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Kassan Jahmal Nov 2021
So I got robbed
by my shadow last night;

           That's pretty dark.

I threw a steak at a girl;
that's a tender way to meet.
But I got beat with a
hole in my head;

       That's an empty thought.


And she broke my nose
so I couldn't smell;

             Her intentions.

I told her she
was pretty sweet;
and was offered a piece.

                  I bit off her lip.

And I was told;
I belong to the streets;
that's really funny because
I won't allow anyone to;

               Walk all over me.

I don't think she got
what I really meant,
So to seem concrete,
I went on to buy her a bag;

                         Of cement.

Yesterday,
I lost my cool;
writing a surprise exam
yet the test was;

              Such a breeze.

It gave me food for thought,
but I kept on complaining,
because I'm still hungry;

                  And want to eat.

And I laugh so big
at my own jokes,
because I took humour,
and added enormous;

             To make it humorous.
David Plantinga Sep 2021
A hungry alphabet will flock
One word to several things.  
Taut meanings have diverged
From verbal hankerings.
Norman Crane Apr 2021
The British anthropologist enjoyed rare tribesmen.
But after seeing his article published in the prestigious Journal of Anthropological Research,
he kept the poor man on the coals a little longer,
thinking, "Well done, old chap."
Norman Crane Sep 2020
See simmering vats
of shoulders, elbows and knees,
A banner reads:
"Welcome to the joint stock company!"
A mule may melt your heart,
but the cartel will dissolve your family.
Jelena Apr 2020
There is no line so no punchline
And no punishment for the punny puns
Since they are no punks
They are not puny, right
There are other that is punier puns
Was bored and I love puns
Liz Rossi Mar 2020
You wanted a love story, sweetheart—
    well, I’m an unwritten tragedy;
  hand me a skull and I’ll monologue
while Rome burns.
      We’re two acts in and falling fast,
         we’re half a city down and soon
            there’ll be nothing but ashes.

          You wanted a love song, baby—
        I’ll sing to you in a minor key,
harmonies in the rain under neon stars,
            screaming in tune with flowers in your lungs
      and blood in your hair
and city lights and city lights and
                                               city lights.

You wanted a love letter, honey—
“Dear Heartbreak,
   I’ve got purple bruises on my chest
     where my prose hits me. I’ve got
       a mess of clichés and a dark and stormy night
         and a pinch of melodrama,
           no talent but I’m trying, honest.
             I don’t suppose you could maybe
              unravel me a little?
               Cut me open like a knife through butter?
                Maybe then I’ll bleed words;
                 maybe then the poems will spill out of me,
                  entrails unravelling.”

You wanted a love poem, darling—
                meet me in your aspect and your eyes
               at ten o’clock tonight. Rome’s burning, baby,
              and all our lions are loose. No time for
    sonnets; we’ll climb the Colosseum with
    our flowers and our songs and
                             we’ll deny the gaudiness
                                                     of the day.

You wanted love, sweetheart—
I’ll give you everything I am:
           a burnt-out city,
           a soliloquy in G minor.
               I’ll play til my fingers bleed,
                     sing til my voice gives out and
                                                             ­            maybe—
maybe
it’ll do.
byron’s “she walks in beauty“ is the one i’m wittering on about in the fourth stanza.
Prister Sep 2019
Singing
Is
Not
Good
At
Prior risk
Of
Running away from puns the size of
Elephants.
U SEA what i did there?
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