767 Humor poems

At the carnival, Robo-Boy sees only things he recognizes. The Ferris Wheel is an overgrown version of his own bells and whistle eyes. His Flashers, his mother calls them. The Tilt-A-Whirl is the angle his head tilts when the Flirt Program goes into effect, usually in the vicinity of a Cindy or a Carrie, though once he found himself tilting at the school librarian which caused him to wheel in reverse into the Civil War section knocking over a cart of books that were waiting to be shelved under B. There’s a dangerously low stratosphere of pink cotton-candy clouds being carried around by the children. If Robo-Boy goes near them, the alarms will go off. It’s the kind of sticky that would cause joint-lock for sure. In a darker, safer corner Robo-Boy finds the Whack-A-Mole game. He pays a dollar and starts whacking the plastic moles on their heads each time they pop up from the much-dented log. He wins bear after bear. It’s only when he's lugging them home, the largest one skidding face-down along the sidewalk getting dirt on its white nose and light blue belly, that he remembers the program: Wac-A-Mole Realism™—the disc on the installer’s desk. Suddenly it all fits together: the way a deliciously strange thought will start wafting out of his unconscious—and then WHAM, it disappears.

Down here we say we dare defend our rights, our state motto. I’d back Charlton Heston for any office in the land. A Christian, he speaks right up. He’s got his head on straight, and people listen. Even on the screen of a honky-tonk TV he still looks like a hero, and he wouldn’t let freaks take over our country. If it takes firepower to keep us free, I say stock up. Keep your powder dry. Everything is dangerous these days. Life sucks. We suck too. Disaster is coming. Even God’s gone spleenish. Bless the common man against the government. They lie. They grind us up. Winchesters might be our last resort. Hellfire preachers say we best prepare for a dark event, but maybe Charlie Heston could keep death off our backs and tone down Jehovah’s wrath. Sweet Jesus—and this is the gospel truth— is pissed off at our newfangled unfaith. He’s coming back, and he’s armed to the teeth.

"The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright — And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done — "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun." The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: If this were only cleared away,' They said, it would be grand!' If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, That they could get it clear?' I doubt it,' said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. O Oysters, come and walk with us!' The Walrus did beseech. A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.' The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat — And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. The time has come,' the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.' But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried, Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!' No hurry!' said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said, Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed — Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.' But not on us!' the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!' The night is fine,' the Walrus said. Do you admire the view? It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!' The Carpenter said nothing but Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf — I've had to ask you twice!' It seems a shame,' the Walrus said, To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!' The Carpenter said nothing but The butter's spread too thick!' I weep for you,' the Walrus said: I deeply sympathize.' With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. O Oysters,' said the Carpenter, You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one."

When Walter B., one evening, explained to Beatrice that he “needed time,” Beatrice pulled the last bite of fish from Walter B.’s mouth and shook it at him. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel, and off they would have gone together to the spectacle where the timbrelist often played. But Walter B. did not need a timbrel. Walter B. “needed time.” So Beatrice wrapped what was left of the fish in a red wool cloth and set out to find him some. It was cold outside. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, where would I be? She watched the humans in the distance breathe into the grass. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, how would I remind myself of where I was? She held the last bite of fish up to her mouth for warmth. It began to feel heavy in her hands. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel. She wished she was for Walter B. the time he needed. But she was not. She unwrapped the last bite of fish and studied it. It reminded her of a world inside of which Walter B. was mostly gone. She rubbed her arms with it. She buried her face in it. It began to grow around her like a soft, white house. It grew, and it grew, until at last Beatrice was inside. She slowly walked through its rooms. In the first room, a pile of shovels. In the second, a pitcher of milk. When she stepped inside the third, Walter B. and the timbrelist were helping each other on with their coats. “If you were time,” called out Walter B., “where would you be?” Before Beatrice could answer, Walter B. saluted her, took the timbrelist by the hand, and left her alone in the soft, white house. Beatrice sat on the floor. Much later she would drink from the pitcher of milk. She would lean against the pile of shovels. But for now all Beatrice could do was sit on the floor. She would sit on the floor of the soft, white house until she grew hungry again for Walter B.’s last bite of fish.

I am, as you know, Walter Llywarch, Born in Wales of approved parents, Well goitred, round in the bum, Sure prey of the slow virus Bred in quarries of grey rain. Born in autumn at the right time For hearing stories from the cracked lips Of old folk dreaming of summer, I piled them on to the bare hearth Of my own fancy to make a blaze To warm myself, but achieved only The smoke’s acid that brings the smart Of false tears into the eyes. Months of fog, months of drizzle; Thought wrapped in the grey cocoon Of race, of place, awaiting the sun’s Coming, but when the sun came, Touching the hills with a hot hand, Wings were spread only to fly Round and round in a cramped cage Or beat in vain at the sky’s window. School in the week, on Sunday chapel: Tales of a land fairer than this Were not so tall, for others had proved it Without the grave’s passport, they sent The fruit home for ourselves to taste. Walter Llywarch—the words were a name On a lost letter that never came For one who waited in the long queue Of life that wound through a Welsh valley. I took instead, as others had done Before, a wife from the back pews In chapel, rather to share the rain Of winter evenings, than to intrude On her pale body; and yet we lay For warmth together and laughed to hear Each new child’s cry of despair.

I need a strict manager and an energetic secretary and a correspondent to make my coffee and my tea I need an intellectual and a poet and a mafia godfather to divide my life among them And I’ll announce, after a while my bankruptcy like the companies do I need a servant and a traitor a lover to have me murdered beaten to death by sandals in the bath: I need a queen to betray me with the king

No one grumbles among the oyster clans, And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer. Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want Heaven to be, and God to come, again. There is no end to our grumbling; we want Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven. But the heron standing on one leg in the bog Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition; We met a host, and quelled it; We forced a strong position, And killed the men who held it. On Dyfed's richest valley, Where herds of kine were browsing, We made a mighty sally, To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; We met them, and o'erthrew them: They struggled hard to beat us; But we conquered them, and slew them. As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us: His rage surpassed all measure, But his people could not match us. He fled to his hall-pillars; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off. We there, in strife bewild'ring, Spilt blood enough to swim in: We orphaned many children, And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens We glutted with our foemen; The heroes and the cravens, The spearmen and the bowmen. We brought away from battle, And much their land bemoaned them, Two thousand head of cattle, And the head of him who owned them: Ednyfed, king of Dyfed, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus.

A can of self-defense pepper spray says it may irritate the eyes, while a bathroom heater says it’s not to be used in bathrooms. I collect warnings the way I used to collect philosophy quotes. Wittgenstein’s There’s no such thing as clear milk rubs shoulders with a box of rat poison which has been found to cause cancer in laboratory mice. Levinas’Language is a battering ram— a sign that says the very fact of saying, is as inscrutable as the laser pointer’s advice: Do not look into laser with remaining eye. Last week I boxed up the solemn row of philosophy tomes and carted them down to the used bookstore. The dolly read: Not to be used to transport humans. Did lawyers insist that the 13-inch wheel on the wheelbarrow proclaim it’s not intended for highway use? Or that Curling iron is for external use only? Abram says that realists render material to give the reader the illusion of the ordinary. What would he make of this injunction?Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover. I load boxes of books onto the counter. Flip to a yellow-highlighted passage in Aristotle: Whiteness which lasts for a long time is no whiter than whiteness which lasts only a day. A.A.ers talk about the blinding glare of the obvious: Objects in the mirror are actually behind you. Electric cattle prod only to be used on animals. Warning: Knives are sharp. Thank you! What would I have done without:remove infant before folding for storage, Do not use hair dryer while sleeping, Eating pet rocks may lead to broken teeth, Do not use deodorant intimately? Goodbye to all those books that sought to puncture the illusory world—not unlike the warning on the polyester Halloween outfit I bought for my son: Superman costume will not enable you to fly.

Was he married, did he try To support as he grew less fond of them Wife and family? No, He never suffered such a blow. Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait, Unwanted by everyone and in the way? From his cradle he was purposeful, His bent strong and his mind full. Did he love people very much Yet find them die one day? He did not love in the human way. Did he ask how long it would go on, Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end? He did not feel like this, He had a future of bliss. Did he never feel strong Pain for being wrong? He was not wrong, he was right, He suffered from others’, not his own, spite. But there is no suffering like having made a mistake Because of being of an inferior make. He was not inferior, He was superior. He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern? His thoughts were different. Did he lack friends? Worse, Think it was for his fault, not theirs? He did not lack friends, He had disciples he moulded to his ends. Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even? How could he feel like this? He was the King of Heaven. ...find a sudden brightness one day in everything Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin? I tell you, he did not sin. Do only human beings suffer from the irritation I have mentioned? learn too that being comical Does not ameliorate the desperation? Only human beings feel this, It is because they are so mixed. All human beings should have a medal, A god cannot carry it, he is not able. A god is Man’s doll, you ass, He makes him up like this on purpose. He might have made him up worse. He often has, in the past. To choose a god of love, as he did and does, Is a little move then? Yes, it is. A larger one will be when men Love love and hate hate but do not deify them? It will be a larger one.