Bottommost*

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

Amid mother’s milk and cheap wine, a donkey was found chewing bricks, off this damp basement where its owners gambled and lost their sheltered mentality.
A sack of fermented rye had turned into a bean-bag of demoralizing naps.
In Babylon, it’s ample with dust and bad luck but mother is watching her nipple nourishing little prince, naked, disoriented in this fading reality yet still holding onto some extra pounds, parenthood merged with questioning skies of low clouds.
In this chaotic scene, a Spoonbill bird sat on the donkey’s back, digging for last generations’ copper coins, in order to self-champagne its feathers when everyone is careless to scout for answers.
Genghis Khan had rade such terrains and left them all miserably disabled to justify a reason to exist, to withstand deteriorating heritage. Leaning backward onto a blunt sword.
Legends and genetics are roaring in the core of the youth, such disputable bottom moments are boiling ferocious attitudes.
Luxury to poverty, some restless philosophers are grabbing mother earth belly chord and suck some sticky thick insights, refined to street-school-doubts but out of hand for a napping self-nominated-king.
Little ginger-boy prince of dust and mother’s milk, turned a fighter at the age of 3, climbing falling throwing catching smashing olives, a worthy practice to produce next winter’s oil, rubbing armor and feeding mother.
The bitter corner of the bottom, again in history, shall catalyze the final laughter.
With closed and modest lips,
there is no need to show your teeth.
Impossible to multitask while sucking mother’s milk.