Diagnosed with NON contagious, yet incurable case of logorrhea
Diagnosed with NON contagious, yet incurable case of logorrhea...,
yielded following resultant fiction,
which arbitrarily selected thread
first popped into my head
considered one among many possible
near infinite concocted scenarios
arose up, thus continue at your own risk
only entertainment ye need dread.
When just a ruthless babe at me mother's breast
already talking fluently and creating
one after another prolific
literary pièce de résistance
superbly peppered with eloquent, magnificent,
and significant turns of phrases,
not surprisingly needless
to say (or type) excessive
and uncontrollable talking,
often seen in individuals
experiencing psychomotor agitation
and visual hallucinations
severely disrupted with being nursed
more than a few months courtesy
when my twenty four year old mom,
whose milk (holy cow -
she uddered) and air supply exhausted
inexplicably and simultaneously dried up anyway
and her breasts
became shriveled like that of a crone,
(the above half dozen statements predicated on fact),
thus wet nurses brought in
from all four corners of the globe
with near identical
repeated outcomes prevailed videre licet,
whereby every buxom gal
(succumbed to mysterious malady)
no matter previously
rigorously, intensely screened
and declared fit as a fiddle
and strong as a brick Scheißhaus
met an identical demise as dear old mutter
unexpectedly collapsed in a heap
punctuated by disequilibrium
linkedin to an error message
found in open source coding
of their operating system
compromising respective body electric,
which signal effects
one need be mindful of
somehow attributed
to unfettered loquacity
of mine include exhaustion
on unsuspecting listeners or readers
frequently inducing immediate
and non stop yawning,
and worse case scenario
witnesses - said innocent recipient(s)
subjected to vocalizations
and/or writings of Matthew Scott Harris
even for the briefest moment of time
and naturally the impact
directly proportional to proximity to me,
thus should a series
of unfortunate find thee
in my company - watch out,
you better not cry,
better not pout,
I'm telling you why:
Perkiomen Valley poet is comin' to town
cuz such close contact
people known to perish from this earth
in no uncertain terms
how, when, where or why,
though president Donald Trump
intends to make unclassified
once top secret information.
While both parents
(actually they got classed
as child prodigies and satisfactorily)
earned requisite credits to graduate,
with honors of course across dual majors,
plus acquired doctorate degrees to boot
from Cooper Union College
for the Advancement of Science and Art
located at 30 Cooper Square
in New York, NY 10003
in the East Village of Manhattan,
close to Washington Square Park
and Greenwich Village
Despite years of deep Freudian analysis,
the pathologically excessive
(and often incoherent)
talking or writing only worsened
until the present moment
February thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four
of this free verse poetic assay
(as fingers blithely did sashay
across the qwerty keyboard)
emphatic issuance
of uber deadly oral ejaculations
and/or transmitting electronic gobbledygook
put the missus in comatose state,
where I can hear her snoring.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
|