The words taste funny in my mouth
like tin
School. Escuela.
The place we go
to rip our self-identities to shreds
and force big thoughts out
through holes too small
with languid, careless tongues

"You're ambitious,"
he says with disdain,
spittle collecting
in a corner of the unfed
mouth

and he falls,
drumming his fingers on
her bare knees
like pick axes
tick tock down
the body goes
falling fast
like a drainage system
***** life from organisms
clotting in the sink

"We cry too,"
she says loudly,
but no one seems to hear her
except for a sorrowful
trombone whining
noisy and rambunctious like
the wind and *** and
pain only really matters
if you're there
to witness it

It seems strange...
The voices of the TV on-set screen switch to channel nine STOP play it back again
far
it goes