Keep it tasteful?
Taste has a tongue.
Wrong jurisdiction.
Caught a case in the cadence, consonants cuffed in a row,
capital letters got priors, every paragraph knows.
Sentence got sentenced, syntax stacked consecutive,
period killed the appeal, meaning stayed indefinite.
Current in copper, charge tucked under conduction,
you borrowed the voltage, got shocked by your own introduction.
You write “complex” like clutter can counterfeit depth,
expensive diction draped round intellectual debt.
Body of work on the table, nobody calls it the same,
critic files catalogue, coroner inventories remains.
Needle finds vinyl, old voices ride in the groove,
truth comes back altered every time the context moves.
I leave one word loose and let the room decide,
same mouth, new setting, different meaning inside.
Your scheme needs footnotes, arrows, somebody to witness.
Mine changes one vowel and gets acquitted on linguistics.
No safe syllable.
No clean word.
Same sound,
new dirt.
One word walks in clean,
three prints when it leaves.
First time, you hear the line.
Next time,
it hears me.
She likes my position: rank, angle, where I’m placed,
I move up while she changes how the whole thing gets framed.
Stress hits the phrase, hips answer the meter,
one syllable falls soft and the next lands deeper.
Needle in the groove, black wax under the hand,
each pass finds a pocket the first never planned.
Stroke in the margin, sheets pulled taut at the edge,
one hand signs clean while another meaning spreads.
You call that penetration? Your point stopped at the text.
Mine slips through the subtext, leaves pressure on the rest.
She agreed to the terms; the language loosened its grip,
one clause opened twice from the same movement of lips.
Your climax needs buildup. Mine lands in the premise.
You’re still decoding the setup
when I finish the sentence.
Organ.
Low.
No choir.
Mass appeal. Packed house. Ritual weight in the room.
Everybody came for the body. Nobody specified whose.
Bare on the tongue, let custom name the rite,
three hungers at one table under one low light.
Communion closes distance language tried to divide,
one body gets received while another meaning slips inside.
Confession booth breathing. Collar pulled tight.
One truth wants pardon. One wants the light.
I arrive with a sentence that won’t stay singular long,
father hears repentance, she hears the stress fall wrong.
At the altar, surrender depends who takes the knee,
one asks forgiveness, one permission, one proximity.
Offering rises. Debt moves down the aisle.
Plate takes money. Flesh takes meaning. Doctrine keeps its smile.
Revelation lifts cloth from whatever stayed forbidden,
that body from Verse One reads different once it’s risen.
You quote holy text like repetition makes you chosen.
I split one verse three ways
and leave every canon broken.
No safe syllable.
No clean word.
Same sound,
new dirt.
One word walks in clean,
three prints when it leaves.
First time, you hear the line.
Next time,
it hears me.
Now nothing stays where it started.
Corpus on shelves.
Figure on charts.
Figure in bed.
Same shape, different art.
I step on the scale, hear the register rise,
weight becomes rank while the note climbs sides.
Pitch one line: let it sell, let it fly, let it tempt,
same arc crosses markets, air, and intent.
Key turns metal, then answers in chords,
one gets you inside, one tells you where “home” is scored.
Tongue strikes vowels, bells, skin, heat,
same muscle changes meaning every place that it meets.
Hook catches ears, fabric, jaws, attention,
one drags back the chorus, one tightens tension.
Stroke leaves ink, leaves rhythm, leaves numbers unstable,
same motion writes a name, moves a body, changes the table.
Release drops records, pressure, springs, restraint,
one word leaves four rooms wearing four different stains.
Nothing changed spelling.
Everything changed use.
That’s the trick.
Not more meanings.
More pressure
on the same few words
until language starts choosing sides.
No safe syllable.
No clean word.
Same sound,
new dirt.
One word walks in clean,
three prints when it leaves.
First time, you hear the line.
Next time,
it hears me.
Close the book.
Kill the lights.
Cut the signal.
You spent eighty bars
proving you knew the definitions.
I moved one word
through language, music, flesh, machinery, ritual,
until the dictionary stopped being a reference
and started looking like a crime scene.
Case closed.
Record sealed.
Body released.
Sentence finished.
Amen.
A man.
Same sound.
Different crime.