Milk


What would you do if I rammed my head at full force into your chest, like Zinedine Zidane infamously did in that game of football, that shrouded him in infamy. Just a display of aggression that might be justified, it might not, it might be a build from the time we have spent together, things I buried and never said, released in a push from my head to your chest, and thats it. I would take one in return maybe, a shove, but not give much fight after. Imagine if we settled things this way. If these moments of aggression was a settlement of grievances, and I don’t mean the catharsis of physical violence, I mean a head butt, which will at worst catapult you towards the floor, slightly hurting your bum as it hits the floor. 

Where did that awful tale that the moon is made of cheese begin? If it were, wouldn’t it disintegrate, well before our time? Were the cow’s whose milk made it raised in open plains and pastures, were they happy. Or is it made from the milk of a goat? I have nipples, can you milk me? Who said that line, 50pts for you. Or better yet, I won’t headbutt you. How is that?

Is the ocean so vast we will never comprehend her complexity, or do we just project our own lack of depth, and understanding of life. I know she is deep, depths we physically cannot reach, but, does that matter? Why do things always begin and end with us? I mean when we go  deep, when we dig holes, we just end up laying there. 


Pan left, pan right, crockpot, the pan your mom gave you, the one your grandma gave you, the first one you bought alone, the one that doesn’t fit in the cupboards or kitchen storage of your tiny studio apartment. Pan left, pan right, still shot of the ocean, thats poetry if I ever heard it.


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