767 Humor poems

Turn again, turn again, Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane. Bright wooden waves of people creak From houses built with coloured straws Of heat; Dean Pasppus’ long nose snores Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak. The wooden waves of people creak Through the fields all water-sleek. And in among the straws of light Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight. Whence he lies snoring like the moon Clownish-white all afternoon. Beneath the trees’ arsenical Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical— Blown like the wind’s mane (Creaking woodenly again). His wandering thoughts escape like geese Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase, And clouds of wool join the bright race For scattered old simplicities.

• Phone your local police station. They have a 24-hour answering service. Please note your message will be used for training purposes. Your voice print will be added to their database. • Access Hobbit Rescue (HR) on the Hobbit Rescue app (type in Hobbit Rescue). Type your address in the required box. Wait for assistance to arrive. • Do not touch the Hobbit. Warner Bros. can recycle most parts of a Hobbit. Interference with any part of a dead Hobbit is a crime. Remember: you will be liable! • Do not Facebook your Friends. Some of your Friends may not be Friends. Australian Unionists are known Trollers. Be vigilant. Unionists have no part in our film industry. • When Hobbit Rescue arrives they will ask you questions. You are required to answer. Hobbits are an integral platform in our 
national economy. Withholding information from a private company in pursuit of its legitimate profit can be deemed a treasonable act. • Remember Hobbits are our friends. They were born here. This is their home. They represent our way of life. Do you want to lose that way of life?

It is just as well we do not see, in the shadows behind the hasty tent of the Allen Brothers Greatest Show, Lola the Lion Tamer and the Great Valdini in Nikes and jeans sharing a tired cigarette before she girds her wrists with glistening amulets and snaps the tigers into rage, before he adjusts the glimmering cummerbund and makes from air the white and trembling doves, the pair.

Nobody sings about alligator eyes anymore, barely peeking out of the water, bouncing on the ground and rolling into the pond, leucistic. People think of traits, symmetrical fetuses giving orders from space, making playlists even as they’re being born. Things have come to eyes that gaze in directions we can’t think of. You are told by a judge that nothing new will ever happen. You lie to his face looking straight into the gaps that want to appear. Each night I count the celebrities. The silhouette of this long stretch of time where opportunities spark and fizzle like islet cells quickly eaten by bosses and strangers, nearly identical computer-generated faces, with smiling or disgusted expressions. It appears again, the farcical pulchritude, hobbits of caution in non-events first paying a visit to mitigators, then Mario, then TIAA-CREF. Can you escape an alligator if you run silently and glide into the water? People with happy faces and no luck at all, good or bad, jam the signal with a sickle.

When I am gone what will you do? Who will write and draw for you? Someone smarter—someone new? Someone better—maybe YOU!

When in your neighborhood you hear a neigh, It means that there's a horse not far away.

A white hunter is nearly crazy.

She came from the mountains, killing zombies at will. Some people cried “but that was cool!” and I could only whisper “we should NOT be killing zombies!” What have you gotten yourself to do? Did it ever occur to you that you may in fact hate yourself? I know I do . . . I’m not nearly high enough yet—and you’re not helping. My group got invited to join the Flarfist Collective, set up some hibachis and do what we do best, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t have so much of a problem with this writing if it were a library and I checked out the entire world as if it were a single book. Strike “helpful” off your list. The 4 th quarter gets pretty intense and the announcers are usually trying to figure out who is going to become overwhelmed by their own arrogant nightmares. It would upset the stomach of the balance of nature. I always go red over the stupidest things and I have no clue why. Whether it’s speaking in front of the class or someone asking me why I think I have the right to say anything. Why do I need an enemy to feel okay about what I’m doing? Observe yourself as you browse with sophistication through the topic of Authorship & Credibility. Why do I hate the surface of the world so much that I want to poison it? Why do I hate this so much? Well . . . you Hate Your Fucking Dad! Why is the screen so damn small? And why does the car turn so sharply? And why is the only sound I hear the sound of a raft of marmosets? BECAUSE I’m fucking ANXIOUS AS HELL about EVERYTHING. AAAAAAAAARGH . It’s even worse: “I’ll tell you later.” The medium is literally made of thousands of beautiful, living, breathing wolves. Why do I hate the moon so much? Unpublish your ideas in reverse. People hate any new way of writing. My girlfriend really hates it. There is not so much daytime left. Life is like spring snow tossing off mercurial Creeley-like escapes from life-threatening health problems. In summer we love winter in winter we love summer—all poetry is written in social mercurochrome. Since I hate the abridgement of life, a function of needing to please unpleaseable parents is more what this is about. Hate and love—if those are the options I just want to love and hate lobsters . The oddity is not so much that Blake held these eccentric views for most of his life, but that in modern civilization they not only extend the hand, so that it could not complain about complaining about something it hadn’t even bothered to read, and instead formed a halfway decent indie rock band. I’m actually starting to get much more interested in white people than I used to be. Why do I hate Flarf so much? Because it is against everything good this country once espoused. Why do I hate Flarf so much? Because of the awful conflict it places the law-abiding or police-fearing poets under.

Once my sister told me that from her summit at the city pool she could see the yellow billows spread like gas or dreams between kids’ legs. In something the size of the sea, you can’t be sure who’s watching from above. Let’s say it’s the Almighty, twirling His whistle, ready to blow it at any moment and let loose the bottomless Apocalypse: the ocean would make bone of a body, coral of bone. Piss, and a tiger-fish darts through a skull-hole, a weed weaves itself through ribs. You, too, have seen the bulbs flash from the sea. You, too, have felt it breathing down your neck. You eat fish. You’ve heard that mermaids sing. My dreams are as beleaguered as the next Joe’s, my happiness as absurd, but I’m not going to go piss in the ocean about it. No, not in the ocean.

Not that I lacked an eye entirely, But give me an oblique enough kiss To visualize, and my eye said “See ya later.” A little practice might have sharpened it, But what was needed here was not as much A sharper as a higher order eye, A whole other orb altogether.