My lips and voice-box had a fall out,

last Tuesday week,

on route to a verbal deliverance.

Sounds plucked on vocal cords,

swerved, uncontrollably,

like lemmings on space-hoppers

down flooded ‘Cavity Canyons’.

Some crashed into remains of ‘Road Kill’,

festering between chewing sites

filled in by a fusion of silver and decay.

The lemmings that made it,

cascaded down ‘Phlegm Falls’

into a raging whirlpool

that spilt over white cliffs.

Power lines to the speech formulation flaps

were sabotaged by Parkinson’s Pirates,

only allowing a low wat, wat, wattage through.

The result was a varying narrow gap.

The steely determination of these vocal conformists

forced some words through,

only to be choked at birth.

Prepubescent vocals that failed to find a way,

smacked into the back of these flaps,

landing spread eagled,

drowned below the gum line.

Words ‘lip-sync’, like lip-sunk.

So today I greet with phenomenally functioning,

flap formulating, calculatingly clear,

vocal violin of delectable deliverance,

until Parkinson’s pop-up pirates pounce.

 

© Phil Golding 03/09