Modern Art

Your sweet mother
strokes the fires 
rumbling from her womb;
you are nothing more 
than a fidgeting hiss,
the size of her own hand 

She now has something to drown in;
while your father 
isn't as impressed with your squirming;
he smells like coal
and uses the cherub Cupid 
as a coatrack,
his molars grinding 
and lips tightening;

I imagine her alone
at 3 in the morning,
blaring Mozart
 through her belly;
your tiny, translucent ears,
prickling,
as you churn in the fizzling pink

this will give you sophistication,
a wife in white furs
and three pearly rows
of serrated teeth

mother will feed you poems
and tack your every muttered word
to the wall as a reminder
that you are infinate;
An irreplaceable god

and even when seduced by  
romantic thoughts 
of weighting her pockets
with stones
and sucking in river water,

God will intervene,
full deus ex machina

god will provide for her 
a perverse trist
with the art professor
she can no longer afford;

this is the pathetic
root of your talents;
your mother groaning
against the same canvases
you'll be painting on tomorrow;

what love is this?