While glancing at the audience
we make a show of what we think we feel

But feelings dont cruise our veins and arteries
as words or phrases, grammatic flapjacks
or syntactic errors

they gnaw at heartstrings
they clut the gut
they bale out bile
the catch breath
they glue tongue to roof of mouth
they cramp the hand

When all that has gone
and someone has wiped
the dribble from the chin
the tears from the cheeks
the sobbing snoot from the face

once cleaned up
and possibly recovered
we do a hunt for words

grapple with the various 

and possible masks

unsure of which makes most

of the reader's attention

we will be forgiven
for thinking
there is a soul quack in us all
a jester in each court
a charlatan behind

us all, cringing at

our emotional effusions

in print