There Is No Give In Her Tungsten Carbide Tipped Tongue Poem by Civ Clegg

There is no give in her tungsten carbide tipped tongue,
Nor the mechanical breeding routine. Obscurers mask,
brittle silk, from which she is spun. O! Much like, much less,
the skin of those sturdy beasts. Authentic people grown,
scamper outward from the gumshoe of a termite mound,
shoveling repellant lure. In haste! In distaste! Quarreling!
Concentration
lapse. Quarreling! Shower plunge that there solitary seat,
into capsized common ground, sin-deep. Stitched fear
strewn across a white dwarf sun, clad in mail.
The spring-loaded flower hammers in the nail,
and for a drizzling Jurassic second, I drink the fluid
swoosh,
like Iodine,
and canter off key!
My sight becoming ivory,
marbled, hilarious. Immovable blocks of guilt glug,
clumped together in the fighting pit, ears plugged,
until distinction bind is wrought.
Sad! Sad! Sad, is my bid!