birthings

 it gets tiresome doesnt it   all this birth   its not just the others   the actual babies   the new registered life   the evangelicals with their second time arounds   third helpings   fourth cumings   the ripped gestational news   more sprouts in the greenhouse   the worst of its the eternal birthing of us   the wanton cycle of days   each exhausted new idea   shopping   another onion and licoricestick screaming on the delivery floor of the kitchen   words   even the fresh squirmy ones are doa   baby maggots on societys carcass   the progeny of our spit as we bear ourselves into decay and that juvenescent horror of the knowledge that what we believe in our ignorance is our finality   what we call death   is nothing other than yet another   another birth   not into another world or another body or another anything   but just another infinitesimal birth into another birth   covid   if we werent so obsessed with ourselves that we thought it was somehow about us   shoves birth in our dribbled faces   we think covids about death or bats or the chinese or globalization or science or conspiracies or pharmacology or history or madness   but its just another weary birth of birthings   factoids   suicides   addictions   personaldiscoveries   breakups   headlines   tweets   lonelinesses   regulatoryschizophrenia   hardly   for any entity that knows anything about geological time   anything new   the sun in its monstrous drama on the same stage with the same lines   the moon   if we can even see it anymore   pretends to be moody   but its just another recurring conception without parents or desire   and heres the jab   we think among our comprehensively totalitarian delusions that we are parents lusters creators agents of change and destiny   imbecilic shards of viscera   we are no such thing and never have been   youve heard it said that the childs the parent of the adult   sure   the childs the child of the child   the adults the adult of the adult   the adults the child of the parent   the parents the parent of the parent   its all the same fucking line whonym   take your novelty and stick it up your diseased brain   noveltys so unnovel it lost itself before hydrogen was invented   watch the womb of the spheres stream the nameless dying stars   im outa onions   its january   need to cry   where are my babies   everywhere and thats all there is and ever be   were trapped in a hospital without doctors or doors   time isnt a game played beautifully by children   it isnt even a game and it aint any more beautiful than anything else   times just another baby played by nothing   the onion storesre closed and onions are no more and i stare into night and my cat meows into the room like a banshee written like an afterthought into a poem that needs two more lines   i crave the babies of my tears   the death of birth   the numberless days like junkyard cars and plastic in whaleguts like the numberless days and birth births birth and i sit among the nativity scene like a contraction in the dark in a dream

a missed peripheral oxygen saturation reading

or theros and anatos and a slide and a slip

vinilos xuán picks up an oximeter

from a desk not unacquainted with lust

not knowing the ends around a corner

the devicell linger but vinilos      dust

such a romp though  right there on the blotter

with that cat  ixte vinilia faust

who meowed pantyless he had to do her

so things slid quickly to sighs and thrusts

inevitably afterward some disgust 

from the raunchy game of spent hunger?

meh   its not that the sex was really a bust

but that xuán divines the fall of his vigour

so he slips on his semen and dying whispers

this wasnt expected and it may be unjust

happy postscript

the oximeter gets passed to a medical consortia

where it saves some matuma from silent hypoxia