Paul Oluwafemi puts the breast in perspective in this wordy poem. He showcases the everyday life of the breast in pleasure, in pain, in the hands of men.
Men Mold Breast Like Clay (A Poem)
Breast look down when they’ve died.
Show not a man the church where clays pray, the soil where clays worship, the body where clays fast, the building where clays speak in tongues.
He will come swiftly, he will come loading armour tanks, revolvers, riffles like world war broke out to claim everything, own everything, control everything and leave you dangling, hanging and sleeping upside down like bats who cry all night.
Show not a man the road to the soil holding your clay, he will bring all his tools, stools, wool and build homes on it, build dreams on it to his own satisfaction and leave you hanging with war like Pakistan, Iran and Libya.
Nectar tastes bitter when they’ve died.
Men mold breast like clay shaping and reshaping it to their own taste.
Breasts are the doorbell used for ringing a girl’s heart out, for stopping her heart from beating.
Your breasts aren’t safe men raid it, love it. stare at it to leave it hanging on the roof.
Breasts are clays waiting to break into tears that cannot be consoled.
Milk is the tears of breasts when they’ve died, it looks thicker, stronger because of the pains of pressing and touching.
That is the story of men that women hate to hear, the history of men that you should accept and swallow like a pill of truth.
Men know how to mold breasts into a nightmare, into an apology, into a cosmology of biology.
Men know how to pack clays into emptiness; they know how to leave molds on it.
He will add too much water and complain about flooding, he will add too much pain and complain of pleasure, he will add too much force and complain of winds, he will add too much fire and complain of ashes, he will add too much muscles and complain of circles, he will complain about everything he left behind while molding and shaping.
Men mold breasts like clay leaving it hanging, bare and deserted like Niger delta, oil wells, oil rigs with heart spillage and blood spillage.
Your right breast is the wrong one, the left the misfit because he forgot their positions when you open your body and become naked to open the door to the oldest ICT library.
The nakedness of a woman will make you forget, feel guilty of the losses that follows from removing your ribs to form hers, of getting silenced into comma to complete her comma sign, of getting dragged into oblivion to complete hers as a wonder.
Men mold breast like clay using tools to create curves into sizes and shapes. They turn your body into a bakery where the fate of flours and yeast becomes breads of different lengths and widths.
Men are bakers with rough whiskers like rats.
You stood on her laps to forget your name, to forget your birthday, to forget your parents, to forget families, to forget everything that truly loves you.
You forgot everything to see the building where histories are made, where histories are changed, where forces are wrought, where time stops, where hearts stop, where men are broken, where men fall molding breasts through force.
Did you know how much blood was pumped into your penis to stop your heart from flying away from your chest when her breast caught fire under your body to make terracotta?
He’s not Mozart, he cannot mold it into a David.
He’s not Pablo he cannot paint it back after it has rusted.
Did you know how much damage he did to your body to call it love?
Men Mold Breast Like Clay (A Poem)
This Poem is written by Paul Oluwafemi from Nantygreens.com