I've Got Baggage

I hate the French, but how fabulous is the word "portmanteau"?!


I know there are several meanings, but I am just lovin on one in particular right now....

Will you please sit on my portmanteau so I can zip through the bulge in the middle where the body is bunched up?

Hey man, look alive - your portmanteau has already gone around for three dirt laps on the luggage carousel.

Aw fuck me running! - I am late for this flight, and the wheel just blew out on my portmanteau!

Luggage language is lovely my friends.

I saw this poem on another blog and am sharing it here........because it makes me want to work "portmanteau" into every sentence.

Portmanteau

It will clasp
itself shut
around the dark
compartment
we have stuffed
with our splurges-
I mean the shimmer,
the silver, the slivers
and trinkets.
I mean,
it will mantle
the hollow
core, cradle the cloaks
and cyborg novels,
the trash and slang
and Sunday brunches
over silent toast
we've smushed
inside and, I mean,
all we'll have to do
is lock it.
All we'll
have to do is lift it,
chuck it, really,
into the attic.
You'll love it-
it's humongous,
ginormous,
fantabulous-
I'd guesstimate there's space
for the unfinished bookcase,
the sorry motel with its sign
on the fritz,
the unloved afghan,
the unspoken insult,
your dumbfounded mother,
my collection of twizzle sticks,
the hamster
that died when
we left for a fortnight,
geometry, hassles, casseroles,
and under the false
bottom, a hidden
slot for all of 1986.
I mean, you'll barely
know it's there-
maybe at night a faint
clang or chortle
upstairs.
But that's the past
hinged shut,
clamped tight
beneath the attic eaves,
spread like wings
above our necessary
dreams.

~ by Gigi Thibodeau*

* You can find out more about the author here.