Space Invader

I like to hear you talk, your tales are so very amusing; you take a
word of mine, a slice of hers and WHAM, the conversation is yours.
Running head long into a myriad of memories, skipping and jumping
across fences around enveloping hills, dragging us behind like a string
of sausages - grabbed and tagged to take in the tale, you are a space
invader. The thing is I like you, think you have a brilliant mind, one
which stores and hoards like a box of Meccano and bric-a-brac, always
linking and full of teeth. I am the plasticine of the toy box, sticking
into the plastic prongs and scraped out at the end. You're like a
fencer who slices my vocal chords; as soon as I make a sound, you link
and don't think that I might not have finished. I enjoy your stories so
much I forget it started as one of mine.
You are sweet and kind, generous and giving, but prone to bursting into
an emotional flood over inconsequence. Your childhood was beautiful -
we know; your father a workaholic - we know; you were once thin - we
know; you hang onto boyhood with shambolic charm - that we know. And
you are very funny - literary satirists you and your chums, I feel
charmed to know you and see your slant; you are, however, still a space
invader.
Your speech runs so fast I wonder if you will full off a cliff one day
and not realise you have fallen until you hit the bottom. While
swimming into a new world where speech is given to the godly and you
would rather burn in the fires of bavel's backyard than relinquish
control of the talking stick. Weed makes you laugh and slightly less
verbose, you remind me of my brother. I'm some how always looking up at
someone who is smaller than me - unless I gather my verbal artillery
tight to my chest and attack. Suddenly I knock you into the street
searching for your verbal alphabet as I take the baton and run,
breathless and bolshy taking the subject in my stride as the words
gather in the back of your throat like an army gathering its ammunition
and loading its guns, I know if I slip now, make one indiscretion, take
a sip of my drink or even sneeze you will be in there, rushing to the
conclusion and taking the ending - this time I'll win, slamming the
point home kicking the garden gate behind the last few statements,
ensuring victory for the punch line, safe from the space invader. Next
time you win Mr.