Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself? Thy once-bright spires decline to dust. The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom a bygone memory. I’ll not trust these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle; endless babble of self-absorption centered in pleasure-maximizing: narcissistic thought-abortion. Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language used by dad ten years ago. I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show. It’s just, like, TALKING—without words in language ghettos; texting proud . . . Their lack of precision offends my brain— They ought to be ashamed (out loud).
Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D, and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic ***** along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot Are SO like totally talking smack.
I finally tracked him down: the person within me who could live without you So I made him a cup of tea and he began to prattle About the demonic conductor of my symphonic heartbeats, And the chthonic tranquility you once deposited into my life stream. He sniggered at how, even now, I still attempt to draw from that diluted reservoir In an attempt to discover anything more glorious that a utopian delusion, An unwarranted euphoria derived from what someone might call the “good times”- If I gave you the benefit of the doubt and admitted there really was a time your love wasn’t fictitious. But, I digress Because I wish you the best Even if the good times discarded are times I should regret There was a time when you uncovered my covert capacity for unexpurgated bliss- The likes of which I had dismissed As myth or at the very least unrealistic to attain. Even if all of the solace I find in our memories is disingenuous, I still thank you for way you fooled me. And that’s why I screamed at him. After the nightcap, I chased him out of the house for even flirting with the idea of his own existence. For I have not the fortitude to meet with him for more than just a few moments. Right now, I choose to cherish our memories until I forget that I love you, Until the day I’ll be ready to unite with my harbinger of recovery.
Move as though on castors Swept in to subdued void Pierrot lacking puppet master Shrunken waxwork melting I rivet in two eyes black blue For a scrap of validation Mirrored tunnel dark chute Deep abysmal contemplation Blether. Prattle. Jabber on Deaf ears nescient; inattentive Blithely callous their indifference Never yet shall be emotive A flashlight glare. A glint? Volt? Amp; electric neuron No never see; pulse, or breathe Frigid flesh left life extinct.