*
The inside of my neck would scare you, in all seriousness. It's enormous, contains organs I never could have known would exist: a piano, thunk, or a grandfather clock.
*
Let's take a look inside it. To have never seen down there, aside from a uvula dangling, spurs further curiosity about what caused that bulge then. Adam bites fruit, ripe foot from root word is his skill, or skull. I conjure up a whole school from fruits and football.
*
When a sound begins, it lurks down in trenchant, rolls up into a vibration, then a roar. Throat clench, soft palette lifts. Can't hide from us, Adam with a clenched fist, unconscious.
The bulge, vibrating as the bugle is to call dawn. The veil lifts, this girl has two chins, churlish grin.
*
Over there, that's the end of the tongue. Giveaway as how I heroically put myself down. Dismissal of pleasure, and of being in the moment, growl growing beneath the public role.
*
Not hearing alone, something close to me as my inner organs. Throat wants to be what it echoes, bat sonar, a stone's throw.
Entering a dark room, edge of the corridor. Edge of the table, of the nightshade and the bed. Edge of the dull shapes, so you speak and the trough fills with experience, monad. Honors and trophies, glass, carved figure, an unopened flask.
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