ludic verbosity for the win
We
CRAWL from birth to toddlering, and – it seems to be an
EDICT – from late old age to death, though every
FIBRE in the ancient body hankers not to
GRIND from Y to Z, behind a walking frame, as the skin
MOULTs, leaving its traces hither, thither and yon, to be
QUASHED by upright bodies, blissfully unaware that they
SMITE carelessly what was recently life, like that hooded
STALKer with the scythe.
TRAWLing through the death notices, I’m seized with a
SPASM, my legs won’t hold me, I’m feeling
SHAKY all over, and giggling begins to bubble up. Very
PICKY, normally, about what I read in the paper
OWING to the way disasters, violent offenders, murderers
LEVER me, for some unknown reason, into helpless
LAUGHter. It’s a psychic-physiological thing.
HOMER cracks me up, his Iliad seems a farce. Once-
EASELled savage paintings by Goya and Munch, or the thought of a still-
BIRTH, reduce me to whoops of hilarity, the tragic made comic. You’re
BIGOTed about me but I can’t help it. I hate it that bad news is in
AMPLE supply. Here, for example, unexpected, is my father’s obituary.
The
FRUIT, temptingly out of my toddler’s
REACH, brought a performance of his floor-shaking
RUMBA. The thumping dance steps brought a
SLUMP triumphant in the pyramid of apples.
I
CHOSE my considered best option, to
SNORT (or was it scoff?) at my
SQUATting tantrumming child
THERE on the supermarket floor.
BLINK and you’ll miss the distinct sign of
HAIR growing, some might say barely inked, on the
HIPPO’s chin. The hippo, teenage, is on the brink of
LIMITing his minimal shaving and shrinking his parents’
LIVERs by making a stink, though not taking to drink.
QUARK! he croaks, like some missing link, a noise
ROWDY enough to make father hippo turn salmon pink:
‘STUFF and nonsense,’ father shouts, ‘you need a hippopotamus shrink!’
ENTRY is free if you can stand the manic
GIDDY crowd. If you want to drink you’ll need your hand
STAMPed. There you go. Watch your feet – try not to slip in the
VOMIT.
ARENA crowd is screaming, ‘Go for the try!’ As
BEFITs the self-centred inside centre, he says, Just a
JIFFY, I’m in control of this ball. I’ll kick it into
TOUCH.’ The crowd groans – a sustained, despondent sound.
CIVIL servants, en masse, in a rage,
ENTER the pothole-minded politician’s office,
IRATE at his effect on their combined
LIVERs, that feeling of bile swirling
ROUND. They settle, bitter, before the
TEPID MP, a lukewarm bath of a man,
TRULY a man who eclipses all the
USUAL machinations of the average legislator.
Getting the ZEBRA to stand in the
KAYAK was the easy part, which
HENCE proves that making him sit and
paddle, this side, that side, was the WORST.
[No image is available of this feat]
My
DEBUT performance before the crowd is something I have
HOARDed from the moment of its final curtain. Of course it’s
SILLY to willy-nilly class that moment above all others, to keep UPPERmost a moment the hordes have certainly forgotten.