I was thinking about Lady Gaga as my tongue chafed my already-coarse teeth.

I can taste the leftover tuna in this activity.

I remembered Mimo’s breath, my cat Mimo,

and agreed that my breath is similar to a cat’s.

I have a feline breath.  And an old man’s breath too.

I have always thought that my tongue tastes like a liquefied cigarette.

It is all about a cigarette stick, slowly melting

and turning into a figment of ugly red – becoming water – bitter, spicy water –

a certain amalgamation of my human saliva

with its inhuman bitterness washing away the debris of my closed mouth.

The muscles inside my taste buds groping deliverance – a spit – a hard spit.

But what do I do?

I swallow the full enchilada not wasting any supposed remnant.

I have always believed in taking it all in.

That everything should be internal.

Because it all starts from inside.  Never from the outside.

All my life, I have always believed in what’s inside.

All my life.

My writings are all lies.

And they are fragments of my very busy head.

I had to form linings, shape literary structures and build words around them

because it keeps me sane.

I am a writer.  I am a magician.

I treasure (or exploit) my gifts to the fullest.

I trust the thief and the fool and the sham in me not because I don’t have a choice,

but is there anything else to satiate my extraterrestrial powers other than giving it straight to you?

It is such a candy, isn’t it?  It tastes so sweet but it leaves

a definite sourness after the sugar settles nicely inside of you?

Your tongue then begins to swell once again,

taste your saliva and rub it to your teeth and tell yourself that sweet can ultimately turn to sour and

you are left there wondering why.



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