I bite down on sweet fruit,
is it morning breakfast/lunch/dinner/who knows—is it night?
I want to bite down on my own lip,
so hard, that it
births more mouths
that I can use to speak—
I want blood to drip in the breeze,
infect the many that can taste what it tastes like, to be me—
me, me me me me me me-
me me me, me me
me me me me ; me
what a strange life we’ve bitten down on now,
strange wild meat
in the belly
of a host
feel or know or
how much the world it lives in,
I go to sleep.
Imagine that this is all a dream.