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WickedHope Dec 2014
Out of place and rather uncertain
Lacking instructions, suggestions and a warning
Bouncing about like a toy ball
Uncomfortable with all my tics
I've always felt so quirkily and small

Lacking order and any sense of being,
Feeling out of place, unloved no ones ever hearing,
Broken and bruised from head to toe,
My scars shining bright against the pale white snow,
Just because I couldn't learn to walk straight,


Crooked toothed but grinning
I always feel like I'm sinning
Every time I'm early I feel late
Burnt to a crisp is the price of the flame
I'm just a solo player stuck in this game*

Maybe I'm the sinner and you're the saint,
Your halo is burning, getting lost in the flames,
Take my hand and join with me,
For we can end the heartache that seems to be,
Lets be awkward together,
There's no one better
I'm bold, he's italics.
(Posted under both our accounts.)
I loved doing this. :)
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need

to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus

grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans

first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).

Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical

churlish ******* animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums

harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft

to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused

respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the ***** and Whipping Cords

Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret

as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,

and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps

of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
Andrew Quilles Dec 2014
Out of place and rather uncertain
Lacking instructions, suggestions and a warning
Bouncing about like a toy ball
Uncomfortable with all my tics
I've always felt so quirkily and small

Lacking order and any sense of being,
Feeling out of place, unloved no ones ever hearing,
Broken and bruised from head to toe,
My scars shining bright against the pale white snow,
Just because I couldn't learn to walk straight,


Crooked toothed but grinning
I always feel like I'm sinning
Every time I'm early I feel late
Burnt to a crisp is the price of the flame
I'm just a solo player stuck in this game*

Maybe I'm the sinner and you're the saint,
Your halo is burning, getting lost in the flames,
Take my hand and join with me,
For we can end the heartache that seems to be,
Lets be awkward together,
There's no one better
celestine Jul 2016
she
she's quirkily odd and yet, mysteriously intriguing.
you're the sun and the moon,
the truth and the lie,
the devil and the angel I can't despise.

.
.
.
foolish soul, how did I ended up falling for you?
I'm a fool for not being able to move on quickly from you,
instead, I fall deeper and faster.
it's a trap.
I need to escape.
Grace Jordan Jan 2016
I can remember this moment just as clearly as if it happened an hour ago. there was this one night you texted me, long after you said you'd gone to sleep, and told me you couldn't stop thinking about me. It was early in our relationship, so it made sense, honeymoon phase and whatever. But it still makes me smile so much because it was brilliant, unromantic you staying up into the wee hours of the night thinking of crazy, turbulent me. It was ever so poignant considering how much I disliked myself then and how much I adored you.

You started messaging me with song links and lyrics, clumsily trying to explain why certain lyrics totally fit how you felt about me and only those parts. It was adorable and even now I can close my eyes and picture myself curled up and so in love with this clutzy expression of affection.

The song you kept on talking about, half drunk with exhaustion, was a song called "Always". You quirkily were insisting to ignore the parts of the songs that were negative, and just focus on the parts that talked about always thinking of me and having trouble living without me, or something. It was so late at night and so silly and so incoherent, but I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones, my blunt boyfriend getting all mushy about me.

I know we have some problems right now. I need to stop erupting and blaming my issues on you. You need to stop threatening the end of our relationship when I upset you. I need to give more focus on to bettering our relationship and myself for it. You need to open up again.

But when I can close my eyes and remember the guy who cried over the first poem of mine he read, or the one who couldn't handle seeing me so hurt when you first learned about it, and the one who's so brilliant, who's so determined, and strong, and you, I can't fathom letting that go. Letting you go.

Recently in one of my classes my teacher talked about the mystery of why writers, who sometimes don't like people very much, still talk to a lot of people. I know why I do. People fascinate me, how they think, how they act. And I think I love learning how you think the most. It fascinates me. It may not be my way, and it may not be what I think is best sometimes, but its mesmerizing watching you be you. Watching you do the things you do. Not only do you supplement my emotion-driven, wild, writing ways, but you always inspire them. You inspire me. I never feel a need to be you, but I always feel a need to be better for you, for us, and for me. I always feel a need to grow. Maybe sometimes it kicks my *** when I need to take a breath, but in the end?

I'm going places. I hope to always go places with you.

I know going back doesn't work. I know I don't exactly want me back then either. But I know with you I have moments with you, with me, with US, that always just make me stop, take a breath, and smile with how wonderful to me they look.

You're wonderful, dear. Not perfect, I will kick your cute *** before you start going there, but just right. Just what I need.

I don't really know where I'm going anymore. I just love you. I think I always will.

Always.

Never knew that word would ever make me smile instead of curl up in fear. Well, I guess that's where I'm at, love. Even when its hard. Even when I need you to alter things a bit. Even when you're frustrated with me because I'm not where you want me to be. I may not like you that second, but of course I'll still love you.

I always will.
A blank canvas

A world of potential

Crafty ingenuity

But, alas

There is no room

So I follow my instincts

Wave goodbye to gloom

Much less understanding

About impending doom

The creases in your face

Shows reality and truth

Quirkily misconstrued

With a front row view
Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,

though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.

This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis) revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs

dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),

trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. ***

Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.
posited puzzling apt aperçu...

While pondering particular
theme to address
amidst tangled wide, whirled
webbed mental skein
today November third
two thousand twenty two,
unexpected Möbius strip
tease conundrum unforeseen,
yet as avid aspiring wordsmith
only now I became keen,
which unflagging vexillological,

theoretical, rhetorical, philosophical...
narratological, linguistical, judgmatical
historical, fantastical, didactical,
and bibliographical predicament
may not suddenly find me
flush with green
i.e. profuse legal tender,
but merely thought provoking
puzzlement addresses following quandary
stuck within gray matter of pate

impossible mission to differentiate
jagged fine line between
passion and obsession
case in point strong
affinity to write of late,
cuz yours truly susceptible
toward compulsion that doth not abate,
and mind boggling to wed healthy
love of language analogous as mate
nsync with psychological trait,

viz excessive compulsion
diagnosed years gone
by courtesy professional
mental health specialists, did annotate,
and I admit behavior impossible to satiate,
thus generating aforementioned query
how does one (me) segregate
productive interest versus excessive,
née fanatical all consuming -
affinity towards English language

I loopily, quirkily verily narrate
oft times burning midnight oil
(albeit figuratively alluded
to wicked mister Arson Wells) witness
as logophile doth painstakingly toil
bajillion cerebral threads to uncoil,
whereby utilizing figurative tweezers
uprooting, untangling rhyme I embroil
(even using ****** Doo conditioner)
metaphorically beneath mine royal

hirsute (Scottish) matted topsoil
ultimately bringing in top gun
uncannily resembling gargoyle
shape shifting between
comical characters such as
Popeye and Beetle Bailey
at lightspeed as if
greased with Olive Oyl
so watch out Bluto,
get ready for turmoil!
Even as old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******

back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily

admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,

especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being beat into pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully

nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,

whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance

forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy

who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)

still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
(think feeble attempt
impersonating plumber plunging -
unclogging backed up toilet),
flushed with satisfaction,
now snakes into following non sequitur,
whereby then upperclassman,
whose name Scott Lambert

I suddenly remembered
modest fellow one year my senior  
- donned tee shirt
“please support your local ******”
yes folks back in the day,
one long haired pencil neck geek
palled around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said rolling stones
foo fighting beastie boys
allied with Smokey and the bandits,
the latter donning outsize
particolored grey pachyderm trunks,
Tuscaloosa so far away;

especially as Mummer doth strut
on unseasonably warm New Year's Day
sporting polar bear look-alike
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
merrily squeezing Charmin
rubbing her/his tuchus
excellently exhibiting posterior
as chief motormouth sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully
even now scores of decades later
ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
recalling happily never
being beat into pulp daily courtesy
imagine dragons saving me hide  
'though dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining consciousness, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated intimidating injustice
witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger,
who wanted to strangle  
the m*r f*rs yearningly
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed,
whereby muscle bound hoodlums
jockeyed to rain
one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,
and bandied fist viz physical blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,
and stuntedly) didst grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic
Kris Kringle **... **... **...),
which long sleeved Santa suit
rendered invisible liver spots;      
said epidermal splotches black and indigo
wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds true value
nudging anonymous reader to chuckle
thru contrived written words y'know

good humor less or mo'
yours truly aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
feebly, lamely, and quirkily
(no matter recognizing ex post facto)
impossible mission reporting punks to principal,
hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity
as defensive modus operandi status quo
finally freeing mine unsung
inner foreigner juke box hero.
Especially one courteously wrapped ably
anonymously gifted to
an aspiring gourmet Chef Boyardee
i.e. not surprisingly... revealing mystery
person none other than...
yepper namely me.

Moost anyone can show
off culinary karate chop
suey, whether schooled among
fishy creatures either
from black lagoon,
or privately tutored,

(this haint no canibal)
courtesy mythological Cyclop,
somewhat riotously,
quirkily and precariously,
when blindsided flop

which slapdash loco motion often
misconstrued for latest dance moves
characterizing boogie woogie
(touting Louis Armstrong talents
as token bugle boy), and/or hip hop.

Audible sigh of relief exhaled by
none other than Chaim Yankel,
whose tail feathers ruffled
linkedin to setback, which former
(malfunctioning microwave) did rankle.

No longer must
hungry tummies all told
eat food frozen and/or cold
leftovers formed into Rorschach,
neigh Horseshack habitat mold
more suitable as clay pigeons,
where strong arms
analogous to accordion fold

readied to take aim and fire
young trumpeting Olympian trained
contestants, albeit aghast at
proliferating firearms when polled
wantonly, indiscriminately, and blithely
taking precious innocent lives
worth more than fine spun gold.

Eve vent chilly this monseigneur
and his madam
(Church Lady) conceding faithful
to follow and acquiesce
and countenance flimflam
toward yours truly,
no matter a fake Imam

who offered up feast
Earth friendly biologically/
genetically modified, prepared
artificial intelligent algorithmically
programmed manufactured in Vietnam,
who cooked delectable
Soylent green eggs and ham.

Best not prepare
former entree in microwave
lest they explode instantly
killing home of the brave
necessitating, none other
than one lame rhymester at large
to end poem quickly senseless verse
in order for his hide to save.
Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
who suffered cuts by a thousand knives.

Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think suctioning and unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans...
although decades passed
(into the black hole sink
of space/time continuum)
long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain upon the head
of yours truly,
who weathered figurative brickbats
by remaining analogous
to a deaf-mute person

one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, nor the Riddler, but upholds
valuable humor less or mo'

feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero,
and perchance if I threw a judicious punch
(rearranging the face of thugs)
subsequently winning the respect
towards those beastie boys,
who would know better next time,
when they come back to town
than to tangle with the likes of me.

— The End —