The vending breast exfoliates its black skin and peeps into the burrow of a little snake. The round organ balloons as milk fills it on the inside. Musical notes leak from the other breast, but feel fainter. A melange of this milk, soap that gropes her breasts and my own synthetic lotion pervades my nostrils.
The man who keeps pressing ‘Pa’ into my ears enters in sounds, notices I am full of life, and turns a dial. The stream of notes falls loudly from the other breast, impressing my closer ear. The notes, as if having limbs, disturb the hairs on the nipple on their way out, making them rhythmically sway.
The milch breast and music breast return underneath their black skin. My right ear is now cushioned by the thin folds of her stomach, and its telephoto image brings to me an echo of sounds – industrial sounds. Of gurgling fluids and grinding muscles. Solids, forcefully consumed on my behalf, turning upside down in a smelly cauldron.
I am lowered into my cage. Soon cold, dark winds scare my bare. The warmth of my amniotic residence is but only a placebic salve these days…
…Sunny light suddenly fills. Empty faces rush above and form a shameless crowd. Their saccharine words and squeaking tones newly scare me. If I cry, she pushes through the crowd and comforts – the only voice I recognise and relax in.
Some more darks and sudden fills later, my memories are erased and old delights are quietly stopped.
Now, as I sit on the bed and dangle my legs, my half-dressed wife juggles coffee and eggs and complains of my prickly moustache.