Tongue Ticklers — Jesting Passages For A Breezy Morn; — Journeyman’s Poems

Dine On A Brilliant Dish, To Supple Such A Woman As She!

It is about time I reinstated this funster altogether before the setting volume of Journeyman’s Poems becomes known to all of you that shalt read. Coming theretofore, so dear to dine, now, breaching a sickle so supreme, that it tickles the bread, handsome of now.

After many expeditions, if you dare and backtrack amongst the lore of her, then that be a course suitable, for such a journeyman to endure, once again.

I am pleased to have the haggard remands of another time surged way so here, amongst the Curated rabble.

So please, Eat! Dine and whine blissfully unaware here!:

Tongue Ticklers No I

Your life Bleeding away from you

Whilst you roast the bread

Too pressingly

Tongue Ticklers No II

I once shelled a Man

Who was awfully fond of Crabs.

One day he piped up that he would love

To feast upon the juicy reds innards:

He’d cracked open the lad —

Slept were the pinschers — slipped —

Past them cleanly — limb unto limb —

Goring upon the flowing juice

That remained;- passing, I jeered;

The fingers to a crossed V —

Once that had passed,

He remarked: ‘What on heav’n for?’

Tongue Ticklers No III

Withhold the sass of the limerick

Betide Man; except only in knots

Let him be the enabling chain.

Centre that sass upon a knife’s blade —

Quarter yourself firmly,

As the Good Doctor makes you a well-to-do Man!

Tongue Ticklers No IV

Twice for the snicket;

Lost for the twice unfolding thicket.

Growingly sleepy and gee —

For the hatchet's welcomed reprieve

That loses all scalps to bone

And makes us dome!

Tongue Ticklers No V

If you’d ask the fool why he is what he is, he’d blame someone else;

If you’d ask the genius why he is abated in the way that he is, he’d blame the ignorance of others for not exciting his ruling writ.

Dispatched and forlornly, Men end up all the same in the true equaling wilderness of Death.

Tongue Ticklers No VI

If Man is the Ass, his Golden hind is always trawler up his

Own behinds; The actual Ass is meager in its accounts of such

Travels of a forgetful chide — mocked at his doppelganger’s stance,

He collapses and leaves the bricklaying to that same; sane, chiding Man.

Trawling up his own golden behinds —

Tongue Ticklers No VII

No hu-Man is without doubts for Reason;

Tho’ reasoned for doubt, They’re without.

Tongue Ticklers No VIII

What I am isn’t what I shall be after a second recount;

Certainly, not after a seconding recall of all that I have been.

Forgetting myself is not my intention — this service, oft so bizarre in the

Clashing shields of memory, entailing myself not to the forgetfulness

Of preceding time — Nay, the Will is biting that I do take care in not

Forgetting who I’ve strived to be, even if the ending was so calamitous

In the wounding shenanigans that catapulted me right here…

Inking these words… Aye, to who and who — that is the nowhere sight I remain at.

Tongue Ticklers No IX

The Victorious always seem to plight the other in their off-hand

For their seemingly well-deserved defeat with eradication

Of chancing feats, they played against the now, seemingly

Victorious — Victory, is nigh ending as soon it was begun to be had.

Tongue Ticklers No X

Plastic falls the face — the being must hide under a facade,

Grizzly for the idea to potent of protection —

At the sudden meekness befalling the person.

Yet, remaining Plastic much longer only casts an indelible

Print that is too reductive to run and hide thereafter.

Tongue Ticklers No XI

One pints the Hebrew brew —

When the sadness has availed itself;

When the pallor has eagerly lurked itself —

To the sickly hue; all one can do is

Await the lasting turning of an inscrutable dial!

Tongue Ticklers No XII

An Armed Man in the Prussian Field once courted

The Rounding idea of his uncertainty:

By provided song, bursting so unseemly,

He behests himself the ruling class,

Of a Dandelion and a Mesirable Cross,

Placed it on the ground and awaited

To be proven wrongly of his uncertainty — When the roar

Of cannon fire came ripping through the placid sky

He was sure then of his fragility — armed yet remaining headless

To his Station — the Corpse remained evermore to that particular Station;

Capped and sheathed to the pharaohs of old —

As the State carried on and on and on — ever uncertain of that certainty.

Tongue Ticklers No XIII

I went striding from Office to Office, ending up in unfurnished farrows

Of pleasurable greens and brilliance commended, drafted one

Only to the fair sight of Mud.

There I belabored to relax the tender bruise

Of a passing age, so clued to the lady imbibing next to me;

I, however, in my tortious-gray cloak, supped on naught but

The abling memory — therein I remained harmlessly until

The courting night broached me no finer of a sight

Then the setting Sun on the bustling silhouette of a Corpus at large.

There I remained, as Precious time seeped past me, unchallenged

As I went striding once again, Station till idol Station had done me in at last.

River cried a fierce laugh as I divorced my lasting aft from all sight

And unkindly views.

Not a brittle care amongst you, laid comme ça, I decide to come on back and rip up the tidy road I had laid.

Surprising all but nobody —

That is all, brightly revealing, for today.

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