767 Humor poems

Once a week a nurse comes to town to cut up a baklava. I find executives in my pants.

It is easy to love a pig in a nightgown. See how he sleeps, white flannel straining his neck at the neckhole. His body swells and then deflates. The gown is nothing to be ashamed of, only the white clay of moonlight smeared over his hulk, original clothing, the milk of his loneliness. The flickering candle of a dream moves his warty eyelids. All sleeping things are children.

I show her how to put her arms around me, but she’s much too small. What’s worse, she doesn’t understand. And although she lies beside me, sticking out her tongue, it’s herself she licks. She likes my stroking hand. And even lets me kiss. But at my demand: “Now, do it to me, like this,” she backs off with a hiss. What’s in her little mind? Jumping off the bed, she shows me her behind, but curls up on the rug instead. I beg her to return. At first, she did, then went and hid under the covers. She’s playing with my feet! “Oh, Boa, come back. Be sweet, Lie against me here where I’m nice and warm. Settle down. Don’t claw, don’t bite. Stay with me tonight.” Seeming to consent, she gives a little whine. Her deep, deep pupils meet mine with a look that holds a flood ... But not my brand. Not at all. And, what‘s worse, she’s much too small.

In the evening she comes to me like a child ready for bed. She slips under covers, curls into my curves or stretches against my spine. Some have said they fear I might crush her, but we're a tender pair, each aware of the warmth and the other. I knew a woman once who kept an orphaned antelope, let it roam her kitchen, sleep in her bed, musky scent and hooves. This dog looks like a small deer, poised and silent in the lawn, but at night, she is a dark body, lean and long against the lavender cotton of my summer sleeping. We are bone and bone, muscle and muscle, and underneath each surface a quiet and insistent pulse.

I beg to dicker with my silver-tongued companion, whose lips are ready to read my shining gloss. A versatile partner, conversant and well-versed in the verbal art, the dictionary is not averse to the solitary habits of the curiously wide-awake reader. In the dark night’s insomnia, the book is a stimulating sedative, awakening my tired imagination to the hypnagogic trance of language. Retiring to the canopy of the bedroom, turning on the bedside light, taking the big dictionary to bed, clutching the unabridged bulk, heavy with the weight of all the meanings between these covers, smoothing the thin sheets, thick with accented syllables—all are exercises in the conscious regimen of dreamers, who toss words on their tongues while turning illuminated pages. To go through all these motions and procedures, groping in the dark for an alluring word, is the poet’s nocturnal mission. Aroused by myriad possibilities, we try out the most perverse positions in the practice of our nightly act, the penetration of the denotative body of the work. Any exit from the logic of language might be an entry in a symptomatic dictionary. The alphabetical order of this ample block of knowledge might render a dense lexicon of lucid hallucinations. Beside the bed, a pad lies open to record the meandering of migratory words. In the rapid eye movement of the poet’s night vision, this dictum can be decoded, like the secret acrostic of a lover’s name.

A playground, in a park. One lady raises to the top of the slide a ball of newspaper, gives it a kiss: "Ready . . . set . . . go!" Another holds a lampshade in her hands, smoothing its chenille bangs. "My daughter, you should see her dance— she's already won two prizes." "Did I tell you mine—he's three—can already write?" A girl, in line behind them with her son, is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand, hoping no one will notice he's real, and alive.

What makes that fox so grabby for the stars, Begging like boys do? I meant to fully Gild that lily, till less like virile Mars It’s clepd the pansiest of pansy, The caducous calyx of a poppy. Cuz, step into these arms where you belong A coup at the prospect of this lording, A gleam in the gloom with serpentine song— The phosphorescent tide’s mine to lavish upon. O stop me at the very vestibule— Before whom, and in what habit I speak I watched them use their meat to call me fool. Someone’s cage is aching at the seams, The noisome idle falls to dirty dreams— Thus the flummoxed drunk of xem will coil And I’ll learn the real, or it’ll learn me, Making free with the Italian model The single summer shower mano à mano. The proverbial number of angels That could’ve fit on the head of a pin Are crying to the myriad angles, This glassy labyrinth we happened in Will not undo the errancer I’ve been. Soon the swancrest, the feedcrest, my distress Will feign to fuck the furlonged mannequin— At what—punishing pace we undress This crapshoot idée fixe and its yahoo mistress. Fictive trees harsh the billow of my cape, All kind of lovers crashed rubbernecking. The fishes on the frontispiece were draped In your leafy worded velocity. You whisper,London has no more fog for me To whit, my darksome peachpit! storms above —A buckler to them that walks uprightly— Will not enforce this porno hand from glove Or diminish one jott my vegetable love.

spread millet in this neighborhood all you get is bluejays bluejay may be cooked three ways

snowbound homebound hidebound hamstrung hogtied in a corner up a tree down the river nosedive headway deadmarch footloose pointblank playground

Toad gots measles Frog gots mumps Both gots such Disgusting bumps. They so ugly It's a sin. They be jumpin' Out that skin. Pay no mind These creepy items Close my eyes I bite 'ems, bite 'ems.