The mood strikes to write in a peculiar manner. To speak of that which cannot be described except by the bizarrest-meaning terms. To stretch vernaculars like putty, craft the craftiest of hodgepodged whimmeries, then skip off merrily through the leavenings of Fall like a bansheed fairy!
Thus we have the following, the result of all this "linguistic linguini" — to quote Volume One of my lifestory — a poem about the sheer oddity of it all. Whatever "it" might be. So, without further t'ado . . .
O' forlornious fickleness
The glib grinniest glomstrous of finaglings
My tongue doth swoon at your wry feckless moon
My heart beats wildly fraught
Caged like a witless baboon
Desist and begone, you fey unctuator!
Ceaseless wretched ghoul of the swamp
Wherein lies a goopish oozing frothful soup
Beyond which I know naught
Just the wheeze of my inner child's croup
Lest these phrasings pursue no pattern
But the prattle of a rattled brain
I shall seek to explain my utterings inane
As the syncopated flight of a tattered moth
Wings spattered like gibbous wanes
For you see there can be no explanation
Befitting the flit of my erstless bile
Deformity will never submit to conformity
My words neither straighten nor flow
They have a mind of their own
And as such we spew preposterosities
The likes of which none wish to hear
Hence do I quibble and scribble for only my ears
While the world wags a finger to tow the line
What can I say?
I must placidly disobey.