767 Humor poems

in the evening the hamster sits at the computer watermelon juice and coffee sit by the computer the hamster drinks all of the coffee after a few minutes the hamster drinks all of the watermelon juice the hamster lays its paw atop a neatly folded to-do list; this is a resourceful hamster with a strong will, a sincere and loving hamster friend, and a confident nature we do not need to spend any more time or empathy on this hamster

Avoid adjectives of scale. Dandelion broth instead of duck soup. Don’t even think you’ve seen a meadow, ever. The minor adjustments in our equations still indicate the universe is insane, when it laughs a silk dress comes out its mouth but we never put it on. Put it on. Cry often and while asleep. If it’s raw, forge it in fire. That’s not a mountain, that’s crumble. If it’s fire, swallow. The heart of a scarecrow isn’t geometrical. That’s not a diamond, it’s salt. That’s not the sky but it’s not your fault. My dragon may be your neurotoxin. Your electrocardiogram may be my fortune cookie. Once an angel has made an annunciation, it’s impossible to tell him he has the wrong address. Moonlight has its own befuddlements. The rest of us can wear the wolf mask if we want or look like reflections wandered off. Eventually armor, eventually sunk. You wanted love and expected what? A parachute? Morphine? A gold sticker star? The moment you were born— you have to trust others because you weren’t there. Ditto death. The strongest gift I was ever given was made of twigs. It didn’t matter which way it broke.

I hate you truly. Truly I do. Everything about me hates everything about you. The flick of my wrist hates you. The way I hold my pencil hates you. The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you. Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you. Look out! Fore! I hate you. The little blue-green speck of sock lint I'm trying to dig from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you. The history of this keychain hates you. My sigh in the background as you pick out the cashews hates you. The goldfish of my genius hates you. My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors. A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious symbol of how I hate you. My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate. My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate. My pleasant "good morning": hate. You know how when I'm sleepy I nuzzle my head under your arm? Hate. The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit practices it. My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning to night hate you. Layers of hate, a parfait. Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate, I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one individually and at leisure. My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity of my hate, which can never have enough of you, Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

Sing slowly, then fast. Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, And eyes and ears and mouth and nose, Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

To keep me from staying out late at night, my mother warned of the Hell Pig. Black and full of hot drool, eyes the color of a lung—it'd follow me home if I stayed past my curfew. How to tell my friends to press Pause in the middle of a video, say their good-byes while I shuffled up the stairs and into my father's waiting blue car? How to explain this to my dates, whisper why we could not finish this dance? It's not like the pig had any special powers or could take a tiny bite from my leg—only assurances that it was simply scandal to be followed home. When my date and I pull into my driveway and dim the lights, we take care to make all the small noises that get made in times like these even smaller: squeaks in the seats, a slow spin of the radio dial, the silver click of my belt. Too late. A single black hair flickers awake the ear of the dark animal waiting for me at the end of the walk. My fumbling of keys and various straps a wild dance to the door—the pig grunting in tune to each hurried step, each of his wet breaths puffing into tiny clouds, a small storm brewing.

Santa needs new reindeer. The first bunch has grown old. Dasher has arthritis; Comet hates the cold. Prancer's sick of staring at Dancer's big behind. Cupid married Blitzen and Donder lost his mind. Dancer's mad at Vixen for stepping on his toes. Vixen's being thrown out— she laughed at Rudolph's nose. If you are a reindeer we hope you will apply. There is just one tricky part: You must know how to fly.

Herbert Glerbett, rather round, swallowed sherbet by the pound, fifty pounds of lemon sherbet went inside of Herbert Glerbett. With that glob inside his lap Herbert Glerbett took a nap, and as he slept, the boy dissolved, and from the mess a thing evolved— a thing that is a ghastly green, a thing the world had never seen, a puddle thing, a gooey pile of something strange that does not smile. Now if you’re wise, and if you’re sly, you’ll swiftly pass this creature by, it is no longer Herbert Glerbett. Whatever it is, do not disturb it.

The more I see of people, the more I like my dog. And this would be good country if a man could eat scenery.

To those of a certain temperament, there is nothing worse than the thought of something hidden, secret, withheld from their knowing— especially if they suspect that another knows about it and has even, perhaps, connived at keeping it concealed. D. H. Lawrence seems to have been irritated no end by the thought that people were having sex and not telling him. Freud too. —Ah but then Freud arranged it so that everyone had to tell. His psychoanalysis lights up the depths, makes our tangled web transparent, to the point where I can see all the way down to It. And the process moves outward in increasing rings: The Master analyses his disciples. Who thereby—transparent now—become masters and, in turn, take on others, patients or disciples, to analyse. So that eventually there are no secrets. Except, of course, those of the first Master, the Self-Analysed. Which is to say, the only private One, sole Unrevealed. Opaque center of His universal panopticon. While we see only His words, His daughter, His cigar. Poor Lawrence.

Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.