"wacky" poems
You're the Wacky Wolf-man,
Tearing through our pages with a single huff.
Breathing life into us little piggies,
Blasting your way through the daily fluff.
You're the Word Wizard.
Leaving us in awe and in dribbles.
Waving your wand,
Conjuring magical and spellbinding scribbles.
You're the Living Legend,
Almost like a deity of some sort.
Garnering shiploads of admiration,
Through words of encouragement, banter and retort.
You're the Bad Boy Bard...
Never mincing your words.
Unconventional, you howl amidst the flocks...
You never did chirp like the birds...
You're the Minstrel Mobster,
Shooting your Tommy, never missing.
Flicking forward your fedora,
Strung lute ever smoking.
You're one Cool Cat.
Fending off haters with a bat.
Everyone just wants to be that.
Like a superhero whose symbol is a bat...
You're a Gem Generator.
Cogs and gears churning the jewels laid
Machine malfunction! My system's jammed!
Well I guess that's just it... Enough said!
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
There are many different kinds of hairs
Some are long and some are short
Some look like spider strings falling off your head
Some are thick and some are thin
Some feel as soft as a baby's ***
Nothing and nothing
Some are colorful and some are not
Some are furry, some are funny
Some are blond, some are not
Some go up and are wacky and stretched
Blond is better than black
Hairs are bears!
If you want to see hairs, take a look at your dad's hairy chest!
Some hairs look like cotton candy
These are all different kinds of crazy hair
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Anak ng poocha naman o oh
Sa lahat naman ng ayaw ko...
Anigma pasubali...fliptopan ba'to
Pooja' una pa lang pinagsabihan na kita,
Pero ngayon... malamang magtanda ka na!!!
Unang banat.. wala akong ganang mag ingles
Nakakawalang galang ka! Hinde naman sa naiines
Hinde na lang talaga kasi ako makatiis
Sa pigura **** pagkakinis-kinis
Kahit tuwalya wala ka man lang tapis
Daig mo pa nakatihayang ipis
Pasalamat ka walang pambura dala kong lapis
Kundi aabutin ka sa 'kin ng walang humpay na daplis
Sa patuwad **** nakalilis
Landas ko'y nalilihis.
Pangalawa..hinde pa ito ang huli...
ayoko sanang maging arogante
Sa lubot **** mala elepante...
Ambot sa imo wag kang makampante
Sa postura **** naka bra lang at panti
Naturalmente 'pupusta pa ako ng mil bente
Magsusumbong ka...magagalit ang mga higante
mapapagbigkas ka sa iyong linguwahe
'lintek lang ang walang ganti
Hinde ako intelehente...
dati lang akong ahenteng galante.
anong gusto mo diamante o brilyante
hahaha!! nganga!,, parehas lang yun impertenente!!!
Pangatlong banat,
.... ito ang tutuo
Pinoy Ako!!!
Purong tagalog den ako...
Pero kung iinglisen mo ako..
Then go ahead..english-san na 'to...ehheemmh,,,
=Do you understand the word that coming out of my mouth
You're some kindda liberated there in the south
Don't sample me (huwag mo akong subukan)
...perhalps change me'''' (ibahin mo ako)
YOU CAN NOT EYES ME ANYMORE!!! (hindi mo na ako kayang mata-matahin)
i will "the rich zoo" you! ("diretso"-hin na kita)=
Hey What's up Pooja Sweety?
Nose bleed??? I don't care if i look scary
To you i'm not being pity'
Real talk''' ...i'm not heavy
But you won't be able to carry
This trash talk of my tongue full of messy
Even your closest bessy
In your ass..shall be freaky
Mabuti pang nag selfie ka ng wacky !!!!!
I'm sure .....you gonna be pretty!!!!
Garantisado.....Madlang b-side...tuwa pa nila so plenty
......TIME ;)
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
My Insomnia is a ****
He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm.
When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen.
But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone.
My Insomnia is a patient man.
I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets.
I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door.
But he shoos them away when they get to close.
My Insomnia is a jealous man.
He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands.
He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping.
He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises.
My Insomnia keeps me in a prison.
I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away.
The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep.
My Insomnia is a cruel man.
He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep.
The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed.
But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter.
My Insomnia is an *******
For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed.
He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn.
To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me.
My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair.
My Insomnia is a spoiled man.
And he always gets what he wants.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
Don't Worry, Be Happy
In life you rarely catch a break,
was being born just a mistake.
Things may happen beyond our control,
those are the days when you pack a bowl.
If you find yourself in any kind of trouble,
a real friend would be there on the double.
If you find life ain't worth living,
waiting for you is a new beginning.
Not every day can be perfect,
maybe your thoughts, you need to collect.
Some days you wake up on the wrong side of the bed,
just be glad you didn't wake up dead.
No matter how much your in pain,
hide your tears by crying in the rain.
There will be days when you're depressed,
you may even feel like you're possessed.
Every dark tunnel has a hidden light,
you have to search hard, cause it isn't always bright.
Then out of nowhere things fall into place,
on those days, you must carefully embrace.
No matter how bad it seems, someone has it worse,
life is something you can't rehearse.
Find something that will make you smile,
if you still have an old phone, give me a dial.
No matter what always think positive,
dress up nice and be very provocative.
I wish there was a happy pill,
they already have one that makes you chill.
I think of my kids when I feel sad,
that makes me one happy dad.
Cuddling with my girlfriend makes me happy,
she accepts me even though I'm a bit wacky.
Always look on the bright side of life,
love can be spread with a butter knife.
I've been down, I've been out,
my heart has poured red like a spout.
So on those days when you're feeling blue,
just don't forget it goes the other way too.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
“every time i feel my stomach convulse it’s a new wave of tears
take vitamins, she says
you should just eat, she says
you got skinnier, another says
“eat! eat! haven’t you been eating!? and this bandaid! quit cutting yourself, kalena”
and for a moment i think it’s truth
i think it’s honest
i shout “i do eat! they’re just cat scratches”
and if she would have lifted up that bandaid
she would have learned it was honest
it was truth
but it was melted away flesh that she would have found, not torn
but melted
and in the highlight of this moment i see all of my dreams come true
finally, someone notices!
finally, someone cares!
but yet she’s willing to stop eating. to make sure that i do.
my little thing. an entire 98 pounds, not by choice.
so unhealthy, so sick. all the time. so **** tired.
she would stop eating for me.
and though it doesn’t help, the thought is comforting. it should be disturbing.
it is. in the way that if she stopped eating…
she would lose weight.
and then i would fight harder and harder until my rib bones were sticking out so far they were larger than my chest.
emaciated.
bony fingers that boys don’t want to hold and girls don’t want to kiss.
hair that slides out with the slightest tug.
no one wants that.
except me, of course.
i want that.
i want to weigh 85 pounds.
i want to die.
i want to be so high on the emptiness that i die.
i faint. and they cannot wake me up.
eternal sleep. forever peace. and the best part of all?
I would be horrifically tiny in even the smallest coffin. “
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
*i think, you should stop going to italy, for one, oh **** me, keep going on hedonist piss-fuck fests to places like mallorca, but stop going to italy, you're making my stomach ache from laughter, with what you come back with, the so-called "innovations"; somehow i'd just poach my cauliflower, and drizzle it with fried breadcrumbs, and serve it as a side-dish to fried eggs (2), and some tatties; for goodness sake, even cauliflower cream soup makes more sense, garnished with some fried chorizo!*
first it was avocado on toast...
who the **** puts avocado on bread?
i can imagine putting it in pasta...
but on bread?
hey, what the **** does
the acronym f.a.d. mean?
i don't know, and i won't google it...
o.k. avocado on toast...
nothing near guacamole,
but fair enough...
but what i discovered... pushes
the button where i turn into a fox laughter
(fuchslachen) -
i couldn't stop...
you can find it in the weekend
section of the saturday times newspaper...
written by nicola m.
cauliflower and mozzarella pizza...
you have to be ******** me...
cauliflower? on pizza?
one of my housemates at university told
me an anecdote:
i was in a restaurant once,
and asked for a pizza with no cheese...
he continued:
and then the head chef came out and
asked me... are you, insane?!
a bit like: bread... but no butter?
and i thought i was insane eating a watermelon
today, whole,
the red pulp, and the outer layers including
the skin included, allowing myself
a gorilla imitation cameo gimmick...
but i thought i was mad...
but there's avocado on toast...
and now... cauliflower on pizza...
it's a ******* side-dish!
wait, don't tell me... you're going to put
some potatoes onto the pizza the next frizz
comes along... right?
how about beetroot?
thankfully, if i have some
wacky ideas in terms of culinary escapades,
they happen, drunk, after 12a.m.,
and i'm the scientist, and the experimental rabbit
2-in-1...
a newspaper column?
apparently, you get one, putting avocado
on toast...
or cauliflower on a pi-zzzzz-ah...
to be honest, even though i haven't tried it,
grilled aubergines on a pizza could work...
the toast? marmite and cheddar...
english people should stop glorifying holidays
in italy... they're ****** cooks...
an italian would just look at
a pizza with cauliflower and say: cosa?
i'd suggest heading to scotland first,
and picking up the vibes from some haggis.
**** me...
avocado on toast...
caulifower on a pizza?!
now i can die happy, 'appy,
clapping: encore!
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.
And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.
It’s my heart.
And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.
And here’s a spoiler:
It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
I don't remember my Mother's womb;
The biological Apartment I stayed almost
Rent-free (on my part, anyway) for
Three-quarters of an Eternity
The doorway into reality I got to use
Kicking it around my tiny little round flat,
Seeing the scars on the walls from the
Nine renters before me
Three of whom did not make it past the 90-day
Warranty. I do remember hearing about Joseph, taken back
Into God's Loving Arms for reasons He only knew;
Joseph was no more, so the Third Renter was my sister
Cathy, Cacky-Wacky, I used to call her, rousing a bemused
Smile, the ghost of Joseph a mote of brown in her left eye-
But back to me...
Dad saw my little worm and shouted for joy
A boy! A baby boy! I've finally a Son!
Mom, exhausted, yet a "ROOM FOR RENT" sign
Hanging a month and many sleepless nights away
Filled by Dad's amazingly virile and potent
Back-stroking Swimmers-
Me crying at the shouting of the big fuzzy man-shape
Who cradled me in hairy simian-like arms, ham-hock
Hands holding me gently like I was a Precious Gift from God
When I die, I will be
Wombed again, in Heaven's Birthing Room, my Spirit
Exiting from its earthly skin-shell, into the Hands of
God my Father. My Mother will be there,
No longer worn-out from being an Eleven-Room
A Sacrifice standing beside her, herself a sacrifice
Testament of the perpetuation of the Human Race
I think I have much to live for, here;
I KNOW I have an infinite Eternity waiting for me in
Heaven's Womb
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
strawberry frenchfries dipped in chocolate fondue.
cry me an 8 oz cup of water when i step on you with my giant blue shoe.
dance through the forest with gnomes stapled to your shoulders.
hide your foil gum wrappers in manila folders.
left and right. front to back,
oxygen in the atmosphere may lack.
pluto and jupiter intertwine when night falls.
orange and green leather sewn to your ragdoll.
licking the excess frito crumbs from under your fingernails,
eyes pealed to the scenery of wacky inmates in jail.
selfish yellow and blue fish yelling at dr. seuss,
reading books in sunrooms drinking orange juice.
camera flashes and ripped dollar bills,
making chocolate pancakes on top of cherry hills.
hazy eyes drowning into a dream,
winter nights as cold as ben&jerrys; ice cream.
red hand chasing numbers on a clock,
movement of legs turns muscles into rock.
acid drops from black heart clouds falling onto driveways.
little kids on scooters munching on happy meals while saddened by the loss of sunrays.
23 degrees celsius and shine forcing itself through.
ice cream trucks and roadraged humans trying to get through.
bumble bee roads with lines and street signs,
teens boredum, smoking dope, drinking ***** getting fines.
police on the prowl everyday, every night, seeing through lies,
keeping their sight wide-open like a mouth in surprise.
fettuchini alfredo at fancy restaurants.
ice cold water knocked over on a ladys lap.
words missing letters, conversations missing sound.
apples and basketballs losing shape and sense of round.
flat chested skinny ******* slipping through cracks in wooden floors,
obese transexuals getting stuck in between doors.
puzzle pieces glued to the top of a bald head,
veins appear blue but blood is red.
blowing kisses, blowing out candles
cats,dogs,birds wearing sandals.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
Batshit crazy,
Batshit soup.
Am I just lazy,
or caught in a loop?
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
****
Love is not a competition.
Love is not a game.
You see me as a player,
and it's a downright shame.
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
I am totally lazy,
and caught in a loop-die-loop.
Glass houses and baseball games
Angels wings and tar
SEPTA lines and pine trees
Can take you pretty far
Love is not a competition
Love is not a war
and acting like a soldier
is really quite a chore!
Silly souls and wacky words
Dragonflies and tar
I want to make some art with you
but I don't know how you are
it's
Just another slide
down the razor blade
of life into a bowl
of sour owl ****
Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Am I crazy,
or am I caught
in a loop?
Razor blades
Razor blades
Razor blades
****
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
threading the thin line of uncertainty,
you had told my closest guy friend **** i think i'm falling for her*.
and later you would pinpoint that one moment, that one moment we realize we adore a person,
as the slightest second you were staring at your lock screen, which was my photo.
it had been a collage of me doing wacky poses in eighth grade,
a photograph i had posted on twitter as some sort of throwback thursday.
unbeknownst to me, you had saved it to your phone,
setting it as your lock screen and showing it to me the next day mainly to spite me.
over the next few weeks, you would save the photos i'd post or send you,
and set it as your wallpapers,
and come up with some witty one-liner to annoy me with.
and you'd tell me months on about that time you went to unlock your phone, stopping to smile at my old photo in all its chubby cheeks and corny poses glory,
only to realize,
****
i have never been more thankful for throwback thursdays.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.
Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Lining up batteries of anti-aircraft anti-everything
all anti- something this and that
distribution centre for psychological pressure
backed by radio, TV presidents staring straight
newspapers, journals and dialogues around
flash round tables on the whys how’s and who’s
sneaky microphone hidden in flower pots,
long distance listening devices. Telephones tapped
wives tapped, senior diplomats and doormats tapped
wives tapped on shoulders
whispered to: watch out for Joe blogs he has a roving eye.
see me tonight, after dinner.
The russians have warship A into Zone B
the chinese have shifted anti-missile up
the mountains near tibet, near nepal
near taiwan, near the hormuz straits
into africa, zimbabwe, fiji, and northern china
who cares. Tomorrow they will shift out again.
the pressure is building in the ukraine, turkey is on fire
The north koreans have no power
as seen from satelllites
The president has run of tomato sauce so he has asked
for a shipload from us of a
ship it with some spies dressed as tomatoes
god its killing me
these acupuncture points
three more needles please!
Author Notes
Relentless. ( an wacky I s'pose). Think about it all.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
Often, we men take for granted,
That you've simply performed an edict of biologic cyclical reproduction.
And not wonder of the incredible largesse that has befallen us.
I am so profoundly transformed by the beauty of your love and your unselfishness.
Though we men oft complain of the seemingly irrelative by-products of this process we go through,
None can compare to the bloating, frequent urination, nausea, emotional turmoil,
Weight gain, wacky food choices, back pain, impatience, depression, negative self-image,
Waddle walk, belly steering wheel dilemma, inability to tie your shoes, hunger,
Relationship insecurity, cornucopiate vomitus, skinny lady envy, clothes no longer fit-itis,
Swelling ankles, chocolate cravings, diarrhea, headaches, pelvic pain, stretch marks, and what should be unlawful super odorous flatulence.
What you've done for us in the space and time of nine months
Is nothing short of the joyous miracle God has bestowed upon us.
I am awestruck that the place I pleasure in most for its tightness and firmness,
Was stretched beyond the limits of what I fear I will never be able to compete with.
I love you as no other man has loved any other woman,
My heart's eyes swell with tears, as it can not express or contain this overwhelming feeling.
For the love I see in their eyes, the endearment I feel when they utter my name(Dad!)
The gift of our three children, aside from the love of my God, and the fascinating adventure of our wedding and marriage, will never be superseded by any other joy; and for which I am forever truly and entirely grateful...!!!
-----ChawzzyScript
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sunday Morning blues
RIO DE JANEIRO all nights or LAS VEGAS nightlife
After two-three glasses of twisted Ice lemon
Or was it an Alabama Slammer which cut like a knife
My days and nights felt like a freight train ride
And that no lie!
I remember the Cuban Bulldog who bite me
three years ago, in Kissimmee;
which left me more than a little weak
those feisty drinks
Or was it that wicked, wacky Long Island Ice coffee
Which almost has done me in?
After, watching a news clips of Momar Kadafi
or was it an episode of Friends
Luckily, for me I met my sweet Marlin Brando
And it was hallelujah and amen in Key Largo
So many bartenders, so many smokes filled rooms
So, once again here I am nursing
Another Sunday mornings blues.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Sunflowers, daisy's and tulips too,
these are things that remind me of you.
Animals of many to them you are kind,
geese, dogs and chickens in your garden you will find.
Bright colors your a hippy chick you own it so well,
a friend in you that's my Auntie Mel.
Miss Melanie your canny plenty of good times that we've shared,
I know i'm not always there but for you I've always cared.
Your lovely little ornaments your wacky hippy ways,
I often think of the good times I miss the olden days.
Sunflowers, Daisy's and tulips too,
I really miss you and all that you do.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
the watermelon strikes an evening match
and crows a-roostin' on the adirondack
what wipporwill wouldn't ire o' that
with dungaree vest and wacky tobacc'
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC
I find...
I,
enjoy making fun
of myself
...
pulling out my flaws
and
like colorful balloon animals,
twisting them
into wacky creations
shapes
to laugh at
-Not me
the flaw
to see how silly I can
be
But what scares me
is,
does this
hint
at another flaw
I
seem
to
have?
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
Let’s call it out
Our shared experience
Tell us lessons learned
We put together schooling
Protect our new tomorrow
Don’t get all wacky
My cohesive gal
Unlocked unglued
Let’s make it renewable
Come watch it sustainable
Line up my family in fine formation for
Despicable Me
Put it together again
That’s all that matters now
I’m here for you
Progeny protected
We move in tandem
Gospel Sunday
Pretty big legacy
Togetherness
Voices raised
Singing there was I
Am that I am
In love with fear itself
All around us everyone
Our children’s children’s whole community
Don’t shoot us messengers
Teach us well that love knows no fear
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
We used to be so close, so inmost, so opposite and disposed and yet so equal and lazy that we were one.
Opposites attract and then get distracted. Equals distract and then get attracted.
We are opposites, we are equals, we are strangers.
We were opposites, we were equals, but today we are just two strangers with a routine of talking everyday about stuff that never existed.
We are two points intertwined by a circular line that keeps moving without our consent, lost in a infinite time space.
A friendship disguised, a feigned tolerance, a mutual and misunderstood need of acquaintanceship between each other.
A prophylactic and procrastinated love that wants to keep distance, deviating itself from the deep suffering.
But what suffering?
The suffering was only the avid fear by pain that turned us into two unaware and afraid of everything.
We are singular.
We are plural.
We're diminutive and we're augmentative.
We are two laconic passengers of the wacky train without driver that is the prolix relationship of humans, love and hate.
We are two regular strangers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our love as a solution for all in our lives.
We are two remote lovers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our lives as a solution for all our love.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC