Now I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.
Where did I grow up, get out—was I as rich as a golden
yolk waiting to crack in the hay? Where I come from
would I go back? If yes, reload me. And if yes, accident,
but nobody can brave enough to see we’re just buck
shot spat from out the mouth of a motherland. So, bang,
wet me like a tooth with a wicked root. We’re target
-far from being dear for long. Now you make me dress
the wound I turned myself into when I bit into two.
Now you might get up inside it and show me the whip
-stitch anew, or finger-test my tourniquet, bandwidth
on top of me, make me shake like a head. Now you like
to know my real name, what to say yet louder when
on the outside for good. What’s not good you can’t get
out of a corset fast enough, here, and I came unlaced
fast-paced. My body’s a dress (cut from a fond hell I tore
off the tongue of the real), a first name for my heart.
Now the word for intake is that for swallow, smallest
beast licking its way down the sky once like lightning.
Because here, somebody can open their mouth wider
yet. My heart is breaking to know how I can still break,
because here, somebody must open my mouth, wide
beast licking its way down the sky once, like lightning.
Now the word for intake is that for swallow (smallest
of the tongues of what’s real), a first name for my heart,
fast-paced. My body’s a dress. Cut from fond hell, I tore
out of the corset fast. Enough, here, and I come unlaced
on the outside for good, not what’s good. You don’t get
to know my real name, what to say and louder yet when
on top of me, making me shake like a head. You’re like
a new stitch, my finger-tested tourniquet, its bandwidth.
Now you might get up inside it. So show me the whip,
the wound I turn myself in to when I bite into two, too
far from being dear. So long. Now you make me dress,
whet me like a tooth with a wicked root. I am target
shot, spat out from the mouth of a mother. So, bang,
but nobody can be brave enough to see I’m just bucked.
Would I go back? If yes, reload me. If yes, accident,
yolk waiting to crack in the hay. Where I come from,
where did I get out? Was I richly young and golden?
Now, I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.