in the back of the throat

I feel like you have something
I could have. I could even take
down George Orwell's arguments.
Back to the world:
I stammer back
inside it,
it feels gigantic;
it makes me piss myself.
He watched my squat in the nighttime
streetside light, before the scooter ride:

"Nobody's here," let's ride away.

I attempt to find a truth in this
night aid free verse but the gift
of fear and conscious thought grows
weeds in my body and I'm quite
due for a fast.

The not knowing is in your teeth
and you'll be so sweet when I grab
the tops of your pants and speech
switches on and off. I'm breathing,
giving light; the unfolding of
What There Was, and possibility
echos told tales half-heard in
the trees.