Industry Infant
Soft, new, eager to please.
Spotless, yet-to-be touched.
Crowd eagerly awaits to be blessed with the music of its first cry.
Awake
Industry Infant
Coos and searches, large darting eyes.
Guardians pull in close for a gentle caress, baby giggles.
Warm glow, overflow.
Industry Infant
Infant learns to walk, earnestly stumbling still.
Eager to run. Looking to fly.
Baby hears a soft voice holding him still.
Industry Infant
Tired from play, but still awake.
Hand holding in the dark, eyes unable to adjust
Soft voice whispering hush
Industry Infant
Ground up, molded into small shapes, and served on a platter.
Needy, greedy, mean.
Industry Infant chafes in that small sweet spot between their thighs
As they’re sodomized.
They try to turn their tears into enjoyment.
They're watching, being watched.
Industry Infant
Calls my name in the darkness
Infantile cries go wah wah in the night, music no longer.
Bedside empty
Bad baby.
Industry Infant
Pounded into mulch, like veal on a cutting board
Fermented, seeds spread across the ground, bodies as payment for the foundation of the next, the ever elusive ever coming. Never coming. The fruits and flowers from the soil of their souls sold for profit.
Industry Infant
Always premature. Squeezed, dragged through the womb and into the open mouths awaiting them. Industry Infant is cold, sleepy, accepting. Skin still wet with amniotic fluids, bodies lubricated up for a seamless swallow. They love it. They are trained to love it. Lingering bite marks whisper the names of their biggest fans.
Industry Infant has learned not to cry when hungry. I have learned not to cry when hungry. Sometimes I cry when I am full. Skin wet and glossed, reflecting dreams unto audience, soul nibbled up until infant is no more, too old.
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