Rhetorical Pediatrics --- The Slam Edit

Rhetorical Pediatrics

Baby baby baby
baby baby baby
baby baby baby
light my way
--- Bono, U2

Baby. I love you so much I can't even begin to tell you.
Baby. I love you like
the ultimate four by four,
some cliff-climbing piece of Detroit V8 muscle machine,
the kind of thing that could scale the Matterhorn in cruise
control towing a god-damned 747 behind it like a paper plane.
Baby, yer just like that
but without the catalytic converter.
Baby. Yer like the ultimate calzone.
Some crisp-crusted mozarella-stuffed hunk of
scorching-oven, monkey-tongued, belly-bust basted
in dragon-flame tomato sauce.
Baby. I love you like (heh hah heh hah) Lamaze.
Baby. The minute I see you I start hyperventilating harder than
a phone-stalker on an ether binge, my pelvis contracting in rhythmic
spasms so strong I'm sure I'll give birth.
Baby. I love you like some mythological Greek river of forgetfulness.
Some Lethean passage into the afterlife, coz when you're near
I feel newly braced from that river, can't remember anything
or anyone else now I'm washed up here on the other shore of you.
Baby. I love you like some high-end supercomputer with more giga-hertz
than the Pentagon, more disc space than Motown, more Ram than a
shepherd, more cache than the Federal Reserve, --- totally
WYSIWYG.
Baby. I love you like Osama bin Laden loves his cave.
Baby. Not the way some world banker loves some bantustan's
bagman, some sadistic Sese Seko-an psycho, but like a
French existentialist loves fast food and slow women, but
really loves the opposite.
Baby. I love you like Frank Gehry loves architecturally undulating titanium.
Baby, the way a charged particle loves a magnetic storm,
some foreign born invader thrashing through the atmosphere
in glowing swarming turbulence of borealis solar wind, some
cosmic kayaker churning in the dance of a whitewater sky.
You're my annihilation radiation.
Baby. I love you like the Bomu river, flowing 500 miles through a
central African republic to join the Uele and form the Ubangi.
Baby. I love you like a body builder loves a pose off.
Like a cigar loves a humidor.
Like a fight promoter loves trash talk.
Baby, baby, baby. I love you like some soot-caked dust-drenched, air-dropped
mountain wild-fire fighter loves a cloudburst, an effortless natural answer to a threat
with no human solution, a liquid prayer come true unifying the land, the sky,
the forest and the flame, man and woman in a single rain, like tears of joy,
eroding clean channels on thankful skin, soothed and cooled, a smile within a desperate and often aching life, a soft surcease from this world of pain.

--- Terry Provost