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I dreamed that my late mother’s breast

 

I dreamed that my late mother’s breast

 

I dreamed that my late mother’s breast had been sucked dry by me. I was as I am now: a middle-aged man, and I had in my mouth what had been removed from my mother, a child’s dummy made of her flesh, blood mixed with saliva, making a tomato sauce like thickness, about the nipple. And I was sucking it like a sweet.

It completely grossed me out me upon waking, what, in the dream, had felt completely natural.

Then today, reading Ben Okri talking about how the world of pleasure/leisure seekers has sucked the Earth’s breast dry. A repulsive image, which why we don’t really want to face our realities (we can aimlessly parrot truisms), preferring our pacifiers, our drugs, our pleasures, our politically correct euphemisms, our rhetorics.

 

What then? Poetry is not an instructional manual. It is not something aimed to provide utilitarian solutions. But to present our dreams (which reside in our collective unconscious) to the souls of its readers, indifferent to the morality of the day. This is the reason Plato banned poets from his Republic, his Utopia. His manifesto of the Rational man.

But all work & no dreams makes us 'dull' boys & girls.

 

Two flies just fucked on the keyboard while I was editing this. I really must get a fly swat.

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

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