Ode to Boobs
If I should ever die, then I would like to awaken in a paradise of breasts—large and small, round and flat, white and black. Like hills they rise from the ground, like mountains they stretch along the horizon, like branches they hang from the trees, like stones they lie there.
They are clouds. A river of milk pours out before me, bubbling as it plunges down a slope. I wander through the hairs growing toward the sky, past warts as tall as houses, some dark brown, some light red. Their areolas invite passing travelers to stay the night soon.
Naturally, butts are important. They must be neither too flat nor too bulky, firm yet elastic. Like peaches. Like apples. Never like windfall fruit. But no matter how well-shaped they may be, they cannot hold my gaze for long. The magic lies elsewhere; this is merely the path to it, a divided continent meant only for transit. Please, turn around!
I beg them—and find myself once more in my own heaven.
Fitted with small wings, they flutter across the ground. I throw myself upon them and press my head into them until I can no longer breathe. They giggle, they love me. You call them tits, boobs, or honkers—none of it does them justice. I mock your embarrassing attempts to give them a proper name and instead proclaim them God. In every respect I was a blasphemer until I beheld redemption through their creative existence. Call me the Breast Messiah! I will build them a shrine, a church, a temple. Come inside! This sect is the one true faith.
Scientists are charlatans when it comes to my savior. They reduce his wonders and magic, describing him as nothing more than an annoying mash of skin and fat and nerves. Perishable, nothing more. Doctors hack through his connective tissue, glandular lobules, and axillary lymph nodes for a bit of pay, laughing loudly as they do so.
Medical necessity I can still understand; treacherous beauty ideals I cannot. I want to weep. Please, stop it at last—do not desecrate him, leave God in peace! They do not hear me, the human butchers; their faith has long since faded. Nothing and no one can save them now.
Whoever wants to turn me away from my religion stands little chance. My Eldorado truly exists—I have seen it with my own eyes. Why should I renounce it? Nothing speaks in favor of that, so much speaks against it. All you preachers of buttocks, of vaginas, of feet—you are praying to the wrong salvation. Don’t you realize that?
Just look at them—the Kates and Palinas and Emilys of this world—have you learned nothing from them? Let me convert you, you foolish atheists. Look up and open your mouths, or you will never again be happy in your short lives!
My hands wander, my gaze is fixed, my pulse races. Night has fallen, the voices have faded, the coverings drop. There—I feel them. Their warmth, their softness, their history. They are the feminine synonym for intelligent strength; their yielding nature does not come without demands.
No force on this planet can now stop me from devoting myself to them for all eternity. Take my life, you well-proportioned god awakened from puberty—how could I not cling to him, when in return I may dwell forever at your side? If I should ever die, then I would like to awaken in a paradise of breasts—large and small, round and flat, white and black.