Commer Shells in White Sauce

Ships and planes on an infants mobile,  
spinning through seas and skies of
darkest dreams and violent realities.  
Time passes counting roadside fatalities  
and watching burning bushes turn to ash.  
An acidic stomach aches for smooth milk,  
yet is offered curdled laxative motives,  
starkly soft and bloated.  
 
A mouthful of blood dissolves in a mind  
of impatient impotence,  
and what would a child know  
of swallowing down vomit?  
If not to choke, then to float,  
flattened beneath a dumpster mattress.  
At least there is bread to eat vulturously  
in the hanged necks of outspoken methodist men.  
 
When your hands are small, you're on your own  
to try to inflate the rubber bouncy bones and nourish  
the ligaments that fit between the rods and cones.  
So many scratches on the knuckles... All the pieces twitch  
and still the baby suckles.