We are born in gums and milk.
We die in gnarls and grimness.
Between is the law of teeth,
chipping and whipping us.
Thieves are seldom prosecuted.
We blame them for decay,
sometimes refusing to open our mouths,
sexually excited with closed lips.
We speak in mumbles,
staring thoughtfully into space,
hoping we look wise,
even if we are thinking,
teeth, teeth, bloody teeth.
Dentists have a sense of comedy,
smiling as they dig into the cave.
Old figures stare back.
They are prepared to shovel,
with or without painkillers.
Needles are suggested
to contain aphrodisiacs, and hope.
We agree, passing out…and relieved,
dreaming of born again mouths,
grinning, grinning without comedy.
We are born toothless and innocent.
We die toothless and grumpy.
I grow pleasure roses,
among a children's eyes.
They have come to recognize me,
and for a time I am with each one.
I am home resting,
only they crawl through the wood,
able to anchor me down.
How can I stop talking
when my mouth has never truly opened?
They do not understand, nor want to.
They are children, and selfish tongued.
I wonder if they will ever grow up.
Many do not.
We all can become a cliché.
Will I teach them that?
My gold brain is empty.
Words are clouds, able to rain,
from light to heavy chords.
I shall say Joy is my cousin.
They will like that one.