"scrapple" poems
The gracegel fixed a whisilpur stir
Of beamish walldows plenty glee
Lursting gentile sodjar words
To rise a slumgraven lad from slee
Wiss! Youshun beware of me!
Yelpsured this famil somber chord
For I tis sent from spirits upthee
To scrapple luscious souls earthwart
Whose frangled lives are of odd degree.
The lad’s eyes engrossed with squinty cheer
Permazed at this zartrous sight.
The gracegel behooved its transparent skin
Then wishbamboozled the rooms in a fandacisnt blight
And Together lad and gracegel consured the night
Word Meaning
Gracegel: a high and elite angel Whisilpur: silent, purring noise
Beamish: concentrated light
Walldows: shadows on the wall
Lursting: quiet echoing whispers
Sodjar: important, necessary
Slumgraven: distraught, troubled
Slee: worried state that leaves people to stay awake before sleep
Youshun: you shouldn’t
Yelpsured: to make certain
Famil: inherently known
Upthee: refers to head gracegel
Earthwart: out of earth
Frangled: mix-matched
Permazed: perplexed and amazed
Zartrous: uncommon
Wishbamboozled: to spin something violently
Fandacisnt: magical
Consured: to fly without wings
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
It must of been the summer the Schuykill unearthly ignited into flames from an errant cigarette, discarded by an eel fisherman into the effluent runoff from Mr. Oink-full's Scrapple plant.
Do you remember that evening? Night air cumbersome and pungent, brimming with the smell of burnt feathers and piercing quacks. All those fateful mallards drowning in flames upon the boiling river rotisserie. Blazing ripples dancing in a stunning kaleidoscopic noxious borealis.
While entranced in this sight, it was with a tap on the shoulder from the Manayunk Marbler that would indelible reshape my belief in interconnected theory.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
It's eight o'clock in the morning and I'm running down stairs.
I'm about to tell you it's my sixth birthday.
I'm so excited and I jump on your stomach and tug lightly at your eyelids.
Then next thing you know I'm thirteen and I'm in this whole edgy thing you don't understand. But you still buy me goofy studded belts and depressing romance novels. We still sit in the living room every Sunday. Eating scrapple and watching Jerry Springer.
Then I'm fourteen.
You are getting sicker but I try to just ignore it.
I start to cut myself because I don't know what else to do. Built up guilt I guess because now I can't even be around you. I don't want you to see me so sad
Do you remember when I was little.
We played candy land and you bought me chocolate and marshmallows.
Mom mom was ****** because she didn't want me riled up but you didn't care as long as I was smiling.
Months go by and you get worse.
You got put in the hospital.
The cancer is killing me in the heart as much as it's killing you in the liver.
A few weeks then my mother tells me I have to say goodbye. I don't want to say goodbye to you. You were the best Pop pop anyone could ask for. I didn't say goodbye. Instead I told you I loved you so much. And I always will. And within hours. You were gone. I started smoking. I didn't want to feel like giant gaping hole you left behind.
And it's still there.
Four year later.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC