"bungled" poems
It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******
of a dangling participle.
Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.
Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.
Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.
Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
This is just a boring sadness;
a low-lying, flat sort of sadness,
just a grey sea on a drizzly day.
There’s nothing major going on here,
nothing monumental, nothing tragic.
It’s all just a bit blue round the edges.
This isn’t an explosive sadness,
it isn’t a torrent and it isn’t rock bottom.
It’s just a boring sadness that hums steadily
and it’s fine, really. It’s fine.
It’s just a sort of storm globe sadness,
willing to become tempestuous when shaken.
The waves rush, lightening darts, thunder bellows,
but it all happens behind glass.
And it’s fine, really, because it settles itself quickly.
The sea goes flat again and it’s fine.
It’s just a monotonous sadness,
the sort that makes life dull and hopeless.
It keeps you in your bedroom
and it ticks off the years and still,
you’re in the bedroom,
yet to have your first kiss,
your first heart break,
your first night out,
your first airplane ride,
your first concert,
your first car,
but it’s fine, because it’s a sadness
that comes down like a fall
of paper snowflakes and it’s fine.
It’s all fine.
It’s just a boring sort of sadness,
so you watch other people’s misery instead
and you wish you could spare them the pain.
You become a twisted sort of sadness covet,
a sadness thief, stealing sadness that isn’t boring,
stealing sadness that seems worse than your own
And it hurts you and makes you feel worthless,
all these bungled attempts to rob sadness
but it’s fine, really. At the end of the day, you’re fine.
It’s just another bit of boring sadness and you are fine.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
World spun around
Turned me upside down
Dropped me on my head
On a rocky ledge
Baffled and bungled
Lost in a jumble
Crawling towards the sea
To return to my me
Needing to desolve
And reevolve
To my former self
The one upon the shelf
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
Mishmash, that's my life sort of, I'm isolated
Companion, acquaintance, colleague
I left them, primly, nothing worth of trust
Not that I know, how many out there, bungled
It's been months since, I locked up myself
by my realm of picturesque creation
Zero delusion, illusion, hallucination
Not to tell no one, where am I
Glad to initiate, these, quarters of sanctuaries
Landed massive words, of
aspirations, ambitions, inspirations
lift up my life, soul, spirit
dwelling there, a hope
No matter how wrecked my previous is
I'm eager to take on new adventure.
Life must go on
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
About that starting lineup,
well I think I missed the gun
but just as well
took off for other places~
I longed for mountains majesty
and all those things I hoped to see,
while others stayed
and loved familiar faces.
Some married and they bore their young,
or college-bound for work and fun
or tragedy,
well sometimes God just loses me~
The question of my failure
to connect with just one sailor,
what the heck, but strangely so,
it still amuses me.
I ponder of a hope,
that it's still possible,
within your scope,
and grateful for eleventh hour breakthroughs~
Still don't get what you wrote to me,
I bungled at the spelling bee,
you say the thing I'll get, is what I choose?
My mind it travels to and fro,
the world it feeds the input though,
and we must press the whey out from the curds~
And so I speak in vagaries,
of things to come which I can't see
but speak into reality,
if only by my words.
The power of the word,
to mezmerize and heal the hurt,
your eyes are beautiful
they've looked into my soul~
The wonder of your gaze,
it touches places, Dear,
I'd rather not be writing of,
our love, like epic poetry,
too much to share in whole.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.
Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.
He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.
But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****
Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
I feel like an empty vessel
Staggering by the shore
I’ve lost my way like an orphan wind
I don’t see a way through.
I don’t see a door.
I need an anchor,
An anchor, to help me stay adrift.
I need a compass.
A compass, to guide me to exist.
Don’t leave me dangling.
Come now love, guide me to you!
I’m standing right where you left me waiting
Waiting, for life to happen.
Don’t keep me waiting anymore
Give me a chance to fend for.
Come, steer me with your grace.
As I lie here in dreams awake,
Be my light, my clearer vision.
Make the emptiness go away.
Be my lover, a convincing reason.
Come fill me up with an appetite for life
Don’t let the emptiness devour me
Give me a bearing,
A tool to survive.
Don’t leave me with my demons.
Come now love, guide me to you!
I need an anchor,
An anchor, to help me stay adrift.
I need a compass.
A compass, to guide me to exist.
I’ve been tried, I’ve been misled!
Come, undo my bungled attempt.
To reach out, I raised my hand
But, I’m falling down instead
Be my anchor, my cornerstone
Bring me ashore, let me come through
Be my compass, influence me
Come now love,
Guide me to you!
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
Under the light of a thousand stars , i stand alone...
And i console myself , not to cry anymore.
Who set out to gain but has won a loss...
A loving loss, a startling loss...
Who has survived taunts and grins.
Been hated, judged , but still held tightly close to the heart to feel it's trampled warmth..
And then one day , thrown out in a manner befitting an imposter..
Just when i had grown to cherish the impish grins,
Basked in the sunlight of abnormality,
Borne by a person who stands somewhere under these twinkling stars ,
Someone i bungled and tossed away......
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
To reach out,
I raise my hands
But, I fall down instead.
To get up, I dream
And to undo this bungled attempt.
To teach myself to live
I take a step ahead,
To craft my dreams, I bled
Don't usher me down now,
Let me levitate.
Let me break the wall,
If you can't break it for me.
I don't wish to grow, I dream to.
No chance, no luck can take me there.
I don't want to have a bucket list
or "to do things" before my time runs out
I'd rather do everything
And add them all to my life.
To live like that
Is to live a fair life
Like a good man said
"Our truest life is when
We are in dreams awake."
Inspired by a quote by Henry David Thoreau"
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
Beyond the rusty and almost illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited ******* leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.
Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC