
Table gives rise to chairs gives rise to dining gives rise to discourse. Tidy stacks of words on martini napkins at each place setting. Eat! Eat! Look at you, so skinny, so pale, so tongue-bound and earless from daily inconvenience. Speak at once, at the same time, at no-one in particular. Please pass the lost husbands of Aunt Sally and the pre-pubescent panty-grabs of Harold Sloop. You remember Harry! Oh, wait 'til you hear the latest--
Braised-words and baked-words and loafs of wholegrain-words. Tossed-words and mashed-words and plates of sautéed-words. Pass me the breaches, the confidence shakers, top it with rumor and deliberate falsehoods. Open the screen door, the porch-line surrenders, sundown to lowdown—Avante! I'm Famished! Spouter and flitter, arms-out and lips tucked, embrace them, bareface them, shortwaist them—My Darling! It's so good to see you.
In circle pass bottle, fill glasses, toast friendship (can't speak ill of Alice she's right here beside us). Cheers to you, Marmalade! Niblets and teasers, pinched fingers on cheeses—Carol's not coming? I'll bet she's with Peter. My God! What he sees in her I'll never know.
It's the boob job, I tell you, they've a thing for their mothers.
Break out the ladles, the tongs and the scoopers. Pile on the blather and flibber and gibbet. No-one can hear you, lean into the table, look over your shoulder, just once just in case, to guarantee circle security.
Did you hear about Paula and Roger?
Oh my God yes. I hear he's screwing the neighbor. Can't blame him, really—Have you seen Paula lately?
Why, yes. Just the other day at the market, poor thing. Fat on her ankles and flab on her waist, hanging-down skin from her arms and her face. Hi Paula, I said--Have you lost weight? You didn't! I did! --But wait! (One more glance to the left and the right). I hear the neighbor he's screwing is the husband, not the wife.
NO!
Yes.
Clink. A fork drops from a hand to a plate. Aircraft hang mid-air. Wine stops fermenting. Vertiginous fantasies of oiled flesh in the sand . . . 'From Roger to Eternity' . . . snatched by the riptide of 'hey, that's not fair.'
What a waste.
Yeah.
Hostess packs leftover half-eaten words in plastic containers with stay-fresh lids. Cheeknips and pom-hugs red-bow the departure--Love you, Helena and Alice and Pam.
Richard Osgood lives on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, LitChaos, The First Line, Mudluscious, and Writer's Bloc, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.
Braised-words and baked-words and loafs of wholegrain-words. Tossed-words and mashed-words and plates of sautéed-words. Pass me the breaches, the confidence shakers, top it with rumor and deliberate falsehoods. Open the screen door, the porch-line surrenders, sundown to lowdown—Avante! I'm Famished! Spouter and flitter, arms-out and lips tucked, embrace them, bareface them, shortwaist them—My Darling! It's so good to see you.
In circle pass bottle, fill glasses, toast friendship (can't speak ill of Alice she's right here beside us). Cheers to you, Marmalade! Niblets and teasers, pinched fingers on cheeses—Carol's not coming? I'll bet she's with Peter. My God! What he sees in her I'll never know.
It's the boob job, I tell you, they've a thing for their mothers.
Break out the ladles, the tongs and the scoopers. Pile on the blather and flibber and gibbet. No-one can hear you, lean into the table, look over your shoulder, just once just in case, to guarantee circle security.
Did you hear about Paula and Roger?
Oh my God yes. I hear he's screwing the neighbor. Can't blame him, really—Have you seen Paula lately?
Why, yes. Just the other day at the market, poor thing. Fat on her ankles and flab on her waist, hanging-down skin from her arms and her face. Hi Paula, I said--Have you lost weight? You didn't! I did! --But wait! (One more glance to the left and the right). I hear the neighbor he's screwing is the husband, not the wife.
NO!
Yes.
Clink. A fork drops from a hand to a plate. Aircraft hang mid-air. Wine stops fermenting. Vertiginous fantasies of oiled flesh in the sand . . . 'From Roger to Eternity' . . . snatched by the riptide of 'hey, that's not fair.'
What a waste.
Yeah.
Hostess packs leftover half-eaten words in plastic containers with stay-fresh lids. Cheeknips and pom-hugs red-bow the departure--Love you, Helena and Alice and Pam.
Richard Osgood lives on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, LitChaos, The First Line, Mudluscious, and Writer's Bloc, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.