The Mouth

This sticky desiccation perturbs even the most indifferent of mouths. I open and close infinite times in attempt to saturate into normality. Such a ritual to begin each morning, slapped awake by an arrested tongue, a corpse of a mouth, squirming. The thin film between my lips is stretched, racked out and screws tightened until strands flick the air, a frenzied rabid dog. In one yawn my skin creaks and splits, beads of tart scarlet patters onto my taste buds who recoil from the flavour. Thousands of high-pitched screams vibrate through the air, yet, there is a solitary soft but distinct ‘mmm’ from one who fondness is peculiarly placed.

In one moment I am flooded. The neutral water fizzles on the arid wasteland and attaches itself to each sliver of gummy, dried-up saliva. A battle of such ambitious proportions shrunk to the most miniature of arenas. The water will always prevail, eventually, though morning after morning the gluggy slivers will put up a defence. As if yesterday was no longer existent, as if this time, they would win.

Breakfast is rushed, as it always is every morning. I attempt to savour the meal and am both helped and hindered by the dryness of the toast. In my swallowing I am grated by protruding bits of hardened bread. I want to chew it more, grind it finer but that unseen force permits me not. Instead a rush of chocolate milk provokes it downwards. Just an instrument for feeding is not my desire. In and down in and down in and down like the all-consuming zombie. With taste the most sensual of senses I want to take pleasure in the sweet and sour as it glides up and down and all over my tongue. At least we have some sort of an agreement on texture. The way food feels against my insides, a burlesque performance of consistencies; soft and wet thighs and crunchy salty costuming. Insufferable are the viscous globs of oyster and leathery insipidness of nuts who send cockroaches scampering down the oesophagus.

On lazy days of haziness I am left unclean, to marinate. Bacteria setting up camp on my teeth, lighting furry fires and pissing on my gums. Today, we are lucky as the bristle brush enters full of mint and slathered excessively on all surfaces. The hundred points of contact begets again a swarm of scarlet beads. Yet there’s a pleasure in the pain, a masochistic twinge to my infliction, which I shyly relish. The bacteria’s bawling is drowned to a murmur as it’s flushed out. I wipe my tongue across my newly polished teeth and each of the thousand taste buds mutter gratitude in caressing bliss.

I am warned too late and the venom of deodorant comes polluting in. Though microscopic, each particle sneers as it settles into my moist and warm environment. Regardless of the many times I expel these fuckers in spit, there remains a few stragglers, diving into the cavities and crevices and reproducing feverishly. I am always warned too late. Perhaps it is jealousy, they are resentful of my necessity and my capacity of stimulation.



It's only the beginning of a story, it will go on to have the mouth most likely shutting itself its rebellion to the brain. How it will end, i dunno. I don't think we appreciate our senses enough and too much emphasis is placed on our thoughts and not what we experience! You know, phenomenology. I am very much NOT a cartesian dualist. I was inspired a little by the talking asshole story from naked lunch. I'll post this. It's amazing. And a bilion times beter than how i can write at the moment. But it's something to aim for i guess...

But, what do you think?