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