ludic verbosity for the win
FILTH slowly lifts under the brush,
TRACEs of cuneiform start to show,
STONY witness says: “He who saw all . . .”,
FOLIO of clay, submerged in time, surfaced on a shelf.
See https://www.independent.co.uk/news/first-lines-of-oldest-epic-poem-found-1185270.html
STIFF bulrushes keep crocs out; basket nestler will soon speak, a
QUOTHer of the quothiest words: fiats, ilocutions from on high.
MUCKY Nile a strange place for this story to start, but election is a
WEDGE, the axe of divine will splitting into a groaning world.
APRON-GUILT makes PARTY STALE
DEIGN FLUNG at HARDY, SAUCE
BARGE CARGO was (yuk!) MELON-PATTY
BRI BED AUNTI ON (I C NORT) Honeymoon.
A TOLL at the gates of the once-magnificent
MANOR relies on the munificence of those with
MONEY. The sign mentioning the toll makes no
OVERT demands, relying simply on the visitor
RALLYing his or her generosity, not being
REPELled at the thought of digging in their pockets, having
SENSE enough to realise that the building, no longer in its
ZESTY heyday, will crumble without their support.
Me
CADDY has most unobligingly gone orf for his hols to the
CAPE – Cod, that is. Has abandoned me, and has left me throat
DRIER, this month, than I remember being since I was introduced to the
TANGO, my Argentinian wife-to-be, and cocktails, all in one blighted evening.
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.
SPASM–muscles’ healthy strength gone awry, as though health now
TRAWLs for malign opportunity, joining in the fall, in entropy. What
LEVERs, choices, join in the fall, not mere nature’s malfunction? A
BIRTH: chance to find spasms and levers anew. And hope for grace.
I
CHOSE my considered best option, to
SNORT (or was it scoff?) at my
SQUATting tantrumming child
THERE on the supermarket floor.
VALUE: a belief declaimed when its strength is fragile,
ALONG with certainty about other’s lack thereof. To be
ALIVE is to justify, to defend, to deliver apologia—to fight for being more than
LEAST. Least has only grace, and least is rich.