On coping with sa-stammering

The other day a proz- s- saic^
friend mused:
I wish I could write music or poetry.
I didn't know what to say because
I'm always lost for words -
groping for them
in the greyish p- m- m-uddle
from which the right word can never be extricated
by my clumsy tongue

(instead some subpar subs-
titute stutters its way through my pharynx
unsuccessfully conveying
the glistening clarity I see/think/feel
in my head

mixing orders of
words up by the time they translate to

spoke- o- on tongue)

How do you convey the simultaneity of graphic thought
ad verbatim?
The words that delineate in a mental landscape
transmute not to linear argument.

Which is why I so admire Rhet-t-
-oric which seems to work
with the smooth efficacy of a Butler
redeeming you to his point of view.

While my words are some kind of Scarlett
lett-er -lett-ing on my stupidity instead.

Oh my silly friend
the silence of my prosaic grin
is saying only this:

If I could say in it prose,
I would not need prosody.

^Prozac is an antidepressant drug that was once widely prescribed for depression, particularly in the USA. It can also be used for the treatment of OCD, panic disorder, bulimia and PMS. In certain rare cases, it is also used for ADHD, and Asperger's.

Orchard road, 10PM

Walk along Orchard Road at ten o' clock at night. Music with a heavy beat that pounds your heart plays, and the inky blackness of the night is warded off by numerous fluorescent lights from the stalls that are still set up at this time of night. One of them is a cariacature artist's booth, and even at this time of night, there are still people queueing up for his services. At the moment, a fat lady in an overly-tight red tank is being drawn. Just like in the daytime, you can smell smoke everywhere. In the night, though, it's a more powerful stench - an acrid mixture of smoke, sweat and booze. It's not hard to see why some might find it compelling though.

At ten o' clock at night, giant ang mohs roam the streets with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, and equally tall, leggy Asians wearing stilettos tower over you effortlessly. Standing at a respectable height of 1.65m, it feels strange to be the shortest one in the crowd - you feel small, and insignificant.

By ten o' clock, all the shops in all the shopping centres are closed, or closing, and everyone is forced into the streets. Mothers holding ever so tightly onto whingeing boys. Last minute shopaholics holding fast to their paper bags, bludgeoning their way through the crowd, on to their next 'last' buy. All of a sudden, over sound of the heavy music and loud talking, the honk of the rubbish-man is heard. His pedalled vehicle is empty, but somehow, he still manages to leave a trail of some glistening liquid on the road. Perhaps it's from the doubtful looking broom turned on its end. You walk past more ang mohs and try to steer clear from the ones stumbling around in a kind of drunken song and dance routine, and a couple more wannabe sexy Asians, who are short and dumpy, but wearing mini-skirts and over-large hoop earrings. In the distance you can hear the sharp sounds skateboads connecting with roads as skaterboys are still trying to perfect that last jump or turn.

As you make it to the safety of the car park, you wonder why you've never seen this side of Singapore before.