my tongue is a damp slab
of meat among chips of skull
between the buds
& the web beneath
my life stories line up
broken off from
a perpetual lump
a tumor full of tines
at the back of my throat
they spring off the tip
through spaces between
tombstone teeth
like sprays of spit
not like venom
but rather the
antidote for the bites
within
hot droplets like pus
like tears
like blood