Lisp
Onomatopoetic name graces
a childhood affliction, if
affliction
it is. Betrayed at the hands of the tongue,
longing to lash out, roll ball
lightning vowels
around in my mouth and
feel the stitching
abrade my lips, bite off die
cast ingot
consonants, debride them, gnash
their cunning
angles and curves into hot
lead and spray
belts of bullets in
staccato patterns,
laying down a field of
fire where I’ll
stand and let the wind
blow through rib and strut,
whistling through old gaps
in the armature.
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