Who was it that said "To begin...begin."

I have no concern for the here and now. Not now. Not here.

The finest physical memories of a delicious, perfectly grilled and succulent rare rib-eye (with or without a hyphen depending on your own personal editorial squint) still echo through my mouth-hole as my tongue ceaselessly carves pieces of gristle and sinew out from the canyons and fissures.

My mouth-hole is a collection of scars that mimic the gouges from crash-landing space-stations on strange alien worlds. How their theatrical scrape to a halt would leave a gigantic groove through a perfect alien landscape of tropical, alien growth and ancient, violent, alien, volcanic histories.

Teeth are made from a substance not entirely unlike Ceramic. Yet, I discovered that bathing them in 8 cans of Coca Cola virtually every day for 8 years had the curious effect of turning them into chalk. Not really as harsh as all that but you get the idea.

Couple that with the fact that - at the time I realized this and teeth started to break away, not completely dissimilar to how a glacier breaks apart - I was heavily ensconced in the seedy London rave-world and a victim of...British Dentistry. When I first visited a dentist in America, he said to me "Where is this molar?" He then drew out a notepad from his desk and a pen.
"A dentist pulled it out" says I.
"Which Dentist?" he enquires of me, readying the pen.
"I cant remember, it was in London".
"Oh, I understand" He immediately puts the paper and pen away when he hears the dreaded word "London.

A similar conversation was then held 4 more times as he pointed at other areas of my mouth-hole with vacuums of gum where perfectly happy house shaped mollars should be. So you can easily surmise what lays in the dark recesses of (I will say it four times) my mouth-hole.


Porl