At breakfast, sitting in the sun,
I saw the navel on my tum.
Its shaded crimp and button base
attracted my unthinking gaze.
I grabbed my camera, took a pic,
then poked my finger like a stick
as deep into the hole’s I could—
it felt peculiar, not so good…
I wondered at the gristly knot
(the only navel that I’ve got),
and suddenly I found I knew
we’ve all got navels—you! you! you!
and every living Child of Man
and every dead one in a chain,
a cord of food blood life between
our mums and us. While jammed in tight
we’re squashed-up happy parasites
a-floating in our paradise
till mum’s cunt, like a tight-screwed vice,
is forced apart and—giant turd—
we’re squeezed out screaming bloody murd-
er; conscious, things are not the same,
there’s no way this can be a game!
The cord is cut. False thoughts ensue—
that we’re Lone Rangers—you! you! you!
All of us in isolation—
we’re the only true creation!
No solace for us out of Eden,
just Cain and Abel killing, feeding.
It’s dog eats dog, All versus Each.
But our navels say “No way!!” They teach
us Abel’s mark, Each tied to All,
to Auntie Jess and Uncle Paul,
to Cleopatra, Genghiz Khan,
way back to Lucy and beyond.
With years long gone, Past, history
goes teeming Now and synchrony,
nativity (as Upay knows!)—
such tiny fingers, small, small toes,
and belly buttons all in rows,
cos that’s the way our garden grows.
And since my big fat belly’s there
before my eyes, I’ll sit and stare,
and navel-gazing in the sun
I shall commune with everyone
that’s living now, was ever born,
or’ll ever be, till the sun has gorn.