I’ve lost it and I can’t go on. I forgot what I, you know, I thought about it, and it was a beautiful vision, my personal masterpiece, like sex, you even balanced iambic pentameter and everything, you know, the works, now it is gone, I forgot it…the topic… It was the best it coulda ever been…I don’t wanna ever write again, if it’s not included, no more you know, the bestest, it’s lost, hook, line, now I’m the Sunker!

But I shant let it be, nowhere but up, someone wiser wrote, show me a sane guy and he’ll be insanely cured…drink me up mates, bartenders keep it comin another, to be or not I be…while I rest my head on this wooden bar top, soft. Coulda shaped it like clay into a French quatrain or pantoum,

and it woulda been big like:

Ask not, what you, so I can do you for!

Hey do you guys have onion soup?

Copyright © 1986-2017

Alan Salé

All Rights Reserved

contact: AASalehi@gmail.com

PoetryByAlan.com

If wizzles were snizzles and sniffles were snu,

remembring disembling could crucify you.

Right off with your headers from youlder to yawl,

conundrumming slumbering dally-ma-dawl.

Your sigh at the sight of the sniggling snoud

(those pointers who jointedly sniggle out loud)

would freezingly fry every inchy blood blue,

confoundingly pounding most tempest review.

Tough hangingly banging, behindedly left,

for sinnerly winners, woe-gonely bereft,

no solacing somberment, salvingly spread

could smather the lather of dumb numbing dread.

But then! in the stinklingest inkling around,

your off-headed dreadies warp wildly, unwound

flat out at a speed, seeding dust in the wind,

while sigh-sounding cruciform grudgingly grinned.

Last word-stuttered utter on pawllish parade,

“Surcease such secreting of wizz-snizzled splay!”

The course moralled madly must babblingly be:

Do tutu allothers as theydo to me.

Drizzle bizzle fizzle

Scordle brotle heur

O whet 'tis it?

'Twas bet only ev'r be.

Suumer, heaching San

For lone boing hearth

Timely lads yondering

Al thee wey slaughing.

Ne'er did I fathom,

Wat is it 'bout Suumer

Dat thea gather to cheer.

Drey, gin, rum!

Is it de breely great warm

Adding to thy vibe.

I wonder and ponder.

What makes dis fun?

To say I must or

Maybe, lee wandering

Better longer duration

Of de daily blu sky.

Suumer, whet a grand

Tym for outings ´nd

Much more beachy time.

Truly, right so.

I do love thee.

Come stay for 'while

Suumer. Now I need

A lemonade.

All the day, I might say,

Goes the Mister,

His hipoto is grey;

the feet of it blister.

All the day, it jumbles around,

the hipoto mumbles a tune;

Makes a mighty fine sound,

And you might just hear it soon

All the day, the yoolick plays

Dancing about with the hipoto

Nobody can possibly say,

what they have as a motto

And all the day, the hunters hunt

For the hipoto, and yoolick

Never finding the runt

But always getting sick.

To the other side of Vro

The gelliwunks did go

Grewbing slagins up the sides

And doobins in the slo.

But when the frambit haught

A kiddington was sought

And nothing ventured over flit

Was anything it ought.

So when I hallied zan

A distican began

Starting in the wallifus

And ending at the shan.

And I’m sure it won’t happen again!

All lurmond and queet was he,

moirish to his very core.

Never wint I so gwarmy 

a throthfract as he.

Ah, but to strue at the very

enstrueing is best, as they say.

Many long morth have past

since first our glamwit broles

did carrunt together.

And yarly did we minsch

one to the other, in that strue.

He was trissom and fleeth,

no hint of gurgishness in him,

then. Yea, I sisperth myself

no small durl when I haebleed

my minnery of him. 

But, morret and alon, he

begormed before my very nins.

Margy and puellid he grew,

susserpating his voice became,

and his very prestery blanned into

sheer cromigiery. 

Soon I could twithly bestrom

his very innuration. Every

preet, every hawm, 

every treening goit of him made me

wambrish in my very finnows.

Now he brames at me, yurling my

clature and snurling his trilleries,

hoping to aumbre my grilth,

but I sprine him, I sprine him

to his unserous plute. 

I keet him now, barbling and

snivving at me, making such

a frimbellaria of it all.

I should wroge him, trafe him,

bratten his nerts until they blorf!

Ah, but no. I must be the

quincel lad, the airly brove.

But yea, surely, one fine hawling,

I would not be gorwinkled to

find him purnt and garley,

sprecked from colm to carn,

and a right long chiggle I will

have of it, too.

She smaterat on the bombelertone

until her mother called her for breakfast.  

Angela! Come hither, dear and get rone,

before the bezzelwads become cold fast.

Angela scedoodled down the steep stairs

and swooped into the grimmelstead swiftly.

She couldn't wait to demorscalize bare

Her plate of bezzelwads with the mifmy.

The mifmy and bezzelwads didn't last 

But five miscrundlebids before she boomed.

Oh my! I can't believe I'm so flubast!

Time to grifmumblefledfly off to school.

While her day was pleasantly smartskidore.

She couldn't wait to smaterat once more.

Wutta setuh saton.

Aunatteral 

AnIsetwEEEEEEEEEEEE!

WuttI wishId

Dusomethimorebetta withachedda.

aTime wshewt

Asetis

Tingsunseemindiffunt

Now

Maybe

Baby

Wuttawatu

Witawate

Go

BabyIgotta

Taagain

Mercewiteleaving

Be kind wittiwittleboi.

I'm only, yasee, aboi.

Burntacsp.

Towdwn.

Tutheflow.

Gotta go.

F'reeL.

Flippem.

Dippem.

Nunsuh quitem.

Tinker-trank, tinker-snap, I see the Wishalur on the tracks,

Ebin-tann, ebin-krann, wishes it grants, whoever gowran.

Trish-leapin, trish-lapin, raise my bow without missin',

Golarag, golarag, it mocks me, that rebelkin lag.

Gressendo is my name, and I plan to play this prolossen game.

On my father's name, I shall end this without lamé.

Mine wife and seven children are a-waiting me,

Ready to dine once I bring a fine prize, for dear Emi.

The Wishalur tonkles it's twashlon cress,

And swims in the sky like a sea-wogglin' bess.

Emi, my child, you shall see this Wishalur,

Even if it means sacrificing my Rosenguir.

Adoe! Look! The Wishalur! Eating the swandalar fruits!

Aim true, mine Rosenguir, for the Wishalur is near it's roots.

Zwish! It flies! Wounding the Wishalur's sixth hind leg,

While it falls, twashlon head hung low, it begs.

"Spare me, Tinrothen hunter, and I shall grant thy's wish."

Oh, blue body of wishes, whose home is near the lake of blish.

"Mine daughter small, frail and weak, wishes to see you, in Mineek,

Where the quillalilas grow, she gathers, please visit her."

The Wishalur nods its twashlon head, and I set it free up ahead.

Mine daughter, your wish will be granted, so please enchant it.

The Wishalur finds the Tinro daughter, who was not small at all.

Rosen lips, raveneé hair, farin skin, twas a lonely maiden of Tinro kin.

The lonely maid cries softly with blissen tears

While the Wishalur approaches without fear,

And sings its song;

"Ber Swandalin fawn, and Swandalar mower,

Quillalilas are Wishalur's favorite flower."

The maid listens without a cower.

She wishes for a friend, so the Wishalur pretends,

But in the end, he found a true friend.

A time they spend and truly they blend,

And the Wishalur's heart cannot mend

Without his sweetheart, who understands.

So he becomes a human man, for her alone,

As they wed underneath the quillalilas throne.