Baby comes into the world fat bloody and useless. It stays this way all its life. No claws no bark no kelly green solar panels. Baby is nothing but soft underbelly and a round wet mouth that begs.
Baby screams and we see it. Baby cries and we count it. Baby shits and we study it. What a fucked up fish is this. One two four fat little limbs. One two ten twenty little piggies. One just one mouth that goes eeeeeeeee and goes AHHHHHHH and goes in too. One wet mouth that hands milk tits dirt enter.
Baby grows and we don’t. Baby grows on accident and everything we do is on purpose instead. Baby is scum slime suet and we are the other thing. What baby is we know and what baby is baby has no fucking idea.
Baby grows in the paths of old mistakes. Baby’s skull gets hard and big and full of think. Baby’s wet muscles clench like many things all going one way. Baby is god help us getting organized.
Down in the wet hole things are changing. Side muscles for pressing air are stronger now and the sounds are many shapes. Baby’s brain bites like battery acid. Now baby is idea: time to make some sounds and not others.
Muh goes baby. Muh. Mah. Muh muh ma. Mama.
This is our beautiful name and we will cry about it thank you. Baby knows it wants and we will get. Baby makes the original sound which is ours by right.
We are on purpose and the purpose is baby. It stays this way forever.
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Now Louis Evans is idea: time to make some words and not others. His work has appeared in Reactor, Grist, Vice, and more. He’s online at louisevans.org.