767 Humor poems

A woman was fighting a tree. The tree had come to rage at the woman’s attack, breaking free from its earth it waddled at her with its great root feet. Goddamn these sentiencies, roared the tree with birds shrieking in its branches. Look out, you’ll fall on me, you bastard, screamed the woman as she hit at the tree. The tree whisked and whisked with its leafy branches. The woman kicked and bit screaming, kill me kill me or I’ll kill you! Her husband seeing the commotion came running crying, what tree has lost patience? The ax the ax, damnfool, the ax, she screamed. Oh no, roared the tree dragging its long roots rhythmically limping like a sea lion towards her husband. But oughtn’t we to talk about this? cried her husband. But oughtn’t we to talk about this, mimicked his wife. But what is this all about? he cried. When you see me killing something you should reason that it will want to kill me back, she screamed. But before her husband could decide what next action to perform the tree had killed both the wife and her husband. Before the woman died she screamed, now do you see? He said, what...? And then he died.

She was pretty swacked by the time she Put the spaghetti & meatballs into the orgy pasta bowl—There was mixed salt & pepper in the “Tittie-tweak” pasta bowl—We drank some dago red from glazed girlie demi-tasse cups—after which we engaged in heterosexual intercourse, mutual masturbation, fellatio, & cunnilingus. For dessert we stared at a cupboard full of art critic friends, sgraffitoed into underglazes on vases. We did have a very nice time.

Once warring factions agreed upon the date and final form the apocalypse would take, and whether dogs and cats and certain trees deserved to sail, and if the dead would come or be left a forwarding address, then opposing soldiers met on ravaged plains to shake hands and postulate the exact shade of the astral self—some said lavender, others gray. And physicists rocketed copies of the decree to paradise in case God had anything to say, the silence that followed being taken for consent, and so citizens readied for celestial ascent. Those who hated the idea stayed indoors till the appointed day. When the moon clicked over the sun like a black lens over a white eye, they stepped out onto porches and balconies to see the human shapes twist and rise through violet sky and hear trees uproot with a sound like enormous zippers unfastening. And when the last grassblades filled the air, the lonely vigilants fell in empty fields to press their bodies hard into dirt, hugging their own outlines. Then the creator peered down from his perch, as the wind of departing souls tore the hair of those remaining into wild coronas, and he mourned for them as a father for defiant children, and he knew that each small skull held, if not some vision of his garden, then its aroma of basil and tangerine washed over by the rotting sea. They alone sensed what he’d wanted as he first stuck his shovel into clay and flung the planets over his shoulder, or used his thumbnail to cut smiles and frowns on the first blank faces. Even as the saints arrived to line before his throne singing and a wisteria poked its lank blossoms through the cloudbank at his feet, he trained his gaze on the deflating globe where the last spreadeagled Xs clung like insects, then vanished in puffs of luminous smoke, which traveled a long way to sting his nostrils, the journey lasting more than ten lifetimes. A mauve vine corkscrewed up from the deep oblivion, carrying the singed fume of things beautiful, noble, and wrong.

How lovely it is not to go. To suddenly take ill. Not seriously ill, just a little under the weather. To feel slightly peaked, indisposed. Plagued by a vague ache, or a slight inexplicable chill. Perhaps such pleasures are denied to those who never feel obliged. If there are such. How pleasant to convey your regrets. To feel sincerely sorry, but secretly pleased to send them on their way without you. To entrust your good wishes to others. To spare the equivocal its inevitable rise. How nice not to hope that something will happen, but to lie on the couch with a book, hoping that nothing will. To hear the wood creak and to think. It is lovely to stay without wanting to leave. How delicious not to care how you look, clean and uncombed in the sheets. To sip brisk mineral water, to take small bites off crisp Saltines. To leave some on the plate. To fear no repercussions. Nor dodge the unkind person you bug. Even the caretaker has gone to the party. If you want something you will have to get it yourself. The blue of the room seduces. The cars of the occupied sound the wet road. You indulge in a moment of sadness, make a frown at the notion you won't be missed. This is what it is. You have opted to be forgotten so that your thoughts might live.

Do you remember the rude nudists? Lazing easy in girth and tongue, wet slops and smacks of flesh as they buttered every crevice. Sungrunts. Blubberpalaver. We were always hiking some hill toward some beauty some human meanness ruined. We were always waiting too long to let ourselves be seen. It was an ocean's gesticulations, articulate elephant seals, grounded clouds grown all one mouth. What could we do but laugh, casting clothes aside as if the air were ice and water a warm bed, goose-stepping goose-pimpled past their appeased surprise into the waves. What could we do? We could—we did—love take a long look at each other and creep quietly away.

Felicity the healer isn’t young And you don’t look him up unless you need him. Clown’s eyes, Pope’s nose, a mouth for dirty stories, He made his bundle in the Great Depression And now, a jovial immigrant success In baggy pinstripes, he winks and wheezes gossip, Village stories that could lift your hair Or lance a boil; the small town dirt, the dope, The fishy deals and incestuous combinations, The husband and the wife of his wife’s brother, The hospital contract, the certificate ... A realist and hardy omnivore, He strolls the jetties when the month is right With a knife and lemons in his pocket, after Live mussels from among the smelly rocks, Preventative of impotence and goitre. And as though the sight of tissue healing crooked Pleased him, like the ocean’s vaginal taste, He’ll stitch your thumb up so it shows for life. And where he once was the only quack in town We all have heard his half-lame joke, the one About the operation that succeeded, The tangy line that keeps that clever eye So merry in the punchinello face.

The   user   interface   has   the   following   format.   Upon   accessing   the   URL, the   user   sees   a   welcome  message   with   some   explanation   of   the  service provided.  The   user  is   prompted  to   enter   his  or   her  name,  date  of  birth, When  everything  else  fails,  try  something  new. and  email  address, For instance, try the central mental hospital, then  to  left  click  on  the sit back and mumble enjoying the  belle  vue submit  button.  Based  on until  the  nurse  has  counted  you  all. this  information,  the  CGI  script Our group files  in  fresh  from  the  courtyard walk, generates “on  the a  pageant  of  male  flesh  in  ugly  dress. fly”  an  appropriate  horoscope There’s bundles of  excitement  but  little talk. reading  for  the  end  user, The  chess-players  are  breaking  out  their  chess. or  displays  the  logs No  one  to  mention  the  Afghan  War.  The  state, and  user  Statistics if crumbling, buys me my sparse and forkless lunch. the  current  user  is This  latest  novel   fails  to  kill  my  worries, the  site  admin.  Parse  CGI The  Plexiglas  window  withstands  a  teenage  a  punch. variables  (or God,  I  must  prove  completely  nuts,  by  fate lookup  logged  record) to unfit   for  active   military   service. obtain  user’s  birthday.  Parse  user’s stats,  verify   and   save   to   log   file.  Compute   user’s   Zodiac   sign   based  on birth   date.  Print   personalized  greeting.  Generate  a   horoscope  reading  and send  it   to   user’s   browser}  else  if  (user   ==   administrator)  {compute  stats.

She said she had always wanted to do it; throw away dirty dishes rather than wash them and she did, after breakfast, toss the blue, green, orange, and yellow Fiestaware into the trash. Transferring from New York to Germany with her husband and children, the movers coming that day, she chucked the dishes in among the banana peels, egg shells, coffee grounds, bits of bacon, paper towels and called it good. What she could not know is that a young mother in that very town received a much needed set of tableware when her husband returned home from work that evening. Bright dishes that showed up chipped and grubby like old friends with egg on their faces.

Nay, Doll, quoth Roger, now you're caught, I'll never let you go Till you consent, —To what? says Doll, Zounds, Doll, why, do'stn't know? She faintly screamed, and vowed she would If hurt, cry out aloud; Ne'er fear, says he, then seized the fair, She sighed—and sighed—and vowed,— A'nt I a Man, quoth Roger, ha! Me you need never doubt, Now did I hurt you, Doll? quoth he, Or, pray? says Doll, did I cry out?

Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to Obtain the license, get the picture. Spook finders must find spooks to put the face, Name and space coordinates together. What is kept in the mind perimeter Retains a wild autonomy through fate. I will retreat to the precorporate. Let fate have what is fate’s and allow This spirit to slip through time’s difficult Nets with the devious fingers of A wild wind, while I run along behind.