Upon hearing for the nth time the notion that language = identity


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.