Syllabub

Just googled it (it sounds divine): a creamy
pudding made with bubbling wine – I don't
drink wine: but I don't care: I dare to put it
on my tongue: syllabically wonderful!

Words are food – a feast: at least they serve
my mouth as if it were their master: titillating
every delicate or crude taste-bud atop
its lexicographic palate – culling lingual

dinner from a palette of articulable color –
fuller, thinner, slower, faster – swimming
in luxuriating ease, or blasting out of me like
some fierce sneeze. "Condoleezza Rice,"

“concatenation," "funk" all dunk the ball
and shoot the breeze between my frontal
cortex and my lips: sounds like that and that
and this are bliss. I guess I ought to think

about their sense: but that's beyond
the fence of my remotest interest. Which
I suppose is reprehensible and indefensible.
But what a treat! Syllabub! Ah, let’s eat.



.