Tasteless coined phrases
surrounding a vocabulary of lip cages
passing the antics with words of magic,
powder potions dissolve into oceans
of tongues on teeth, on cheek, and beak;
slipped on the saliva, farewell to my brain,
grinder. Find it, depth of your cranium;
find it, as rare as uranium.
Perfect, when you hit your boiling point,
hot soup is how you plated them.
Bend it, hip on a joint,
break it, in case it disappoints.
My whole word map
coming into focus,
when writing lyrics,
I navigate
to see what’s chosen.


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