Hookah with a Caterpillar

Prompt Day #235: Design a surreal menu

If any of you have been following me from the beginning of this mad idea, you might remember in the first month there was a seven course meal menu that had to get grosser as it went on. So, I didn’t want to just list another menu. And the whole “surreal” thing stuck in my head all day. I couldn’t get Alice’s tea party with the Mad Hatter out of my head and as I tried to compose something poem like I started thinking about Jabberwocky. What’s more surreal than a bunch of made up words? And hey, how hard can that be, right? WRONG. It’s so freaking hard I had to hole myself up in my bedroom and crank on classical music and just pace around spouting off gibberish until it had a good rhythm to it. Then I looked at the poem and realized it had no pattern whatsoever but the more I read it to myself, the more I kinda liked it. And it’s just a bunch of nonsense anyways. We’re all mad here, right? So does it have to follow a set poem pattern? No. And it still kinda follows the prompt. It’s about a feast in the woods in a dream. You know in dreams everything makes sense, even when it shouldn’t, and our dream self never questions it. So this is my homage to being silly, to Mr. Lewis Carroll, to my inner child, and to stoners everywhere…I know you get what I’m saying.

Hookah with a Caterpillar

When the sceptus moon is moraphone and scloing through the trees

And in your sleep you dream the dreams of shordes abysely breving

‘Tis time to dine among the grynes

And speak of mulgs graphessing

Pull up a blaust and I’ll recite a naptious airpropedo

Whilst you sip spiced wazzlenopf and nibble mashed larsteago

We’ll watch the wild carencofies primmantical in their flusley

And snorggle down a pirthy round of undrumented pipsee

Do pass the scrumb and don’t be drave about the Wilfalusner

He means no harm unless of course you draution his culpuser

Now, the valpit, bleasy Probiscure should always be abiled

And constroes with the Flopatour will only make you tired.

Eat up, my dear, eat up, I say. There’s aptious baked lariddlets

And for dessert we can enjoy some chilled transpluted migglets

What ho, now see, the jected moon is mollied and depleting

And soon the sun borances in to wake you from your dreaming

‘Twas such an austred stally to d’lance in your illusions

Come again when you’ve more time for survious delusions