Last night, out on town
I had my first one three hours
After the others.

Had one with their
Every second.
All night.

I could smell the city
On my girlfriend's hair.
Feel the warmth

Of her hand when I
Held it to keep
Her steady.

I was there. Almost
Completely sober.
Present.

I could sense everything.

Woke up feeling
Fresh. Unafraid.
Not guilty.

I think I
Won
One.

Piercing my skin
Perching on my lips
Buzzing in my ears
Playing on my cheeks
Mosquitoes sang

"There is no comfort in man's life"

swallomp, swallomp
HE the,  
smallsmiled, muckfrumper
swiped at his scnocklezogger

HE, must be comin down
with a squiffsquizzley...
he hoped not....

HE just HATED visiting the
Tristlings they POKED
cold, fizzfiginflers in awkward places,
like under your
spiztigwungle
and down your
floppleplagger
and then, gives you,
two mattmuttertrogs,
to have instead of dinner
and says....
you should feel prankyfilck,
by coddleslidiggetty.

but in the meantime....
no more,
squiggl-ing, dibbl-ing,
pivbabl-ong or tonggypaffle.

HE, the smallsmiled, muckfrumper,
tapped his stotching,
three times,
spun on the toes of his
zibdinkers
and wished for
luck and good health.
it was too good a stonkploffli
day to have a, mickering,
sqiffsquizzley.

swomple, swomple,swomp...

There's a magical place in the forest
Where fairies go to cultivate
Flutter around with verses and rhyme
Sweet poetry they make

They frolic amongst the
Verbs and nouns
Plucking flowers and synonyms
Joining hands and ripe phrases
Create odes they want to sing

Cross pollinating the pieces of poetry
With different story lines
Fertilizing with a purpose
In the growing of the rhyme.

Their dainty feet
Sow similie  seeds,
And their deft little hands
Root out mispelled weeds.

Then they whisper the words to the
passing breeze
Who takes words, caresses them,
And floats with ease.

They travel and roam
Off to distant pastures new
Where they settle
And blossom into a muse.

Then implant in the mind
Of a resting poet
Enter his thoughts and views
Who upon waking
Will stretch, smile and write,
And continue to grow and enthuse.

One
who identifies too strongly with Words and Names
falls victim to the paradoxical quicksand
we know as Language.

Bound forever by a Name of a concept,
One suffers the ******* of Language.