Harried styled and swiftly tailored hybridization writing of mine...

yep yip yup hot diggity dog
for no particular rhyme nor reason
my gender non-conforming genre
which defies categorization
and none the worse
for wear adheres
to no particular major type,
but rather hashtagged as free verse
nevertheless I experience
being pulled this way
and that way
all across the universe
(जय गुरु देव, ॐ -
translated as “Jai Guru Deva”
literally “Glory to the shining
remover of darkness)”
and tends to expound
with my trademark profuse verbosity
rather than resort to being terse,
whereby the reader
might find her/himself
(at my generous expense)
analogous to drowning
in the data ocean,
where she/he gets pulled deeper
(against their will)
into the void
more than 10,000 leagues
under the shark
and piranha infested sea
impossible mission to escape
and at the mercy of this writer
resigning himself (spoiler alert)
to doomed demise – ha not really
of fictional characters
cast away into an infernal dead zone
most likely already presumed
by an acute anonymous reader
at the harmless mercy
of a benevolent human
despite the fact that
perusers of this poem
already resigned themselves
to the fickle finger of fate
then find a silver lining
proffered by whim of poet
from Perkiomen Valley
amidst dangerous fields
where swirling rumors
latch on power of suggestion switch
to impressionable minds
that even far fetched myth
about a leviathan suddenly believed -
masterly baited and lured
into noggin of desperadoes
hoping to discover
a mother lode of sunken treasures,
like gold, silver, jewels,
and historical artifacts
recalled videlicet modesty, yet courtesy
excellent photographic memory
from Matthew Scott Harris
concerning exact locations
of downed shipwrecks,
from yet to be found famous targets
including Spanish galleons
loaded with riches
(like the San José, Atocha)
and vessels carrying valuable cargo
such as the silver-laden SS Gairsoppa,
with ongoing hunts
costing a small fortune
predicated on hidden
handy dandy blues clues
secretly incorporated into The Rime
of the Ancient Mariner
and so jogging his memory
the writer intensely indulges
his dogged concentration
about other lost fleets
hoping beyond hope
to affect deliverance,
not only the stranded
mindset of persons
struggling to make headway
drowning within an ocean of verbiage
obligatory task of aforementioned writer,
but also unexpectedly introduce
a merry quintet of troubadours
named Mötley Crüe
valued as legendary
band of lost cargo,
while albeit adept
sailors and midshipmen
involving specific terms
like Air-Sea Rescue (ASR)
when aircraft and ships work together,
all coordinated
under international guidelines
like the SAR Convention
to save people in distress
from shipwrecks or downed aircraft.

Unbeknownst to crafted dilemma
of my own doing,
I now introduce a reasonable rhyme
to twist and shout
grudgingly accepting themselves
imaginary characters of mine
to believe in that one in a million chance
at successful search and rescue
courtesy debut of maritime Santa Claus
until jet skiing reindeer
make a timely appearance
acknowledging intervention on the way
courtesy said previously stated
unconventional modus operandi
before reaching
a hasty disappointing conclusion
and additionally extricating myself
from a fine kettle of fish
which could relieve the appetite
being delivered qua
trust worthy food
gussied up military yellow submarine,
sub-dash aqua delivery service
(no matter from what country
beetle browed old men hail),
much to the chagrin of said author
to rescue and recuse himself
from the mass - heave ho
increasing in volume
of overly frustrated bookish folk
who feel able, eager, ready and willing
to burn me at the stake
without my bifocals,
cuz immolate at the art
knowing how to get myself
out of a pickle
but juiced in time
to let future
sojourner for truth
discover lovely bones of mine
(until... wait... zap...)
cuz this last bit
haint written in the original script,
where at long last, thee motley crew
led by none other than Lemony Snicket,
in tandem with legion
of the madding crowd
appeared with long lost tribes of Israel?

I Initially included the following
edited out material
and veritably sought
to incorporate previous screen
and this last screen
to the dustbin of history
or perchance brilliantly get linkedin
superfluous pastiche to a past
or future poetic adventure,
which would include
the illogic foundering craft
during catastrophic major tourbillon,
though there isn't
one single "worst" maelstrom,
cuz that depends on context
(real vs. fictional),
but for real-world catastrophic storms,
the Bhola Cyclone of 1970
(deadliest storm ever)
or the 1975 Typhoon Nina dam failures
(massive death toll
from flooding) stand out,
while fiction features events
like Warhammer
40k's Cicatrix Maledictum
or World of Darkness's
Sixth Great Maelstrom,
which Biblical catastrophe
found all the laws of science
and space/time continuum
(a 4D framework in physics
that merges the
three dimensions of space
(length, width, height)
with the fourth dimension of time,
treating them as an inseparable,
continuous fabric where all events occur
going on my own whim in reverse
which such established tenet
do not apply within the cosmos at large.