I never did dwell in my language
And neither does it dwell in me
Like some weary porter I summon it
And it does come with its slipped discs
Ready to perform some kind of extension
To the external world of talkers
When I summon it in anger
It tends to stammer and get stuck
When I beseech it with praise
It coats the tongue like honey
And the listener becomes suspicious
Of the stickiness of dubious motives
When I command it for a glass of water
It tells me it rather play speech acts
And leaves me there, my thirst unquenched
My deeds ready to spring up like a jack-in -the-box.
Pina Piccolo, 18 March 2023
Cover image: Photo of Ludwig Wittgenstein as a child in the fields, from Wikipedia.