every laugh eventually clots in the veins
of thoughts, and every word that bloomed
in the blur of its wings leaves a bastardly taste
in the mouth, a cesarean tonsure on the tongue
unbaptized in the mucal pain of streamlined
spirit-spat pushing. the mouth feels like an orgy.
why weren't the exposed teeth just white walls
to tally the remainder of your life-sentence on
and why wasn't the tongue chaste enough
moving only to let wind through.
perhaps a joint's flute that makes music
of smoke could lullabyebye the parasite
but the best it can do is sway light and swirl
strobes and bring a sleep deep and softly snoring.
you still have to wake up, and wake up again
and again, and again, and again and again.
~ ajay
26/3/2022
