Scuffles

Morgan lifted his head.  "Scuffles.  Johnny Scuffles." Language is a whore and poets are violent pimps with aggressive tendencies couched only by the semblance of art.  He sat in the living room and things suddenly just stirred.  They stirred in his belly, around the ceiling and down into his toes.  His innards became a madman dancing wildly in some field underneath the satellite moon, frothing at the mouth and expelling the nastiest and beautifulest of creative creations.  Caesars and seizures, his torso in a fit of gonzo fury, this was the time when the world could shake.  That is when it happened and the idea of Scuffles was born.