The taste of a tongue

I got lost in a stranger’s beard.
It swallowed me like a furry sinkhole.
I drowned in a skunk-hair swamp.
On my search for an exit
I passed crumbs the size of a Sunday roast.
I jumped from milk blob to milk blob
like Sonic the Hedgehog
on his last life in the Marble Zone.
When I resigned myself to the hairy grave
I fell inside his mouth.
His tongue tasted of my judgements.
His teeth wouldn’t stop chatting.
His canines stung with a sharp wit;
cutting through incisor insights and molar memories
of a life I’d be lucky to taste.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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