Thursday, March 8

more babies

babies are made of thin air
babies are made to scare
babies are made of DNA
that will make you really pay

babies will tickle you
babies will pickle you
drain you of all
savage sanity

they'll eat your mind dry
and watch you fry
in a pool of squalid screams
saying 'try me'

give it a miss
do without the kiss
forget they exist
take it off the list


while you still can

and all you have
are rotten grits
in a bowl of sour milk
swimming like lost spirits
drained an aeon ago
in a glassfull of ice cubes
that cut your throat to pieces
and killed the eggs you
craved for breakfast

Hello from the gutters of N.Y.C. which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine and blood. Hello from the sewers of N.Y.C. which swallow up these delicacies when they are washed away by the sweeper trucks. Hello from the cracks in the sidewalks of N.Y.C. and from the ants that dwell in these cracks and feed in the dried blood of the dead that has settled into the cracks...May 30,1977 David Berkowitz ("Son of Sam")


Ricercar said...


i didnt get it :(

i disabled feeds - thats why you dont get me on ur feed reader :)

mermaid said...

So cynical Inks? Makes me wonder if you've miscarried, maybe not in the womb but elsewhere?

Cocaine Jesus said...

MORE babies???. four is enough thank you.

sophie said...

hey howz u inky?

aria said...

Ouch! This is sharp and worryingly tense ..

The Individualist said...

Ha. On the contrary, I think it made for an enjoyable read and I won't deny that your frank bluntness added to it.

Blue Athena said...

Wonder what brought this on? :D

Long time...

Yashita said...

I agree! :)

Inkblot said...

P: probably better you don't

mermaid: you could be right

cj: so what happens when they grow up??

sophie: wish I coudl figure that out

Inkblot said...

aria: nice to break a few windows now and then

individualist: that made me smile

blue athena: yes, long time. glad you surfaced. some things are best left unsaid..

yashita: finally some support!


The first stanza reminded me of the first poem I ever wrote when I was about 8 yrs. old which annointed me poet in the eyes of my classmates. It went something like this:

Babies, babies are very handy
Babies, babies are as sweet as candy
If they make a mess you can clean it up
If they throw a candy you can eat it up.



P.S. Per your request Inkblot, another meal is served.

bert moth said...

Giving up freedom's a frightening proposition, ain't it?

Inkblot said...

eating poetry: thanks....and served on a silver platter too- loved it. will tell u my first one too-sometime

doc:me aint givin up nuthin.that's final :)