My tongue is the playground of words.
At my tongue, a zoo of words apparates. This menagerie, this saccharine totem-pole, now and then, tarries outcarven on my tongue blade.
But chiefly, the meanings of the words debouch to my mind, while like nascent famuluses, the attendant sounds are shipwrecked on my tongue.
There, on the lamina, this sonic plurality undergoes mitosis, dissolving into my blood stream, subitaneous metastasis. The neurotoxins in this beck of words, like a nepenthe or Styx, obliviates me spatio-temporally. I become a glossal gourmet, a lexical aesthete.
A frisson courses through me, as I ponder over the plenary monarchy these words exert succulently over me. Is this my Fugu, is this my Mochi...?
Even now, my mind retains the echoes of these words. Not veridical facsimiles, but a miscegenation of sounds , a pastiche of compressions and rarefactions , a foliage of leafed tintinnabulation.