the tongue
is like a pink slippery serpent.
it coils in the
warm wet bed of my mouth.
ready to strike.
ready for a
tongue lashing.
these words that
drop from my mind
into my lungs.
coughed up
tumbling up my throat
landing on the soft carpet
of my raspy tongue.
coddled and folded
into the pink divots
and creases.
fondled and caressed
before being spat
out like phlegm.
these words.
these muses that
throw darts at my mind.
throttle my synapses
’till they bleed thoughts.
dark, oily thoughts
black as night.
sharp as death’s scythe.
they cut me all the way
down into my belly where
they fester with bile.
before being expelled
as hot air
vitriolic acidic words.
the pen is mightier
than the sword.
but the tongue
a piercing lance
is demonic king of them all.
from the chords
that twang of misery
and of love.
like an untuned violin.
my vocal unction
is sometimes slimy
and oily.
sometimes dry and
cutting but always
lacking
the clothes these
words should wear.
I send them out naked
into the world as goblins.
my bastard children derided
and chided.
but masters of my making.
these words that fly
like slings and arrows
and birds of a feather.
plucked from my heart
and from my mind.
yet so much is lost
in translation.
from my mind’s eye
to my split tongue
to your ears.
is god listening.
or has the hot loud
acrid voices deafened
him to our pleas.
the devil may care
but it is he who has
got my tongue.
the cat knows how lucky
the muted mouse is.
my home, this mind is a
calamitous house.
a raucous cacophony of
chatter from these mad hatters
a wonderland of fumbling
words and muddled thoughts.
my kingdom for a grave
a quiet knave to slaughter
the noise.
a deafening silence.