Dress it up as a map of experience
These teeth are a cubist ruin
Graveyard crockery
Each one malevolently wired and primed.
Each a substation of the nervous system.

I lost the foremost
beakfirst into the shingle
baiting the aired bull nerve
through salt-air and cervezas
in the three insomniac days before the flight.

The second was shattered
by a juggernaut left
delivered by a Saracen bouncer, Beil Feirste
four-square on the mandible
and as I was dragged from the floor
a sense of disbelief, hell admiration
that he had the sheer audacity
to bob and weave
before laying me out.

The third was cracked and chipped
on a chicken’s limb
in a bar off Wenceslas Square
a piece of marble
held up to 40 volts
curiosity and disgust
for the only piece of your skeleton
you’ll have the good luck
and misfortune to see.

Soon they’ll be gone
ground to dust
and what then?
The soft mouth,
the half-mad cackle
of the gumpling,
spitting the pips.
Consider this an obituary,
32 chances blown.

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