A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra
A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.
If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly
1. Search Engine ‘how to speak gibberish’ and realise the world has literally thought of, and done, just about everything.
This should be followed by deep breaths and reality tv binging to soothe the innards from existential malaise.
2. Create word prompts, or find some on the interweb; it is vital that you have a theme or else you’ll think you’re such a terrible writer that you can’t even create gibberish!
Make sure its simple and easy to execute prompts. Four-ish words, or several letters.
3. Make sense (in intervals). Like a pretty hazelnut butterfly fluttering over the scorched garden of telly-tubby land; sense is the imaginary fingers clicking in your ears misdirecting the sponge in your skull. Intermittent sense is the meal before a bottle of problems.
Gibberish can be great fun. Especially when it grabs ones attention and makes your eyebrows jig about with the realisation that the goobledygoo before your eyes is actually gobbledydoo.
I had a ghost story to tell but I forgot whom to!
Worst of all I can’t remember what day it was when I had this story to tell.
*On my love of nonsense literature.
Louis Carroll jabbed me with his ghost pen and told me he ain’t no ghost writer until I told him he was dead (so?) but he responded quite wisely saying he hasn’t written a word since (oh).
[Louis hasn’t a single relation to his syllable-namesake.]
I shoot for humour but mostly end up with dead silence.
Isn’t it hilarious how the further into the future we get as creatives it seems more and more has already been done?
Performance art and the sciences are all that’s left. Just a pointless thought sprayed recklessly into a crowd.
Contemplatively constipated blogger, out.