This began with whispered words,

bites from shiny apples;

 

a desire to command, create;

a hunger to articulate intensity,

to mechanise a melody inside.

 

This commenced with prephonation;

tutoring of simple lips,

tentatively glossolalic.

Patterns forming,

disconnected information circling itself,

pulling at phonetic cords of morphemes

 

and spitting out bubbles just for fun, in between.

 

I did not suck my thumb.

I used hydraulic energy

and learned to work the motors of the muscles

in my head; masticating syllables,

exorcising scribbles made of air and formless urges;

engineering frenulous activity

 

and spitting out bubbles just for fun, in between.

 

This began and will not end until the breath begins to fade,

'til incantation drains away and starts to dig itself a grave,

knowing that it's naked and emaciating daily;

'til my tongue begins to wilt,

and the bricks I used to build myself

a living wall of symbols

fall apart, decay and die,

then disappear;

 

until I do not spit out bubbles just for fun, anymore.