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Bo Burnham  Apr 2016
Bo Burnham Apr 2016
Read this to yourself. Read it silently.
Don't move your lips. Don't make a sound.
Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything.
What a wonderfully weird thing, huh?

Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper.

Now, read this next line with your best crochety- old-man voice:
"Hello there, sonny. Does your town have a post office?"
Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that?
It sure wasn't yours!

How do you do that?
Must be magic.
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
I F--k S--ts
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Sluts! Sluts! I fuck sluts!
Sluts get fucked when I fuck sluts!
No ifs, ands, and/or buts!
I fuck sluts! I fuck sluts!

Nice girls are nice, but no good for nut-sucking.
They'll need a serene night to green-light a butt-fucking,
but that'll be easy with sleazy ol' slut-fucking!
Boo to the nice girls! Praise be to slut-fucking!

I have a list. A list? Yes, a list of all the sluts I've missed.
I've never fucked or sucked these sluts and thus my nuts are fucking pissed.
So when I fuck the lucky slut, my nut removes her from the list---
another dumb cumbucket struck from my nut-sucking,
"suck it, slut!" slut-fucking bucket list.

Sluts can be white, brown, pink, or almond.
They can be skinny with big tits or skinny with small ones.
Sluts can be perky, preppy, or posh,
with their brains and their clothes all shrunk from the wash.

But other sluts are pretty and funny and smart.
They can lift your thoughts from your dick to your heart.
They can talk about science, music, or art.
They can put you together or pull you apart.

But don't trust these sluts! Don't! Don't you dare!
They'll force you to trust them and love them and care.
And then they'll be gone and then you'll be aware
of that hole in your heart that that dumb slut left there.
poem reading here--> www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGZ2VqcmZlI
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I wear a scarf
                  to keep my words warm.
So you will smile when
                     they smack you in the face.
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
"Well, man, you know what they say."
No, I don't. I don't know what they say.
I don't even know who they are.
Who is this they?
They seem pretty smug.
They seem to think they know shit.
Fuck them.
Bo Burnham  Dec 2015
No to Drugs
Bo Burnham Dec 2015
I said no to drugs once.
I looked a bag of weed right in the face
and, like a loving but firm father,
I said, "No."
I was really high.
Bo Burnham  Dec 2015
The Squares
Bo Burnham Dec 2015
The Squares lived happily,
in their square houses,
in their square yards,
in their square town.

One day, a family of Circles
moved in from the west.

"Get out of here, roundies!" shouted one of the Squares.
"Why?" asked one of the Circles.
"Because this is a metaphor for racism!"
Bo Burnham  Apr 2015
Kiss You
Bo Burnham Apr 2015
I want to kiss you all day.
I want to start at dawn.
I want our mouths to dry out by breakfast.
I want our jaws to start cramping by noon.
I want us to question our decision to kiss all day by hour five.
I want to have sex really quickly then seriously stop all this kissing bullshit because you need your personal space, apparently.
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal

Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?

Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's rump
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?
it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene

need;it’s funny.  They will all be dead

knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.

It is a funny,thing.  And you will be

and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed jerked with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better

than me will you like the rain’s face and

the rich improbable hands of the Wind)
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
Haiku 3
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Old people's skin sags
Because it is being pulled
To the Underworld.
Bo Burnham  Mar 2015
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
You think I'm crazy?
HA! That's real funny.

If I were crazy, would I have written a twelve-hundred-page novel without using a single vowel?
No. 'Cause I did. And I'm not crazy.

If I were crazy, would I be able to predict the future by dropping empty tuna cans into an open drain in my backyard?
No. 'Cause I can. And I'm not crazy.

If I were crazy, would I love to slit your fucking throat just to watch the color drain from from your face and onto that cleanly pressed collared shirt of yours?
Yes. I would love that if I were crazy.

But I'm not crazy.
Aaron Knockovich  Apr 2014
Aaron Knockovich Apr 2014
The most awkward five minutes of my life.
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