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Xan Abyss Apr 2015
Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, hidden in his hell
Watching from the bell tower as life is squandered daily
Nobody seems to understand the truth of human frailty
But there they chime again!
It's that time again!
You know Quasimodo's still alive
Because the Bells are right on time

In the shadows of Notre Dame
A monster stalks our halls
A giant, hulking, hungry mass
Searching for ****** girls
It's the truth, don't you believe it?
The beast is out there creeping
It's much easier to see
than the demons we all keep
Under lock and key
Inside you and me

Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, hidden in his hell
Watching from the bell tower as life is squandered daily
Nobody seems to understand the truth of human frailty
But there they chime again!
It's that time again!
Quasimodo's still alive
Because the Bells are right on time

A monster forged in hate
was a man who died for love
and though he suffered the slings and arrows
of the cursed world he lived above
Quasimodo died
as Quasimodo lived
Believing that the gift of love
was the best gift we could give.

Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, dying in this cell
Lying in the crypt with arms wrapped tight 'round his beloved
Embracing his dark angel as eternally as love is
But it's that time again!
Why don't they chime this time?
The Halls of Notre Dame are still
Quasimodo must have died...
An ode to the 'Modo.
Micheal Wolf Aug 2012
I've never been to Paris in the spring summer or fall
Nor seen the Champs-Élysées blanketed in winters fresh snow
I've never seen it, Why? As I could never go alone

I seemed to miss the part where two lovers met and kissed or stood for 20 minuites in a passionate embrace
Then slowley walk together hand in hand in the rain, along the banks of the river of romance, the Siene

I'm not in the lovers photographs, beneath the Eiffel tower or the playful Quasimodo pose outside of Notre Dame
You won't see me in any of them, for I was never there, because while my lover travelled I stayed and built a home, a place we could call our own.

But bigger and better was never enough your greed for things was just to much then one day off you went as you didn't hear a word I'd said
To you by now I was simply staff and just like them I was sacked

But now alone I look at things and know what I can do
Change the way I look at life and why I never went with you
For Paris is for lovers and not just those who share the rent

So one day I'll go to Paris, even if I am alone
I shall walk the streets and see the sights that lovers call their own
Who knows If I'm the only one who needs to make that trip
Do others think of it the same in reverence and wish?
One day i'll go to gay Paris and a blank post card  I shall send
"From Paris" with a smiley face
"I learnt to love myself".....
A picture of the tower or a snap outside the Louvre
Unsigned
No senders address

From Paris
With Love
Guy Braddock Mar 2014
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint

Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing

Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.

Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
From an as yet unfinished novel
Onoma Dec 2023
kyphosis/hunchback--basket of abandon, made

stronger than a dozen shadows of men.

mustachio bushel eyebrow covering his left eye,

a bloaty flap of toad-warts covering his

right eye.

palsied arms clamped at his sides--like a chick's

wings embossed in yolk, draggy right foot trailing him.

Quasimodo: 'half made'--to swing from thickly fibrous

ropes & land on musty planks.

swinging/sliding/climbing, up & down, man to creature--

creature to man...in the attic of housed worship.

made deaf by the struck-unstruck sounds of Notre Dame's

bells, cathedral that gave him ears to hear.

of which he named each, each a heroine of the belltower.

made King of Fools by the townspeople during festivity--

crowned & propped up on a third-hand thrown.

stealing away a crowd throwing currency in a gypsy

goddess' tambourine: Esmerelda, whose proceeds went

to the: King of Thieves.

not long after Quasimodo/Hunchback is accosted with

rotted vegetables by the townspeople as he's led to the

public square.

after blindly following orders to abduct a certain gypsy

by the archdeacon.

where he's bound to a rotating pillory & flogged thirty times.

Esmeralda mounts the pillory and pours water from a leathery

flask into his mouth, as he called for it crooked-faced, the jutting

topples of sparse--but hard in the yellow of teeth.

amid bloodlust catcalls that already drenched the pasture-green

rags of his shirt.

his surrogate Father, archdeacon: Claude Frollo, the one that

first reached into a basket to coddle abandonment--as to invest

in afterworld treasures...rebreaks the bones of fifteenth century

sacrilege into covetous place.

whose unanesthetized voices escape from the mouths of Quasimodo

& Esmeralda.

whom the Hunchback rescued from the gallows, citing sanctuary

by church decree, after being falsely accused of murdering

Captain Phoebus.

a philandering standby of integrity, that saw Esmeralda's

eyes follow & fall for the span of his sword, all the wooded

babes of her marital hopes--dashed.

followed up by the sped blackening of the archdeacon's

hooded robe, ripping open the door of jealousy he spied thru.

an almost unbroken motion of forced entry, & ****** of blade

into Captain Phoebus' back--though the ***** survived the *****.

this active underbelly could withhold no more the fat of

a pig on a spit, so after several **** attempts on Esmeralda--

the "bewitched" archdeacon: Claude Frollo, was impaled by

a nail like a renounced garment by Quasimodo, and left to moths.

he loved Esmeralda as he hid his face from her in their brief

interchanges, with the rests of a pianist absorbing unplayable keys.

along with the gargoyle that spat fire from the belltower to ensure

her escape into the arms of her true love: Piere, a poet.

along the underground torches of safe passage, Esmeralda &

Piere, followed Quasimodo's secret instruction...as they were seen

to sunset.

as the king's army closed in on: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he

clung to his stony confidant--a gargoyle.

where the pale stories of dawn climbed the cathedral, Quasimodo

clung to the gargoyle's head, where he was talked way down.
Mahatma Jones Feb 2015
Paris is burning.
Tar streets boil in ecstasy as cobblestones shudder in fear.
The city is ablaze, a cataclysmic uproar,
multitudes of disheveled artisans carrying scorched canvasses,
singed paintbrushes and smoldering memory kits,
each individually packaged in flesh encased animal bags.
Flames leap from every heart,
racing down fire escapes into the arms of loved ones
who fret in the streets below.
Sidewalks hiss "Pleeeeassse"
then explode in a thunderous
"OH NO!"

Paris is burning.
Her watercolor tears, not out of sadness
but out of habit.
Rainbow stains for sinners and gentle madmen alike.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
City officials, wearing smoke scented jackets and incandescent alibis,
(both in dire need of laundering),
tell ethnic jokes to the starving hordes of pressmen and reporters
who clamor impatiently outside.
A thousand horrible deaths search through the rubble
for possible survivors, insuring that there are none.
"these two rabbis walk into a bar, see.."

Paris is burning.
Centuries, like antique floral wallpaper,
turn brown, then curl at the edges,
rising in a spiral of thick, black,
gargoyle infested smoke.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
C'est l'aroma fantastique in the air,
ah, but what is it? Escargot? Et vignon, flambeau, of course,
charred bouef, roast canard a l'orange, merci beaucoup;
Don't forget the '59 Cabernet du Normandy,
sipped slowly at a favored cafe but no, wait,
what is this, no.
It has all gone now, up in flames, all up in flames
merde..
so, you go to eat at the new McDonalds,
at the foot of the Eiffel Tower,
built in nineteen eighty-four
by a group of devout new-worlders and,
in the spirit of goodwill and brotherhood
that generally pervades these types of events,
shipped to France in a peaceful exchange
for another sculptural wonder,
the Statue of You-Know-Whatitty.
The enormous expense of this
gargantuan publicly funded project
was explained to the funding public as
a "social experiment", a test
to resolve, once and for all,
which of these two nations
is technologically superior to the other,
by determining which of the icons of modern civilization,
the fast food chain or the statue,
will best endure the ravages of time,
but alas, now,
as both the Tower de Eiffel and the Arches of Gold
are melting into one grande candle du ****,
France, it would seem, is up by one.

"Paris is burning", I thought,
"it's the end of love.",
when I first noticed the young hitchhiker standing by the road,
both lovely and lonely as life itself.
"Get in", I muttered, whilst the Louvre exploded
and was incinerated in the
thermonuclear meltdown at Chernobyl;
the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame were defeated at Waterloo,
and Quasimodo was traded to Cleveland for two femme fatales,
plus a hero to be named at a later date;
Joan of Arc got burned in an insider trading scandal;
Marie-Antoinette gave head to the Reichstag when
Napoleon deserted;
Descartes was discarded along with some rocks, worms and trees;
while the Seine simply evaporated,
and, two weeks later,
fell as rain over Nagasaki.

You see, my desire for her was so overpowering,
I would gladly have burned down any city
that she might have asked me to.

"Have you heard?",
I asked, as she got into the car,
lightly brushing my thigh with her hand,
"Paris is burning.
It's the end of love..."
(c) 1983 PreMortem Publishing
JJ Hutton Nov 2011
Marie's in-laws start bashing the bell,
a Quasimodo supper for the reckless, the insane.
It's two hits of Lily's blue, four pocket shots of ***,
it's the backdoor, it's the snowstorm, it's the 100th of December, it's the cell phone;
it's nostalgic.

I call Katherine, my sweet Indian princess. She talks in Mexican smoke rings,
and laughs only in a bed of Peruvian blues.

Marie describes her as, "Uh-huh, her", and Katherine's James describes me as, "******".
So, when Katherine picked me up behind States Street,
I licked her espresso skin, I kissed secondhand, and benediction, benediction.

Choirs of angels moved me, while we ****** under moonlight in her drug supplier's driveway.
I pulled her hair, beads of sweat danced and gleamed around me,
I got a call, I got a call,
I finished and took the call,
"Hello. Yeah, I'm sorry. Just stepped out for a second I'll be right back. Love you too."
Back to the mundane with a enough fix of fantasy to get me through the month.
Rangzeb Hussain Aug 2010
Madness round about us and no one knows,
Memories of ember fired trust,
Watch them, these entombed brains,
Piano sonata, violin concerto, torn notes,
Who are the ******, them or us?

Madness, insanity, absurdity, irrationality,
Craziness, dementia, stupidity, psychosis,
Senility, fanatical, deranged, mental,
Foolishness, hysterical, delusional, frenzied,
Psychotic, maniacal, lunacy, neurosis, disordered,
Take these notes and from them weave
A hymn to chaos.

And so here it begins...

Bee bar locked up honey sting hive,
For them that have wept grains of sand warm yet wet,
In that dark distant horizon mountain bark,
Onion quake cuts splash serrated blade,
Insanity uncorked frothy so seeps humanity.

Orphan sky spits pregnant daggers drip,
Wing plucked harpies never will sing,
Dead sailors salted lie in silken mermaid beds,
Schooners sail the scattered chase round the horned tail,
Skulls bubble air sockets freed from cloven trouble.

Roads webbed spiralled butterfly miles of bottled lies,
Venom harvested acres baked into medicine,
Undone years plunged inside veins popped into mouths,
I loved you know,
No, no, you did not know for all eternity.

Hope filed cabinet all lost my ghostly dancer,
Rooms silver sunned windows seared,
Playground memories brim on the haze,
Smoke fogged pipes puffed clouds,
Asleep amongst trees over green glass grass blades frost.

Hold fingers to hands strange,
Notes ring around maze tower of desires,
Low sands but tides rise and torrents break or fall,
Alone we enter same goes exit,
Midnight clowns ****** into dreamscapes.

Creased rage silver ironed steam brains,
Unfurl flags red and painted war pain,
Impotent artful eye with sedated lust,
Boil drum not loud remember to listen,
Say less, speak more, silence best of all.

Galleons crawl upon the divided cloud docks,
Look there, point to starboard land ahoy,
Deep bosomed tear slaked shore,
Sense mixed universe reduced to a tick-tock,
Never shall it stand, withered time no glance past.

Adios, fare thee well, goodbye, auf wiedersehen,
Tongues weep, eyes talk, observe tender songs silence,
Contradiction philosophises perplexing paradoxes pure,
Marbles, one and all, drown in the air,
Narrow, so narrow are those who judge all.

Sin to fear and all is terror called,
Wanton doves warble tunes broken,
Afraid I was, too wrapped in fear coiled I,
To know fright and bride forsake,
Never were holes deeper dug.

Reason not the rhythm nor rhyme,
Pandora, oh Pandora, what hast thou done?
Stare upon thy casket coffin spread-eagled,
Fire stealer Prometheus universal milk burns,
Gorgon Medusa snake dancer charmer seducer.

Silent bones drum against skin, wake up fool!
White winged dove blood red beak suite,
Humbled blood sore butchered vows vain,
Then as now silent partner is all,
Meant so much more you were.

Rapier, pistol, kiss and hold, to my temple place,
Slash, bang, smack and rake, let matter escape,
What uncharted continents we all are,
Walls rise hand bricked high over hill and sky,
Dilated screams of the civil dead no wall can cage.

Tears glitter sky to earth,
Seeding jewels amongst dung natural,
Fountains colour horizon wide,
Sanity transfigured stitched, haggled,
Eternal slaughter diamond edged sold.

Torquemada burrows rib cracked skin blood,
Skeleton tomb dust for leprosy romance,
Wail now poor Quasimodo tongue-tied,
No one to keep company but rat bones,
Unborn, forgotten, locked and barred.

Hush there! Let there be deafening silence,
Lie, cuddle snuggle, caress dark death,
There, still now, wipe away sleep,
Space time galaxies born in minds beyond measure,
Planets die, titans die, you and me we all certify.

Madness here! She creeps into bed mine,
Yours too! Oh, how richly embraced we,
Paris Town cellars breed inmates,
Lice tea stirred drunk and promises sung,
Escape none, trapped all, sky above and death underfoot.

This asylum madness no wall can hold,
Floats into night skies and into ears young,
Oh no, goodness no, you cannot out keep it in,
Destroy the house of madness you cannot,
Dost thou fear thyself knave? ‘tis merely a jest most musical,
All the chords sprinkled peppered and cast asunder.*



©Rangzeb Hussain
Mark Toney Mar 2020
Jammin' in Jamaica
Driving my DeSoto
Being pursued by
My foe Quasimodo
Lying on the dash is
The missing person photo
When my phone rings
I hear "Hello Moto!"

(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas

Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...

Rush hour traffic
So I park my DeSoto
Nowhere in sight
Is my foe Quasimodo
See a man who looks like
The missing person photo
Then his phone rings
Shouting "Hello Moto!"

(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas

Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...

Jammin' in Jamaica
With the man in the photo
Who's not really missing
Just roving incognito
Suddenly appears
My foe Quasimodo
Truce as we pose
For a group selfie photo

(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas


(Repeat chorus and fade, with "Jammin' in Jamaicaaa" playing in the background with lines 1, 3, 5, and 7 of the chorus.)

© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
3/5/2020 - Poetry form: Lyric - © 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.

A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.

And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.

Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.

Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Of many a poet and musician I have known.
Zombee Sep 2014
Sad
.


these are things that make me Sad:..








imagining how sad that Powder must be...
...after Labor day.


imagining how sad rabecca Black must be...
...on Wednesday.


imagining how sad quasiModo would be...
...in Gattaca.


imagining how sad rosie oDonnel would be...
...in Ethiopia.


imagining how sad benjamin Button woulda been..
...in Neverland.


imagining how sad sleeping Beauty would be...
...finally waking Up........n seeing meDusa.










imagining how scared free ***** must be...
...of sunshine aQuarium.


imagining how scared jimmy Neutron would be...
...in sleepy Hollow.


imagining how scared that Pingping musta been...
...of Sultan.


imagining how scared that Avatars woulda been...
...of ******.


imagining how scared that Petrified wood would be...
...of paul Bunyan. (Dumb xD)


imagining how scared
six jodie Fosters would be
in a Panic room with seven Hannibals.










imaging how bad trig Palin would be...
...at Trigonometry.  (too Much..)


imagining how bad epiLeptic children are...
...at Laser tag.


imagining how bad steven Hawking would be...
...at Roller derby.


imagining how bad that Rainman woulda been...
...at Rain dancing.


imaginging how bad helen Keller woulda been...
...at Karaoke.


imagining how bad desiree Jennings musta been...
...at Hopscotch.










imaginging how effortlessly,
robin willams was Acting...
...in will Hunting.


too Soon?...
...Oh........Sorry.


"Thats okay...
...its not your Fault."


Thanks babe.


.
knowing how bad that I am...
...at Everything.


knowing how mad the Grinch is...
...at Whoville.


knowing how scared bugs Bunny is...
...of Wabbit season.


knowing how Sad......Pinocchio is...
...everywhere he Goes.

-  Pariah


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_x4_QrMcm8
Steven Fortune May 2014
Phantom posture cocked
its spear and stuck it
to another friend
like an unglued Quasimodo

The incense of a level-headed fate
tosses its burn from one context
to another

breath
consumption
sarcasm

And all that remains
are matchstick stumps as clues
to the promise of origins

birth
a dance
and a sprain

Feral intimations of mortality
eating on bonds like rust

And I can't even ask
for a turn without knocking
on the ignorance-enforced door
of self-promotion

Violation via Wolverine caress

Feel-good stories
strip-searched
by a generation *****
for conspiracy theories
05 13 14
mEb Jun 2010
In a quasimodo feat of not only myself but my inner sanctums. I’m in a shelter. A secluded shelter far from mankind. The bells rich **** spreads across a cold Philidelphia. I hide from the tourniquets of our kingdom. Hordes of documented secrets filibustering the excutivies of a blood famished nation. Where could a turning point conspire? Not here. Not there. No where vast of what only we know. How many times have you performed German heischen styles upon what has happened? Dialect informative, all lauguages and ethinicities could tell you. Corruption. Progestational hormones of all man and woman get the gist of secrecy, but why inquire it onworth still. Atomic bombs whiping out ten times the population of our fragile pathetic planet.

An ice rendered telescope at zero gravity with the script filled micro chips of new findings amongst our universe. This was an immediate spawn of hope towards who we are. At least for the sake of another life form, they would configure an easier derogatory and denigrating outlook of a human lifestyle. Maybe they could relate, maybe they would have emmerged in trade as our ancestors of the past 1,000 years and before had. With us, it would have been magnificent for the future to come. This era though, the only significance we know collides with a destruction of a super-catastrophic function that has been reformed thus grouwan. Grouwan, the origin of grow, growing or to increase in size, building up just as the magmata composes its liquid matter within the Earth’s crust into lava. Igneous rocks now form. Reaching the Alps. Frozen, a complete opposite of what they were once spawned from.

Still intact, an ice rendered telescope photographing galaxies not seen by a naked eye. They called it, “The Orbiting Gaurdian”, while we remained demonic and caught in ignorant reality conflicts. In small groups spread across the lands, combined as one, we are still undeniably small. I built this shelter with my own two hands knowing what would come, I wanted to overcome. Philidelpia was still so cold, very odd, quite eerie for a patriot New England city. Rot, Weib, und Blau. Rodt, Hvitt, og blatt. Shiro aka to ao. From Germany, to Norway, to the super advanced technologic Japan, they all recognize red, white, and blue. Maybe we are a leading nation, but who honestly gives a ****. All nation’s combined, worlds away, a lone planet of democracy. Darkness. The abcense of light above me, directly. No two-dimensional representation of an outline of any body form. No cutout or configurational drawing with a sun glimmering backrounded setting. We are inkligs with no hint of suggestion in the sea of blackness above. If you could have gone so far back in time though, you would have found a blackned quality on the most transparent and pellucid of days.

I race through my brain waves wondering if this concealment was completely ignorant. Was it full of extreme folly? Asininity? Ineptitude? I pondered the synonyms of stupidity. I was ravished to wonder if my last thoughts would be a mind race of the lacking self-esteem I hold. Sudden deaf struck. I no longer heard shrills of humanity above. I was deprived of my sense of hearing. Intimidated to look upward, I could not manage being deprived of sight as well.

What were those dangling seconds that I could not hear?

Were they little fragments of time that I could not notice near?

They stabbed at the back of my skull to leave this sheltered hole.

I find humor in how my poetry is merely past time entries that mean nothing. They once had been published, but now at the least, they did not mean a thing. I wish them to burn long and hard, fighting. Hardback covers and dusty library shelves vanishing in this dark mess of a world.

Pain, sharp municiple pain casted into my skin. Into my lungs, my contaminated, sickened lungs that had ciggarettes by the thousands over the years. I had started as a child. A stubborn twelve year old child wanting to experience any drug my hands could get a hold of. I did too, I don’t regret it, and I dont feel remorse from my actions and those many high nights when I could not walk or stand. I felt weary, weak, helpless and finished. My eyes, my mind, my pulse, my body, my so called soul, asleep or dead?
Zak Krug Nov 2013
I feel my head exploding,
splitting really,
into a thousand clouds of
silver.
An uncharted breakdown
that is so very familiar.
People should be held accountable for
the actions of others.
The pressure lessens its grip on
my spinal cord.
The musical adaptation of my life
blossoms before my very eyes.
Seen through a dream catcher
that is broken with
nightmares of fallen ancestors.
Please,
forgive me for rambling.
Words are hypnotic and
let me forget about
the ringing in my head.
A thousand decibels of silence,
shattered.
They are forgotten by society.
Forced to live in gangways with cockroaches and
the pages of old leather bound books.
They leave on
a wing and
a prayer.
Bathed in dust and dirt,
they hear the barking of the pitbull
inside my head.
Brought down by the blade.
I once observed a church being boarded up,
blocking out the elements and homeless.
It was calming.
Does that make me a horrible person?
Eerily beautiful.
I wish I could go back to that moment in time,
frozen in place.
My head explodes.
Can you hear the bell tower ringing Quasimodo?
Chimes louder than a bomb,
falling through the rotted out wood.
It's for the best.
The Horseman didn't need a head.
The silence will bring me back.
Remember,
our actions now
are our actions now.
Ring the bell!
Bunhead17 Dec 2015
You see things,
you keep quiet about them
and you understand.
Because life changes, friends leave
and life doesn't stop for anybody.

You feel more deeply, isolated
your true heart, so understated
but things you see
as they flicker by
keep that strong resolution within held high.


Pain & suffering are always
inevitable for a large
intelligence and a deep heart.

Time stands still
as life takes your photo
feeling outcasted like Quasimodo.
Life is but a tapestry
one part you and another, me.


You are confined by the
walls you build yourself.

*But never limited to your imagination and desire
Copyright 2015
Inspired by (movie),''The perks of being a wallflower''.
Aodhán Corr Jan 2014
A twisted body: neither man nor god
Was he, but rather ‘brute’ and ‘beast’ and ‘thing.’
Jove saw the creature worth naught but to fling
From heaven; landing face-down in the sod.
The Quasimodo--set ‘gainst every odd--
Found in this dreadful winter chance of spring.
He lusted after one day being king,
And saw his ruined body rightly shod.

Yet fortune saw the noble hero doomed
In giving him a wife with supple breast
And pretty face. There, in the distance loomed
The lame, repugnant blacksmith’s only test.
From jealousy sprung rage; abuse assumed,
When war-like Mars her hourglass caressed.
Aidan Corr Olsen (c) 2014
Jonny Angel Dec 2013
He was hideous,
ugly as hell,
& a little bit slow!

But can you blame him?

Once bitten,
he couldn't help himself,
he was smitten!

And it cost him his life!
soul in torment Nov 2013
I'm the bran bucket boobie
I'm the dollar bargain bin
I'm the prize that they still give you
Even though you didn't win

I'm the chipped cup in the cupboard
I'm the last sweet in the tin
I'm the cheap dime store necklace
that irritates your skin

I'm the actor on the telly
or at least I am his twin
that's the one I'm Quasimodo
wishing he was Errol Flynn

I'm the tattoo after drinking
I'm the one night stand and sin
and the hope that you're not pregnant
or I was too drunk to put it in

I'm the pill in the morning
and the mourning for more gin
I'm the prize they always give you
Even though you didn't win.
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
He, the archdeacon,
kept me a spectacle
on his merry-go-round
of splintered wood,
whipped me
into submission
every chance she got.

She was disgusted
with my ugliness, but
enlightened my soul
with her kind-acts,
she was my gypsy-lady,
my lovely Esmeralda
and I the bell-ringer
of Notre Dame,
her hunchback,
broken & shamed
& in love.
Micheal Wolf Mar 2013
Hung upon every word
Clinging to every vowel
Each consonant a thrill
A big word simply tingling
Speak of the universe
He became the centre
The fixation of her purpose
He could have looked like Quasimodo
It wouldn't have mattered she wanted his brain
The intelligence aroused her
It filled the intellectual void
Being seen with brains made her weak
Weak with desire, hunting, stalling her prey
The next to consume
He oblivious to her twisted needs
Believing she loved him
She loved only his mind
The rest, the *** the games ?
All a part of the need
Her symptomatic sapiophilic ritual
She's out there now
Listening...
Waiting.....
For her next mark
anon Oct 2017
thanks
no i mean it

thanks

i was actually feeling a bit
d                          
o                  
w        
n

and­ i needed you to tell me
on a monday night
at 7:53
in the middle of july

that i had i nice ***

it really brightened my day
to know
that i
a human person

can be complimented
because of my
assets

instead of the fact
that i work
all the time
without getting tired
or giving up

or that
i study
so much
i feel like
i'm falling apart

or that
i spend time
trying to make the world
around me
a little
bit
better

i really wanted to affirm
what girls are told
from the time
they can listen

that cup size matters
and whether or not
you fill out your jeans
means
whether or not
you might matter

that we will be ignored
in the work place
if we aren't
supermodels

and even if we are
that is all we become

bodies

not people

you know
somebody once told me
it doesn't matter
what you look like
because your personality can make up
for anything

which should be good
like
i look like quasimodo
but with a sense of humor
and a bit of *****
i'm esmerelda

i can look like a spork
but if i laugh
and play along
like nothing's wrong
like girls should
i can be a full fork

i love that i have to be something

really

i do

i love that being
is more important than
existing

i love that i have to be someone who listens and never speaks

i love that i have to work with all my might to be thin enough for people who don't care about other people

i love that i have to have a double d and up in order to be even noticed

i love that my **** has to be filled out and gigantic so that i can be assured personhood by a man

because girls are only

what

the

men

see

we are reduced to objects
who give up
and don't fight

because the women who fight
are criticized
and *****
and killed
and we can't stop it

because the more we speak

the more we are silenced

so thank you
sir

for reminding me at 7:53
in a menards parking lot
your wedding ring glinting
like the malice in your eye
that all i am
is
what you see
JP Mantler Nov 2015
Can't explain, your lack of concern
Shallow mind in the shallow gutter
With all the other dark souls warm from their own light
They scare you; you can't help but lock the door and overheat
Keep yourself away from these ugly people
So you can only lose it on yourself
I'm your Quasimodo dancing on stage with no music
Because I'm the music and it makes us all sick

With all their behavioral token  and superior thoughts
You smile hatefully and spit in their eyes
You walk so high and you think of yourself
You think you're a prophet to everyone's problems
You are comic relief but you are not pain relief
I'm a problem to everyone and most especially you
I'm a ******* and I want you to know that
And that I'm always your low-life Apocrypha
Also know that suicide is the hardest place
for the living and breathing
And that sinners laugh below in a Heaven without actors
Because they know how hard they try

No you don't
So they perish
They don't ask for help
I waste everyday I try with myself

I give all my energy for you
You tell me who I am like I am
your holy bible

You're pathetic
The Black Beast Mar 2013
Watching those two
Happiness and Envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack

The smiles and cuddles
The trust and passion,
I wish I could console them all within my heart and life
But I cannot get grip
I cannot hold on to the sparks of my former self’s heart
And I am left as cold as the unlit fireplace

But something stirs
The spark within myself is starting to reheat my body
To reheat the passion and trust I once had
Then it hits me

The fact that I cannot truly love
That I cannot truly have passion
I cannot truly be in love
Because I cannot be loved

This hideous monster
The thing many hearts have wisely shut out
The thing that loves like a hunchback Quasimodo
And needs its Esmerelda to set it free from its isolation and pain

But she is long in the future
And all I can do is wait
Wait through the pain of happiness
And the pain of envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack

— The End —