Weirdtongue (45)

The words weirdmongery and weirdmongering* came to a consciousness in almost commando ferocity – then subsided to a more gentle entry as the shop-door's ding! of awakening subsided to just an echo. These words knew they were born of the original Nemophile - participles, nouns or gerunds of being or doing that the Nemophile had remotely ignited with his very existence on the seat of his feemicart continents away. He was probably just as unaware of the process as the words were unaware of themselves, whilst being simultaneously operative of that very process by osmosis through magic fiction. Namelessness anthropomorphised as letters riding shotgun on the very word-carts they formed.

If letters or words have consciousness, it’s hard to penetrate their haze. Yet we do see - via a blur of our own semantics, phonetics, graphology and potentially co-operative syntax - that a man is standing behind a shop counter, a mouth like an O of surprise ready to swallow the very pests** that peer in at him from the still dark pre-dawn street outside.

The pests are something that we identify with, as words. I, as a single letter, feel my limbs are puffy, swollen beyond measure, as they thus disguise the letter of which these limbs are part and the word of which the letter is, in turn, part.

I struggle to maintain the onward purpose so easily forgotten. The Nemophile’s thoughts have drifted away from us. And thus the blur remains, strengthens. Simply the O left.

Frozen in time. Until, at least, the thoughts eventually returned to revive our letters and words: encouraging us to form a retributive phalanx aswarm the clown’s face like a Biblical plague. But nothing, it seemed, followed the Simply the O left. No words at all. Not our words at least.

*FOOTNOTE (passworded): HERE.

**FOOTNOTE: HERE.

'Weirdtongue' continues HERE.

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