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Description

the curd, the cluster
the cloyingly coy
string of syrup from the mouth
trying hard to suckle on my wounds
before the bruises bloom

starting with
a nip of teeth with cognizance
this will hurt a little but enough
shrewdly marked
not anymore the longing taste
not a warning but a warming up

the toxicant, the choke
tickling on the way down
drifting drunk
drowning cries in the dark