If I nurse the word in my mouth and on my lips and with my throat - 
if I shape it, turn it in the right fashion ....
I want to make you aware of my mouth. 
I want to map my mouth comprehensively using the word `smoke', 
and make you, you know, `breathe' it.
I want to make the word lap about and plot the position 
of every surface in there. In my mouth. 
And, so turned, carefully release the word,
and the word fanning out into the cool evening air, 
in the still gulf between my mouth and your sexy little ear, 
coagulating as it goes, thickening, so that when it arrives at your ear, 
it's ONLY JUST. Turning into matter and it barely makes it on such 
hardening bakelite wings ...
The word has been fashioned by me to fit perfectly inside 
your convoluted ear. Snugly: It's a tailored word - 
every surface of is ever-stouter body correlating with every surface 
of your diminishing inner ear - prodding, caressing purposefully ... - 
... for the re-formation of the word
`smoke', which convulses up to your brain, then swerves left 
and down into your gorgeous mouth.
[...]
So long as you've tried a mouth out before, so to speak; 
so long as you've let stuff in, expelled stuff ...: 
shoved a salty finger in there ...;
suffered an ulcer or a cut or bitten a lump of cheek clean off; 
temporarily disabled the tongue with a bite meant for other, 
dead meat; burnt your tongue ...; DETAINED something in there - 
smoke, an egg, a momentary orb of spring water;
... to have some appreciation of the complexity of the tongue. 
To have licked an ice cream, a plate, softened wood, a clitoris, 
a stamp, a wound, a penis, etc. - 
So long as you can appreciate something of the mouth 
and the tongue's hegemony, then when that word "smoke"
reaches into you and reveals its shape and weight 
and the ways in which these correspond to my stinking mouth - 
you should be fine materialising it, making it JELL.
X
I have tried to swallow words. I have tried to force them down ... 
I've tried to cosset them, 
swaddle them in saliva to give them a fighting chance.
I've found the instinctive thing is to just, um, BREATHE, the word ..... 
smoke is too much like air, is too much like nothing. 
What little body there is is predominantly visual - a little scent - 
a little sting in the eyes - but no real weight, no splashing turd. 
You should try to swallow it properly ... You may choke a little at first - 
you may gag ..... something there, something taking shape.,,,thining-up, 
becoming itself, solidifying, fleshing-out, thickening. 
And in an instant - and as your tongue spasms imperceptibly - 
you stuff wads of STUFF around the consituent letters of the words; 
drape steaks of STUFF over the crossbar of the "A": 
pack sausages of STUFF into the snaked scaffold of the 's'.
Certain licks will tattoo, so careful.
[....]
An ovoid of mercury placed on the back of your hand - slowly, 
impossibly, passing through said hand over the course of a year, maybe -
emerging, birthed from invisible stigmata on the palm 
and dropping to the linoleum floor like a fatted grub only having shrunk, 
having shed some of its whatever inside your hand, 
your blood obliging-shuttling those fugitive, glimmering globules ... - 
glimmering globules sliding about your body. TOUCHING the sides, 
inducing the thick ache in your veins and that dull thrum in your brain.
[...]
Swallowing words like snot, 
amassed on that bridge between your gagging throat and your nose. 
You're filling up on that stuff. Careful ...
Words, thing'd words, will not cure - neither are they palliative. 
They are functionless, meaningless - a symptom of their becoming, 
their deviant unshackling from deference; 
a symptom of their materialization. They are themselves, irreducible - 
etymologically, even - no,

Your tongue laps this way and that, gesturing, enacting 
that convulsive spell to summon the body of the word while simutaneously
expunging its symbolic order. Your tongue calling upon 
the word to shrug off its fears, its aspirations, its fucking being! - 
Your tongue the
merry murderer. Sitting there now, in your ignorant mouth, 
feigning immobility when truth be told it's the most mobile 
thing I can think of.
Picture the uncanny swaying of a cobra before a strike - 
only looking like a mole rat - only speckled, flecked 
with those marks of abuse (chilli,
smoking, coffee, cripplingly sour gummy sweets, etc.), 
worn with pride, as a testament to its impressive grimoire [ ... ].
And so the swaddled ... word is swallowed, whole ... , 
to be dispersed by various acids, ammonias, bleaches, pressures, etc ...; 
absorbed into the
bloodstream and carried, illicitly, about the body, 
swept along that cardiac tide, to affect its changes, to transform, 
ultimately, every single cell of your oblivious body into something 
always-already appended - synactically but also cystically - 
with the affective word. It is hard to describe, darling. Moulting.
that atomic universality that says we are all of us, everyday, 
inhaling particles of dead people's bodies. Microscopic flakes ... , 
breathed in, clogging your lungs, fluttering around the mouth of the trachea, 
seeding your capillares ...- a shadow inside you, an abverse-you, 
pressed python-close to your arterial walls, nose bent, eyes bulging, 
tongue lolling - pressed as if against a photocopier. 
Again, impossible to tell; you can see nothing in there. Inside you, 
an abandoned colour darkroom.
[...]
An eye socket, gaping, eye, the eye dangling treacherous on its optic nerve, 
fiddling in the rear ;...
The submarine sight of the patient;
Pitch;
The place furthest from the surface inside you.
[...]
The shed skin of the word has drfited up to form a lens over your eyes. 
Your ears are clogged with the same - ambient sound is translated,
filtered. Compressed, chorused, distorted, bit-crushed, reverbed, etc. - 
The euphoric acoustics of a CATHEDRAL OF THE FUTURE.
And everything looks way too sharp, too crisp, too juicy. 
A lucidity to the visual world that was not there before - 
everything is now too close, too vivid, as if pressed on your eye - 
as if circumventing the whole eye thing and lunging straight to the brain, 
groping and pummelling every surface with unmediated bluntness. 
Everything is gratuitously PRESENT. Sound describes itself excessively - 
too many adjectives, superlatives - 
a thesaural superabundance of descriptions, analogues - 
all the while oscillating wildly between gut-wrenching suzb-bass and
piercing treble- Parenthetical confusion! Grammatical 
and syntactical confusion, also! - What the fuck to do with a semi-colon? 
When to use brackets, and when to use dashes? - 
In the sensory confusion none of this matters, 
and the response is simply to use everything with impunity, 
fearlessly, expressively! Saturation is mode. YOU BASTARD!

especially - when surging round your guts .... That the ingestion of words ... 
through your gut, through your mouth, through the flowering of
those particular macrobiotic funghi inside your cess-pitted, 
ransacked innards. They materialize through your body. 
Surrounded by gratuitous substance in the mouth; the word is changed, 
inflected so much by your particularly thick accent, your thick slab of tongue, 
your bee-stung lips, your mucoid throat ... - 
so much so that it cannot but appear.
The prospect of drowning in the Earth, like being buried at sea: absurd.
Shits odd words as uncut diamonds .....
The day utterly ruined; Dark matter; liquourice;
A corvid's face; A cavity harbouring a breathing thing.
... a fucking lie;
An entreating gesture that descends into anger ;....
The first blooming of a blackeye: the outraged red maturing, decaying;
That last cigarette - ever, apparently - ...;
The smoke, I mean, streaming from every orifice, 
solidifying into the form of a dung beetle on your delghtful ear ;....
A fucking truth.