Premature Tongue Cabinet

A knock, knock from the shadow box rattles raw-boned words that collapse and flail in another scribbled knot that snags in straining throat and slackened mouth. I have lost my train crash of thought in that desolate transmission so many times my faltering breath simply rolls over and plays dead like an obedient and desperate puppy. On hidden shelves they wetly sit in their thousands, those interrupted ruminations, my aborted utterances as they tap out their sloppy, forgotten code and plead for the key to the door. They were once nestled deep in my flesh where they gestated, fattened, and rapidly struggled for an early delivery that would ultimately see them born cold, grey and premature. So they wait and ripen in that cramped little cupboard, relegated to the dark and left neatly in line until inspiration once more arrives to release them back into the already crowded world of interminable prattle.