Best Served: Fool for you by Snoh Aalegra
Babies are such curious beings,
That carry a strange power with them,
Helpless as a man in love,
Yet they never want for man or love.
They spit worms that pull out your hair,
And these worms are elongated tapes,
Brown and mushy pull a hard shell,
And in an angel’s harmony; they sing:
“You pull me closer though your teeth kiss,
My living Santa buys my wish list,
The truth is that you can’t resist this,
See I’m the shackle you chose to wear on instinct.
At the junction of love and hate; we meet,
Nature and thought turned tear bare at the teat,
This feeling soaks quite deep in bittersweet,
But boast this love, it tastes more bitter– in truth– than it is sweet”.
They are so weak–
The little clouds of arrogance,
Can’t even wipe their ass,
Yet their cradle is a throne.
Some even worship them,
Making them the center of their life,
A writhing altar above their wife,
But on the skin of the temple
wails the child of strife.
You do realis—
Why are you kneeling?
Stand the fuck up,
Your knees are for money
sex and fleeting pleasures,
Your feet are to chase your butchered dreams,
Joseph runs on the barest of feet.
I know you are a clueless dreamer.
Delusion searching for the next big hook.
You ought to climb that icy mountain.
But all Hail the flesh’s faithful book.
So, here we are on a train to destiny,
Me, a successful nobody,
You, swaddling a contradiction.
You could have been famous,
Or a gangbanger or politician,
Or maybe something less scandalous,
You could have been warm and adventurous,
But as the setting sun casts amber shadows
That weave through the rough train window,
I see you are choked in shriveled fun
Trapped in a snow-covered sun
Rasping and gasping for torture’s turn.
Black picks a fire but blue burns.
The icy mountain chuckles at your insolence,
At your attempt to connect to the larger hive,
At the cultural gap between nappy hair and blue eyes.
At your forced laughs with statues you despise,
At the clay between your actions and your mind,
And all the little things that go bump in the night
When you take convenient chemicals that make you feel alive—
Drumming the needle; a doused reprise
Shrug off reality; dive into the tide
Rusted pendulums swing crouched highs into garbled cries.
And we could talk about sexless soldiers
Or how your friends are getting older
Or how Brexit fucked Theresa,
But you know yourself.
You don’t have that kind of time,
You’re busy chasing babies.
You know you’ll get off at the next stop,
Drop destiny for a baby sop,
To a job where you’ll never reach the top,
And when that’s done, you’ll go home,
Sit on the couch,
And sigh deeply between sips of scotch,
Lamenting your alight and stolen bliss,
Longing for a train that you can only reminisce,
That siren in the cradle is your antithesis,
Loud, raw, simple; free.
Its owner either your epitome or your nemesis.
It is everything you wish you could be.
You will not admit it,
For it makes your life a squandered fortune,
And death an honored guest,
So, you tell yourself:
I will never want for man or love,
I am not helpless as a man in love,
I am special, shan’t I chase my dreams?
After all, Babies are just curious beings.