Fourth Language

He melts onto women
Like salt on a wet tongue,
No ear listening out
For their moans of disgust,
No shapes to his thinking,
His brain is just gas.

Only the index finger
On his left hand
Has retained
Any rhythm tonight.

He’s made the decision
To store dried saliva
At the corners of his mouth,
His face is alive
With wild twitching,
His grin is the cusp of collapse.

His fourth language
Is English,
Behind the coughing,
The belching
And the famous
Lizard tongue.

He shakes tambourines
Like his flesh has no bones,
The all-seeing blackout
Sits like skin on his eyes,
Blood flows itchy,
His engines are base.

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