Rambling disjunctive poem on the subject of that feeling in Rambling sane thoughts of the terminally me

No, not that feeling. The other one. Oh never mind. You decide which one I mean.

The title is also a bit of a lie. I’ve put this one up to stop me trying to edit it as it was getting silly.

A tightness that rides up the insides of your ribs
gathering shattering flattery for each word you misgive
and hoarding recordings of the hirsute silences
that each tongues begun to tie up in contrivance.

For each billable syllable comes with a price
in my literary itinerary they’re a ploy or device
to try to tie up the great hero of the hour
and manoeuvre this oeuvre into it’s own place of power.

For oft have coughed forth the simplest truism
then been bound around with a string of confusion
and softened the offering to the point of cliche
till memory abandons the intended imparte

Still the words that we’ve heard have power of their own
As the tribal memorial carved in the stone