes, endearing enactments.
Tattle, Prattle, settle…
Down.
Questions, inquiring eyes.
Probing, prompting, coating a few lies.
Beginning, the sharp quake of presence.
No more animate dreams.
Needing more answers, it seems.
A single hair. A tuft of hair.
A growth here, more growth over there.
A rise, a mounting, and a mound.
What's this? What is this?
That I have found?
Voices, choices, understatements.
Riveting eyes, lingering gazes. A swivel,
And the attention wavers.
Dress in this, dress in that. Enclose in this,
Show-off in that.
Blaring, exclaiming, presenting.
Hardly the matinee performance.
The show-down, the curtain, the applause.
They've been raised, let's let them loose.

Into the real world…..

Dr Seuss and his cat, didn't warn them about that.
That, the encompassing smog of snobbery
And the loser with the coffee. That would be me.
I'm plagued, a little bemused. By the bore.
And I do not like Mondays at all.
Traffic reeks, the economy peeks,
Everytime some loser fails, I'm asleep.
My days, a scattered mess of sugar grains.
And not the single grain anymore.
I remain forever sheltered,
In this maze of empty gore.
I play the game of hide and seek,
But she won't find me anymore.
And I sift through pages of my book,
As they play faint tunes of beeping horns.
And I'm reminded again of those days,
Where I'd probe my mother for more.
Those drivers aren't much better than I,
Screeching files and reforms and cries.
Of steel, of structure and of the etiquette,
unknown by me.
While they were teaching,
I wasn't listening. I was dreaming of swivels.
And of mounds. Of fountains leaking syrupy kisses.
Of dances.
While we were performing,
People were paying attention to their form.
To being organised so that I,
The mouse running after the last piece of cheese,
Could possess a mountain of it.
So that I could sit at this very spot one day,
And speak of days gone and littered,
All along the very trail,
That I am walking through, now.
Dr Seuss didn't know about this,
Though I still love him and his green eggs.
And winnow still, I shall.
And sleep through it all, per shift.
And make no difference to the loser with the coffee.
Next year, no one will give a shit.