Tuesday, January 8, 2013

A baby on the brink of technofrication

What was the rush. Pass the parcel, not him again, he smells of B.O., I farted to get even with him, she smells sweet, those sounds they make, gugu gaga aaaaah, you’d think I was an alien. The comfort of mummy’s tummy a week old memory, pushy was getting used to being born, the surprise he thought that was ahead of him, not quite the one he had in mind. Mammy was a show off, I was the prize, don’t they know what a child wants, warmth love and a gentle squeeze, if I make a sound they stuff a bottle in my mouth, if I appear too hot, they race me to the doc, just can’t win, pushy was tired and just wanted to sleep. At last, the house was silent, pushy no longer heard voices, he returned to his pool of memories, the soft songs he heard while waiting in mommy’s reservoir of love, and the chorus of angels that kept him safe, while waiting to be born. Isn’t it true, when life gets on top of us, we return to where we felt safest, usually where love was forthcoming. Don’t the folks that distort love have serious questions to answer, ask pushy if you want.

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