The Way Words Move Me #100

The other day, Sam and I were talking shit about someone that we rejoice in the sprinkling over with well-deserved layers meanness whenever we get the chance; somehow we found ourselves doing the (all-too-familiar) giggling obnoxious descriptive of  horrific scenarios including this person. At one point, we were saying something along the lines of this person being stuffed with super shiny glitter and exploding in order to impress himself/herself, because this person is so vain and grandiose.

I was like, “You know, I’m sure there is a word in the old English language for that, the sick fucks…”; and then in response to the quizzical wtf? queue, I added, “I swear they had words for shit that they just had no business actually needing a word for…”

I applied the word “feague” to the conversation; (though at the time, I couldn’t recall the actual word but that didn’t matter because it was the definition along with the fact that there was even a word in existence for it, which mattered). “Feague” was a term from 17th century English used to describe the act of sticking a live eel up a horse’s ass before a showing or race. Like, to put some pep in his step…seriously.

 

http://blog.inkyfool.com/2012/12/feague.html

 

The fact that there was a word for such a horrendous thing means it must have been a pretty widely used thing, no? (Shiver)

I’m not sure if I want to continue on writing about words now – or if I want to call the fucking Humane Society of the 17th century and make a death threat to whoever picks up, damn.

Anyway, then I got to thinking how many things there aren’t words for, like, things that really need words but don’t have them. A good example is Sam’s shiny glitter stuffing/explosion concept; as the lack of a word for this specific depiction basically brought our disturbingly juvenile behavior to a close, lacking the perfect word or term needed to continue any further.

And, with all the words created and recorded in all of the languages in history, there should be no reason why the creation of new words for modern circumstances, such as the one in which you accidentally butt-dial your ex during a steamy make-out session in the bathroom of a club somewhere in the middle of the night. Like, there should totally be a word for when you slice two fingers nearly clean off of your own hand with the edge of the newly opened lid of your dog’s canned food, right?

 

 

 

Jeg ber dere.

Jeg ber dere …
If I had you alone for a while
I guarantee
I could make you smile –
A broad, wide grin
that’d stretch for miles…
You’d be my daddy,
I’d be your love child;
Under the covers
a universe so wild,
believing and seeing –
the other side
of the coin –
tender loin,
my need –
overrides;
beg and moan
pump and groan
til the tears come
to my eyes;
A stroke and you’re in,
Now the pleasure
begins,
You take away from me –
only to
give back in full,
again.
jeg ber dere…
Suction from
puckered lips
pressure from you
finertips,
deep inside,
now – HOLD
recognize…
take it back again,
I beg of you
“Sugar, please?…”
You decide then
to let me
finally win;
you get me
to heights I’ve never been;
Please? Come back in…
I’ve left the
knob unlocked,
my door’s wide open
and I’m pleading too
jeg ber dere…jeg ber dere
Aye, you’re mine;
touch down
on the stars
in my skies
lick your own sweat
from my forehead
every night;
jeg ber dere
please do this right
I’ve taken to
the likes of flight
underneath
the Victory Wreath,
that you wear
in your full right.
Don’t hang me here
on the old clothesline
with all the things
that have worn
away with time;
too much sunshine –
too much open space,
jeg ber dere
I don’t belong
in that forgotten place.

Strings of Truth.

Inside just one of,
a hundred million,
beams that glow,
under the control,
of Universal starlight,
our few weary shadows,
somehow find a way inside,
find shelter in the perpetuity,
of nothing, and of everything,
from which we’ve come to hide;
while time spins by,
in Quantum Strings,
we close our eyes,
against the starlight’s shine,
and hear against the chaos,
a galactic symphony,
a universal species,
with one dialect, one voice,
one message to bring,
one beautiful song to sing;
the tears fall from our eyes,
as we listen to these things,
it’s all too much to grasp,
to get our heads around,
as such simple-minded beings,
and afterwards –
upon the whip of the last passing,
symphonious Quantum Strings,
and after the pain and the love,
that this old star burned in, genetically,
it’s a dream, where we are –
we can’t stay long,
our minds have both gone
to return to the likes of humanity,
is a painful suction in our ears,
an acid poured in our eyes,
our shadows still hum,
the symphony’s string tune,
shadows have much better memories.