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Neological Glossolalia

Posted on Thursday, April 16, 2009 in Verse

As you probaly know, I am somewhat of an amateur etymologist. That is to  say, I am fascinated by language, it’s uses, and–in particular–its  misuses. I believe that what we respond to in a piece of writing is, most  often–not so much the content, but the sound, the texture, and in particular, the rhythm of the piece. With this in mind, I’ve decided to share with you a poem (actually a short story written in blank verse)  which was given to me two years ago by a friend.

Due to the fact that the author is a public figure, I’ve decided–for reasons that should shortly become obvious–not to reveal his identity.  What I can tell you–so that the vernacular here makes sense–is that he is a Negro, was raised in a small town in Texas sans any formal education, and that today he is a Grammy Award winning musician (a blues guitar player).

The first time the author showed me this piece, I was in a particularly black mood. Perhaps in hopes of uplifting my spirits, my friend suggested I read something he’d written when he was in a similarly dispirited state.

The story, he explained, was written about two neighbors–a husband and wife–who’d committed several grievous transgressions against him–one of which was telling his wife a series of lies which had caused her to  leave him. He wrote this the night he came home to find her gone.  “If I hadn’ta written it I mighta killed them.” he told me. “I don’t think I ever hated two people more than I did them sonsabitches.” That said, he  threw a sheaf of papers in my lap.

I picked up the manuscript and began reading. Shortly thereafter I began laughing–not just a little, but uproariously, convulsively, and   soon…painfully. I simply could not stop.  “Geez, man I didn’t think it was that funny” my friend said, looking at me somewhaat askance.

Frankly (once the laughter had subsided) I didn’t quite know how to explain to him that I wasn’t laughing so much at the story itself, but rather at the sound of it–and the strange images that his highly unusual usage of the  English language conjured up in my brain. Unfortunately, it was difficult to say this without sounding condescending.

But the truth was that I found the perverting of the language absolutely and wonderfully refreshing. Many months after the initial reading the laughter would erupt–always, it seemed, in the wrong places. I was, quite simply, powerless over it. A line or an image would pop into my brain, and off I’d go. Still, over the years, I’ve come to regard the piece in a different ight. Today I feel it is nothing less than a work of art. It is, without  a doubt, the most vitriolic, hate-filled effort I’ve ever read. But this  spleen-renting is amplified to such a degree, that not only does the bile have a cleansing effect–it ultimately transcends itself to attain the status of high poetry. Scatalogical poetry to be sure, but poetry nontheless.

The fact that the writer is both Southern and a blues musician is  evident not only in the patois, but in the distinctly rural flavor evident throughout. As all blues must–the purpose of the piece is to extracate  the demons from within the gut of the writer, and–on a Gestalt level–to  project them onto an object outside of himself.

But what I love best (and what still causes me severe bouts of uncontrollabale hilarity) is the writer’s incredibly creative use of specific words–and please keep in mind I am not criticizing here. Having  had no formal education, he writes words phoenitcally. For example–his  use of the words “brangs” (which is how he pronounces the word) for brains. When he speaks, the author uses an ang sound rather than an ai (pronounced ay)–so he has, from that vantage point, written the word correctly.

Some of the passages are exquisite in their use of metaphor;for example “if since would use his branges in a blackbird head, the poor thing would go backword.” What is being communicated here is the notion
that if a doctor (“science”) ever made the mistake of transplanting the brains of the the protagonist in the head of some poor, unsuspecting  blackbird–the bird in question would then forevermore be cursed with theunfortunate malady of having to fly in the wrong direction (a very poetic way I think of saying that the protagonist is stupid). Yet while this is clear, I have not the slightest clue as to what the phrase “in between the hist” connotes. Even more curious is the notion that “Fort Knox couldn’t  afford to pay for a crust of her funkie ankle.” This, I am sure will forever remain a mystery.

Despite the sheer wonderfulness of such dialectical adventurousness, no doubt there will be some (like the poor girl in the xerox shop who turned a deep shade of magenta while making copies) who will take offense at the language here, despite the fact that this is the way people talk. Others will undoubtedly claim that I will stop at nothing in order to continue attracting attention to this column (what blasphemy!). But I’ve  no time to respond to those myopic individuals. Let them read Jack Smith if they want to be entertained on an Encino-housewife level. But enoughLet’s get on with it. Save for some editing (purely for the sake of space) the piece is printed exacatly as it was first given to me. Happy morphophonemic dissecting!


Pin head-Rinkle Ass.

by X

I know two slimey Mother-Fuckers who want to be in the show

They are the funkest; Ass Hole I know.

He,s A Gressie-Nasty- and a pin head   Basterd.

And eather one of the fuckers ware no drouse.


Now this old wich wee- call rinkle-ass,

Is she a trip, she look like a  1000 Year old Bitch.

Her face look like a pan of broken glass,

Her breth smell like Shit.

She look like hell.

She walk the street and shake her ass,

Every step she take; she is blowing natrel gas.


I heard him say many- -many day,

that he would love this bag until they put him away.

Well the Ass licker  dont have long to wait,

that Bitch is now pushing  88.


Her lages is all rinkle- her fuckin back is about to brake,

And if she Fort to  hard she would lose her gard,

And it would be her last mistake.


Now you take Ole Mr, Pin Head,

Man I swere if he had any Fuckin Brangs at all.,

he would,d be there.

The Boy is so damn dum, if Since would use his Brangs

in a black bird head the poor thing would go backword.


They both got Shit in there heads and brass in there ass,

they both should be put in a specal class.

The  class of Magets.


Two popple i know had a reck,

ole rinkleass was with them you can bet

But whend the Car stop, every body got out,

Ole Rinkle Ass was wet,

her blue jens was busted down the midle,

gee whate  a mess,

She was standing in shit up to her Fuckin neck,

Piss was runing from under the door on the side where she sit.

Then her blouse got torn right down the front,

all you could  from that momet

was her ragget blous and Rinkle Tits.


Now you take Ole Mr, Pin Head,

man I swere if he had any fuckin Brangs at al,

he would,d be there.

(editors note: print this section upside down)

PinHead  could get a job in South America,

Kissing Pithon snakes in the ass, in betwene the hist.

And hopen like Hell it,s just as well he dont have to

see that Bitch  Who ben whip,ed with an ugley stick.


She look like Cleo Patra maid

i often wonder what goes through that bitches head.

Her face nead liften and her body nead a charge

she nead to grese her self with owl shit

and drink a pint of blud

and get your man Mr. Pin Head to help clean up the crud.


She run around town fortin gas,

it,s coming from her mouth and not her ass.

but whend they tried to open the door

the dam thing fell apart, not because of the reck my frends,

it,s because the old brod fort.

She farted so lode she drue a croud,

shit went all over the floor,

her teath fell  out now lisen there more,


Whend she sit she begain to fort,

her ole Asshole begain to bolt and puckle,

and her chopes begain to part,

she,ll tell you about every Fagot on the block

and even know  there names,

the way she  trete that other fucker,

man, its a god dam shame.


If ugley was poisen she could fuck up a city block.

And – if his brangs was danimite  he would  blow up entair city

If she had to pay for all of the rinkles she have

Fort Knox could,d aford a crust of her funkie ankle.


And if stupid was a crime

he should have  ben convicked a long time ago

And if being ole make,s history

then she  must have taken her place around 400 years ago.

And if lies  made money

he,s got to be the riches Son of a bitch  i know.

And if kissen asses help his though

then there a many minds he have bought.


if you evers een them two  fuckers togather

then you will understand me and know what i  said,

i,m  talking about — you gessed it, mutherfuckers

Miss Rinkel Ass and Mr Pin Head.


If i had a fuckin like that, i tell you what i would do,

i would cut that bitches head off and cram it up her ass,

and forse her to look up her ole funky cunt,

and call it a looking glass.


Whend her ole tits are hanging out,

she look much worse

her face look like an engin from a 32 herst.


I know cabbage head fuckers and bango asses to

but i never in my life met a turd slinger like you.

He,s so fucked in the head he dont know what to do


You  also is a netrel rat eating fellow

you will eat anythng in any kind of wether.

You will eat the pimples off that ole bitches draus

you will suck the snot out of her funky nose.

You will eat the crud from bet ween her smelly toes.

Then you would swim through a ditch of dog shit,

just to chew on her ole rinkle tits.


Her mind act like a trater, carring a load of shit,

her hair look like calf rope cause she,s an ole anchen wich.

every time she open her funkey mouth make you wanna puick

you think of a million worms comming out of her gums

And whend she sat on the tolet and try to take a shit

slime comes from her ass hole, her cunt refuse to piss.


He like wait on the out side thinking that he,s cuit

while she sat on the tolet takeing a poop

But all of a suden  her old ass hole puckle

her eye ball fell on the flor and one crab said

to the others,  you better jump and run like hell

cause she a funkey Mother Fucker cant you tell?


You are a snake–a hog– and a low morrill dog

Your feet is webb, and you like a duck,

the brange you got in your head  ant worth a fuck.

You better take care of that anchun hore

dont let her go

caus where you can find another cow that ugley no body know.


And if y ou want to see him go much further

dont let it be a brother,

Then  you will see a unkle tom mother fucker.


Now getting back to the ole wich,

dam i hate to think of that ugely bitch.

Thanking of her and all,ll her lies

bring scalling, hot water from my eyes.


And if i saw them a hunderd  years from now

would be to  god dam soon

I never want to see them- Ham- hock eating mother fuckers again.

Cause the things they did to me they could never be my frend.


You and that ote meal eating bitch augh to be ashame

siting on your funkey ass thining you got class

the onely title you both may have my friends

Is mr Pin head and rRinkle Ass.

(c) CGB,

Slidell, LA

Bring on the comments

  1. Josh Maxwell says:

    I must say this is a great article i enjoyed reading it keep the good work 🙂

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