The Incisor Incises.

There are days when I keep feeling my extra sharp but useless lower left incisor (useless, since never has been even a bottle of beer opened by it and am sadly sure won’t ever be either) with my tongue way too much than a tongue should a tooth of the same mouth. These are days; I’ve come to reluctantly realize over the years on which something as simple as drinking water has the potential to result in an embarrassing catastrophe- all under the curse of my evil fang. No, if you’re thinking on those lines, I don’t suck blood. Suck is a nice word though – it rhymes with a lot of muck. Suck reminds me of Kurt Angle and as far as I know (which I do in humungous amounts) he didn’t suck blood too. And I’ve already started drifting. Drifting is a bad habit just like drinking- so I’ve been told. So, without drifting (as I’m not drinking now anyway)- this diabolic tooth of mine is particularly attention hungry tonight. Perhaps, for tonight is a particularly morbid November evening - the kinds when wannabe poets like me write seemingly dark poetry about darker things like death and treachery. My shameless tongue obviously reciprocates- wriggling itself out at the slightest of chances to feel the enamel coated devil. My nose has all of a sudden started leaking like the old fountain pen I had stolen from a girl I wanted to kiss when I was in Class 4 and I can feel the typical taste of impending doom in my mouth. The lunatic, I know, is lurking around somewhere and I can sense it, waiting to strike. My tongue is getting restless -like a snake in heat squirming in desperation. I light an India Kings,( blame the tooth for my snobbery and everything that you think is wrong with and about me), the grey smoke’s directionless diffusion and the aroma of burnt nicotine and cotton make me happy for reasons I’m not capable enough of embodying in words. I have a writer’s block throughout the year, although I am not a writer at all, except for some extremely elevated evenings maybe. Tonight is apparently not one of those evenings. The Sprite, I drank  in the morning must have invoked the sprite back to my tooth for till I slept last night staring at my 3 inch touchscreen, I didn’t even know such a pretty pair of homonyms existed. There’s no running away now- I’ll do exactly as I should not for the blues will always keep playing and thoughts will never be altered anyway and I can always love two women at the same time. Let the trumpets play and let the red carpets be laid- yes, it’s a new blog where I’ll be as erratic as ever. Meanwhile my tooth is orgasmic- it wants to melt into a sultry slimy substance, possibly white in colour (black if you ask me), to seductively stick to the redness of my tongue and make it a puny pink. The devil has just whispered beneath my bed sheet’s fragrance in its tragic trance –

I wonder where you get the strength from,

To, what you call love, such a shallow soul.

I wonder what makes you unleash that fire

Of your cold flesh on his defenseless lust.

I wonder why you inflict the curse of

 Your unconditional love on his deviant form

Only if you could accept,

The heart and the body seldom make love.

P.S. This particular tooth, Wikipedia tells me, is called the Mandibular Central Incisor and in rodents, it grows throughout their lives.