I’m gonna swallow every mud print, clay cast tossed,
Gonna pocket them like folded, stained napkins, push them into tight, small pockets,
Pluck them out one – then one by one, then, I’m gonna stuff them in my mouth and bite
Down hard until the roots start moaning. I’m gonna scream.
I’m gonna stuff the rest of the napkins beneath my tongue
I’m gonna squeeze it and let it get squishy, let it squeal and turn to paste and dust, and wiggly lines.
I’m gonna chew it twenty times. I’m gonna swallow it.
I’m gonna sniff coffee from its rust as it mumbles its way down.
My gut might groan, might grow too
Might cut the balls of pasty print into pieces and view it like a hologram.
Might just stop. Might just twist . Might fall away into scrap and scores.
Might stretch like hot latex over cold sweat flesh, might cling to bones and space,
Might shrink too.

You should mind the shit you say.


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