Wisdom Teeth

 

The soupy sky is a flamingo-base with grey ribbons, a mess I wanna wear and upend for practical use, if just the ache in my jaw would desist.  That said, I've always sensed a vague eroticism in the dearth of certain comforts---gland stabs exempt---and the teething visceral is a wet, fiery throb, with innate self-procurement to spare.  I wonder how far I'd take it with a pen cap back there.  Twenty years of snow.  He's a wounded animal.  regina regina * stuck in my head * like fluid news tickers * on parchment instead.  If I twisted enough in the right way or could stretch or pull or roar in someone's face, as I'm wont to ultimately do in excess of Red Bull and estrogen, I could probably maim this to 'aftermath'.  Where it is now—'burgeoning issue'—is my least favorite.  But again at the dual-fore is this romance, hyped up, probably, by the apt-namedness of the fang.  It Is A Coming-of-Age-Tooth, These Are Growing Pains.  And my taste for kitschy generics reigns tall.  Now that gnawtee little feeling in my pink socket explodes, fighting-mad and shoots to my left eye, queuing to build strength.  It plans to infect the rest of my brain and make me a monster, or perhaps just weaken an existing fort that normally keeps this in check.  It made me miss my Moscow muttdown, it made me miss my New York nothing. Uh-huh-oh, oh oh oh.  A friend from high school died this weekend.  I am waiting for something to happen to me, but all I feel is face, my left side.