The Word Box

words1

I had a good old scrape around in the word-box to see what I could come up with. “Cabbage fire,” I said dramatically, “Neuropathic ice handle. Dream wire spindle mania. Psychopathic…”

 

I paused and reflected. Good words, I thought to myself. I savoured the feel of them in my mouth as I articulated them, the salty taste of them. I had the sense that I was getting somewhere here. I had another feel around to see what I could find. “Mud-tree earflaps. Bean-fruit fart burger. Nasal drips. Orthogonal. Pustulate…”

 

The creative fervour was upon me, I knew and I wanted to go with it. I launched boldly into a free-flowing soliloquy of dissonant dissociated syntax: “Mandible. Scour pox. Muck rats. Scab seasoning. Seminal vesicles. Mandrax. Scutter. Remnants. Recidivism. Atavistic arm pits. Fluctuate. Marmosets. Mermaids. Myriapods.

 

I was on a roll. No doubt about it. I was in the flow. My audience was rapt, appreciative. They were clearly deeply impressed. Men in top hats and tails nodded from time to time, frowning slightly with concentration as if they were discerning some unexpected inner meaning to my words. Ladies in elegant evening wear leant forwards in their seats.

 

“Pock-marked whoreson!” I expostulated, “Fornication. Frenzy. Flophouse. Forebrain.” And then, in one sublime scintillating stream of syllables, “Error fountain whip bustle fang mountain bucket the splitter broom lick he could counted ever sat winding merry indent pastry cock diddle district jack contract burger men whether daily speak core average…”

 

The crowd went wild. The applause was tumultuous. As I looked down at the sea of enraptured faces from my position on the podium I knew beyond a doubt that I really was in the groove – I knew then that anything I said would be golden. I held up a hand –

 

“Spook-fever trouser slime,” I intoned magisterially. And then, on an afterthought, with a twinkle in my voice, “Pixie penis spider mite. Barf flower sponge murmur. Slobber-bucket monkey pudding bum clot. Fetish finger. Weasel broth.”

 

The crowd stirred in their seats uneasily. It was obvious they were having problems following me. I was going too fast for them. Undeterred, I continued, “Mongrel mange balls, toad-scratcher wart soup. Louse lemon. Brain fondler. Puke burger trouser fantasy. Gripe biscuits. Jackal dribble. Flaky fox sphincter-drool – puppy bubbles. Pooper scooper….”

 

At this stage it was clear to me that I was losing them. The connection between me and my audience was becoming strained. The magic had gone and people were shifting about in their chairs – some had already left the auditorium. I had to turn things around. I had to pull something out of the bag. “Toe nuts,” I ventured, “Euphemistic. Mouse droppings. Smegma. Helmet cheese. Crab garden. Infundibulate…”

 

People were leaving the lecture hall in droves now, muttering angrily. Some were even sniggering. I felt panicky. My face was flushed. I was losing control of the situation. Even just a few minutes ago everything had been going so well. I reached desperately into the word-box to see what I could find there. It was empty…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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