Words and Stuff.

Did I ever tell you about the time I learned the word
portmanteau?

It was a dream come true
let me tell you.

Like my brain had been
jumpstarted;
parking break disengaged,
bolt of electricity
engaging my existential eccentricity
with the hydroelectric elasticity
of new discovery.

Portmanteau:
noun,  plural portmanteaus or portmanteaux
[powrt-MAN-tohz]

1. a case or bag to carry clothing in while travelling, especially a leather trunk or suitcase that opens into two halves.

My cognition began conscientiously
performing pirouettes.

Pleasure in place of regrets.
Doors opening into an immensity
of possibility
whose propensity (overwhelming probability)
for artistic lucidity
(dreamscape affinity)

is the infinite tapestry on which
to dazzle the frazzled
developing synapses
of Mother Nature’s
motherfucking
greatest mishap.

Truculently surreptitious in my vicious attempts
at resurrecting archaic vestiges, like beldam and adjutant.

Syntax to make you squeamish.

I swear I’m speaking every word
in English;

why would I ever call the glass half
empty
when I can discard the clichés
earned on a pretty penny
by surpassing platitudes and bromides
with the brain-mine of “prosaism.”

Misery loves company
and all that.

My vernacular is prone to schism,
vocabulary devoid of diction,

a dictionary stranger than
fiction.

Orwell and Hemingway were probably just witless, right?

Only trite writers eschew
semicolons
(or at least that’s the less-than-wholesome justification for my own addiction)

but barring some sort of
divine intervention
I don’t suspect I’ll be able
to pay back these literary gods
the pension owed for my
sins.

Belletristic hell
and I’m beginning to fall.

Ostentatious,
exhibitionist
exclamation,

just look at all the fabulous different ways
to say absolutely
nothing at all.

Willie Watt
11/23/14

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