Word Up

It’s packed in here. I can’t actually see Packed because, true to his name, he’s in the middle of Melee’s gang, teasing a group of Embarrassing Introductions. He’s with all the usual suspects — Squeeze, Congested, Crammed and Seething. I cannot bear Seething. No one can. He’s such a viper.

Words and Phrases waft across the aisles, ousting Chilling Drafts from the dank corners they tarry in. Verbose is totally wasted. Canned Speeches twirl across the dance floor waltzing, whilst two Barren Eurekas cling with a vice-like grip to Climax, who teeters and sways on The Brink.

Speaking of Verbose, here he is sauntering past blowing his trombone, giving some Pompous Prose a piggy-back, driving us all as crazy as Insane, who always looks pretty happy, to be honest. The most ancient of Unfinished Symphonies and Sidelined Sagas snore and fart loudly at Will, as they lie side-by-side in Faded Glory’s pocket. They get Twitchy in their sleep (which seems quite unfair), and regularly raise imaginary swords and batons to Resurrection, who eschewed them long ago.

Anti knits unanswered question marks into jumpers for Fun and Games. Discombobulated ducks and weaves his way across the room, shadowed by Bedraggled who is pulling a Discarded Ode to Love by the semi-colon, as it weeps and wails inconsolably. I am surrounded by Mayhem.

And he is drunk.

Again.

A Dire Ditty concerning a milkmaid and udders bolts straight into the arms of Bad Taste. Tickled gets Racy, stuffing several Pathetic Puns and a Corny Chuckle down his trousers, then chases, corners, and clutches Pink . . . I can see Tongue will be in Cheek before the day is out. Morals appears to be AWOL today, which is a relief all round.

Common has Muck and Decency in tow (thick as thieves are those three), whilst over their heads, Bratty, Cryptic and Mystic hang from the chandelier, juggling Calamitous Ciphers and Catastrophic Codes, whilst gurning at Damaged Goods and All, who moon back.

A dog full of homework belches, bilious with Boredom.

As I survey all from the balcony, I observe an Impotent Sketch — for an invention of sorts — draped sadly over Comfortable and Numb, who have been spending a huge amount of time together of late. I’d be wary of them, however, Suspicious Lies has just thrown a volley of Piffling Poppycock poison paper darts my way, for taking his name in vain, so best left, I think.

For this is The Purgatory of Prose, The Limbo of Literature. Filled with Twaddle and Balderdash, Redundant Runes, torrents of Half-baked Ideas and Almost Perfects, all wandering about in various states of being. The Ubiquitous Unpublished, Spurious Speeches, Erroneous Emails, un-edited Discarded Stories and Odious Odes — all of them victims of the serial killer known only as ‘The Procrastinator’. His casualties loiter endlessly amongst this archaic arcana, awaiting Redemption, who, as we all know, is always far, far, too late.

And on the subject of names, what is mine, you ask? Why, you may have both of them, for I am your host:

Patience Incarnate.