"comedic" poems
When clocks strike twelve and trainings end
— lurk not, they say, in school at night.
Age-old stories tell of how there’re
things that throng in fluorescent light.
In toilets silence screeches loud,
for when school’s empty, they arise:
Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing,
with cleaner-uncle poltergeists.
For now I sit on chilling white,
resounding prayers in my mind;
my heart racing with dire wish
a friend of Casper’s I won’t find —
Then eeeeeeek!
Is that a door creaking?
Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind,
Hinges sing as they fly open!
Thou who entered, oh be my kind!
A thud thud thud as shoes traverse
across the glinting marble floor;
and louder,
louder as they get
much nearer to my sacred door!
THEN SILENCE
or so I wish!
But a loud knock takes my breath away.
The unlatched bolt lies there lazing
HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY?
A hand thrusts in so hard and swift,
door’s open ‘fore I can react!
I’m facing now a girl my age,
She bawls at me with little tact —
Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated,
“YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!”
I dash out of the girls’ toilet
before she tries to castrate me.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
passion
thirst
hurt
ephemeral
physical
cold heat
hunger
water walking
brutally real
physical
skin colors
words spontaneous
devious planned
desire desired,
physical
concrete
parchment thin
muscled strong
catch a caught
physical
making
creating
cresting
cannot live without
physical
electric
shocking
eclectic
varied
realized
why? stop here?
eyed
fingered
tongue tasted,
ear sensual
dreamt
famous
buried
tragic
comedic
gaming played
unsafe
at any
speed
languorous
fire immolating
physical chest pains,
incurable
incumbent
to possess
otherwise, death
fingernails poking
knuckle kissing
lips wetting
blood exchanging
oh yeah physical
foreign native
young old
permanently temporary
infinitely finite
definitely unending
nowhere
no expression
dying dreams
best better
agonizing
agonizing
unrequited
offer everything
receive shoulder
colder than hell
defensive
offensive
cape laid
walk on me
chivalry
until we hold each others fingers knotted
until I stroke your hair unexpectedly,
until we agree to hell with all the rest
until we say the say the same thing simultaneously
until we come together
when we have satisfied each and every one of the above,
freely confess
know nothing of love
but the picayune details that make us greater
greater than greater, greatest, then and only then
we, might have a few clues
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC
speculation pulls down on the body
the quick switch into panic, akin to the comedic drop of an anvil
when you realise that things aren't as simple as they seemed
it's amazing that you could even be shocked
but when has anything ever been simple?
what else is life to you but a riddle?
the questions which rush through your brain
sweeping you off your feet and onto the gravel
curiosity lunges at you, hungry and ready to feed
to claim another life, to rip each "what if?" out from your curled fists
you should have already known the murders it is capable of
but you would never take the proverb literally, would you
"things are the way they are, because they are"
do not lie back in the mud and be defeated
pull the mystery apart, unravel the string with your mighty claws
seize the day and avenge the cat
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
My heart aches.
When I think about leaving you,
When I think about how in a year, I won’t see you everyday.
Instead I’ll be thousands of miles away.
Missing you with every breath. With every thought.
I don’t know why. It seems silly. Doesn’t it?
Truthfully, and not just for comedic purposes.
I’ve never loved anyone the way I’ve loved you.
And I’m going to miss you so much more than words can describe.
And I’m sorry. I know it’s unconventional, rude even.
To say I have to go. I know I’d promised I’d be there forever.
**** why did I have to fall so deeply?
Thinking about your eyes will no longer meet mine.
With time, you’ll forget. And so will I.
That connection we once shared will disappear.
Our feelings will fall away.
Life will continue.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
Nobody Knows McQueen
Why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows,
why,
do you have to lose the sanity,
to find,
the genius,
nobody knows,
why,
do the brightest lights,
cast,
the darkest shadows,
nobody knows,
can’t have the beach,
without the ocean and the sand,
can’t have bliss,
without the pain,
what a paradox we are,
us this Human Species,
all us actors just acting sans practice,
in deafening silence commiting acts of violence peacefully,
in this repulsively attractive romantically tragic,
dramatic sci-fi thriller comedic fantasy,
where we rarely do what we say,
even though we all say what we mean,
constantly on a conquest to find Plato’s Atlantis,
expressing ourselves through our art like Alexander McQueen,
which makes sense in a way since we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go,
and even though that may be so we still wear our hearts on our sleeves,
half peasant have emperor,
have invented have inventor,
half daughter/son half mother/father,
half created have creator,
only hope is that this sadness somehow leads to a happily ever after,
once gone,
only that odor lingers,
is it cologne or perfume,
no one knows or cares it’s 2018 it doesn’t matter,
nothing matters,
even though it feels like everything does,
or maybe everything matters,
and nothing feels like it does,
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if I care,
don’t have the answers,
and if I did I probably wouldn’t share,
or maybe I would,
and I’d do so through these words,
like a man stranded on an island with a universe full of knowledge,
sending these messages in these bottles as my parting gift to this world,
see we’re all on our way,
so have some fun before you go,
is there life after death,
maybe not maybe so nobody knows,
why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows…
∆ LaLux ∆
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
Garbage disposal
Clumsily I drop the food
A finger, I lose
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I was flipping through some books that I got from a free pile.... some lovely literary titles.
In the back with a note with a quote from Robin Williams
"Please don't worry so, because in the end none of us have a very long time on this Earth life is fleeting. And if you're ever distressed cast your eyes to the Summer Sky when the stars are strung across the velvety night if a shooting star streaks through the Blackness, turning night into day make a wish, think of me, make your life SPECTACULAR! "
I can hear him saying that in a sincere yet.... comedic tone. Words like this above and the ones following just seem to always flow from his lips
" you're only given a little spark of Madness you mustn't lose it"
" Comedy is acting out optimism"
" People say satire is dead. Isn't dead it's just living in the White House."
" the Statue of Liberty is no longer saying 'give me your poor, you're tired, your huddled masses'- she's got a baseball cap and a bat yelling- you want a piece of me?"
" Time is the best teacher, but unfortunately, it kills all of its students"
"Never pick a fight with an ugly person they've got nothing to lose"
And finally...not by any favorite
"No matter what people tell you words and ideas can change the world"
All above quotes by Robin Williams
"I think Robin Williams was an amazing quick witted poet, an exceptionally gifted actor...because I'm not sure he was acting...and he was also a very shiny human being" - Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
I thought, you. And then I stared and wished that I was back
in your line of sight, that time that you tried to
take a photo of me and I held up my hand. You had never
even touched it. It was deemed artsy and you used
me to pick up chicks who thought you were creative. The many
times I thought yes, and felt yes from you too. But all
we did was stare and I want to touch your Greek hair just
once. And I sold smiles and sweets to strangers while
you gave out pop and judgements. How comedic, how blase.
How soon could I get you to never stop thinking about me?
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
Usually I embrace the lack of sound,
but lately it’s been peeling the paint off the walls.
The chips scatter and collect on the ground,
in boredom I pick them up and roll them into *****
I forget the last voice that touched my ear,
but there’s only one I truly seem to crave,
even when telling me things I don’t want to hear
I find it impossible for me not to cave.
I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my reflection in the mirror.
The black and white catches my eye
but the mix to grey is growing nearer.
There’s something else I want to try,
as the difference between good and bad is getting clearer.
I remember everyone else but forgot I,
I’m not too sure if I should fear her.
So what side are you on?
Are you here or are you gone?
Normally I love the pitch black dark
but tonight it’s drowning me in an abyss.
The structure and outlines that once were stark
are now details even the sharpest eye could miss.
I forget the last person to grace my sight,
there’s only one I wish to be standing in place,
her glow would banish the darkness of night,
whether she was caressing or slapping my face.
I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my opposing thoughts and views,
and lately I’ve just been getting by
by drinking raindrops and morning dews.
A goal too far or maybe too high,
but that’s hardly any breaking news.
So what side are you on?
Are you hand written or hand drawn?
You’re holding me under water, watching me drown so slow,
pulling me up for air and saying “don’t breathe, just blow.”
You’re holding me under water,
watching me drown so slow,
then pulling me up for air begging
“please, oh please, don’t go.”
I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my conflicting feelings and limited choices,
no right path for me so the left I defy,
in the distance I may just hear voices.
It’s comedic how I accept a lie,
and I’m sure she still rejoices.
So what side are you on?
Are you twilight or are you dawn?
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
I wear my paper hat sing these silly songs
but she doesn't want to laugh anymore
whistle like a fool tell another joke
but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore
there was a time when I was the king of making her smile
she would wiggle and giggle for hours on end
now i would be lucky if I were more amusing than spoiled cauliflower
and she just doesn't want to laugh anymore
I pretend to be a stripper and shake my little ***
but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore
scribble silly pictures and make fun of the unruly cat
but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore
no longer funny I have the comedic status of paint
all her friends make her laugh the media makes her laugh
but I, I am damp socks
and she doesn't laugh anymore........
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
There are too many days..... I cant do this many days. Too many days where darkness wins. Fate laughs endlessly. I am Fate's comedic performer and he laughs without end. Like a donkey behind a carrot I am led and with the rasp of a donkey's bray Fate's laughter rings in my ears.
I don't think I can do this. Where joy is substituted by despair and happiness succumbs to death.... and the symphony of laughter is the tune. The strings on this puppet are frayed and worn but the puppeteer is relentless. How do you fix the strings of a puppet in motion? Who will catch the puppet if he falls? I can hear no answers above the laughter that rings in my ears and so this puppet on tattered strings dances on to the tune that Fate maintains. How long is a piece of string? It matters not if the string can carry no weight.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
At the world’s edge,
Upon a steep ledge,
I must ask the everchanging blue:
Why must I fall in love with them?
Whereupon, I break bread
With my enemies
I must ask the everchanging red:
Why must I fall in love with them?
Again, and again,
It is a dinner that ever ends
It’s the common place of disaster
A comedy of manners
Drenched in sinister designs
Beyond the grinds
Of my understanding
Of the world
It’s the Theatre of the Deranged
Laughter
So much laughter
And I don’t know what they’re after
I’m the jester
Without a wry disguise
Cleverness beneath comedic idiocy
I’m the fool
In this Theatre of the Deranged
Discussions at a lopsided table
Where only those who obey the master
May talk – all else must listen
To her, to her, to her!
Gorged on foods
I never wanted
There is nothing sweet
Left for me to eat
Mouth sealed shut
Except to laugh
But there’s nothing funny
When you’re the joke
That’s gone on too long
But the party is far from over
When you’re the court jester
To the Queen who rules the world
To the King who rules the world
To the Jack who rules the world
To the Ace who rules the world
To the suit who rules the world
To the world who rules the world
To the monarchs who uphold
The declarations of entertainment
And attend the gathering
At the edge of the world
Adorned with velvet curtains
And velvet lies
In a swirling and everchanging
Red and blue
Known only as
The Theatre of the Deranged
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
Luscious swirl colors
Sunlight reflecting off of
Rainbow jeweled depths
White cotton absorbs the laughter
In banded, restricted patterns
Blue lazy afternoon
Pink sugar candy
Green that's not so easy
Indigo spot light shining
Mimosa bubbles fizz with comedic intent
Juicy honey bells spiking my taste buds
I soak you up, great God of life
In turn creating sacred geometric love
On simple fibers
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
What exactly would you get
if writers changed the things they wrote
If painters changed their style
And singers butchered every note
Romance books by Stephen King
Horrors told by Suess
Comedic plays by E.A. Poe
And **** by Mother Goose
Dali paints like Monet
Monet paints like Degas
Van gogh would hang his brushes up
And go and detail cars
Michael Buble singing screamo
Operatic stuff by ****
Yoko Ono would seem right in tune
It's enough to make one sick
I hope it never happens
It would change things quite a lot
But you know, I think that **** by
Mother Goose could be quite hot!
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
oh
would you look at
that
his true colors
bursting forth
in glorious array
just pretty enough
to be the ugliest
thing
i've ever
seen
he didn't care about you
you were a small
insignificant
distraction
attraction
comedic
act
you were a joke
he liked to
laugh at
and once a joke is told
the punch line
come and gone
the laughter faded
there is emptiness
for just a second
before it is filled
with another
you're
always
going
to be
a joke
get used to it,
red
you're only good
for a smile
every now and then
when it comes down to it
you're just another piece of dust
that departs
to float forever
until it lands somewhere else
it's not wanted
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress
All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia
It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks
See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed
The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters
Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand
Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action
The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials
Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise
Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome
The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress
They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good ********
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
Sadness becomes the clown
for humor is a reflex
and denial is breathing
and ease is a smile when one's secretly seething
Sadness becomes the clown
for punchlines are hits
and fools are martyrs
and what are mocked pains but conversation starters
Sadness becomes the clown
for laughter is weighty
and jokes are suppression
and comedic timing is a guise for depression
Clowns give their all
day after day
while time is a pall of emotional decay
And they know it's inevitable
when the chips are down
that the clown becomes sadness
and sadness becomes the clown
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
There are some pro wrestlers
Who always have to get all their **** in
There are people who expect things from them
And they give those things to those people
But for the rest of us
The match becomes predictable
As we await their signature moves
Which is why I think we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
He never had to get all his **** in
He served the story
Not his glory
He displayed the petulance of man
And showed us how we can say the right things
In the wrong way
Yes, we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
Someone who can host a talk show or headline Wrestlemania
Someone who can be comedic or vicious
We need people who understand the importance of looking foolish
As well as the obligation to maintain an edge
And people who can mentor the rookies
While hanging with the veterans
Yes, wrestling needs more people like Chris Jericho
People who don't depend on wrestling
He makes music
And has a podcast
Avenues being paved
For the crossroads many wrestlers face
Between business, art, physicality, and mentality
Where the road being left behind is physicality
It is hard to watch people hang on for the business
Yes, the world needs more people like Chris Jericho
He never cured a disease
Neither did he make one
He's a performer who creates
He creates for the benefit of himself and others
He's not a wrestler who has to get all his **** in
He understands signature moves can become crutches
On the path to a boring finisher
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember
The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully
The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven
The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's
We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
A history of the Earth for us,
Is like the history of the circus,
Pathos, film noir, comedic elements,
Vast global tragic wars aren't meant,
Home we are, the human circus,
How to destroy each and every one of us,
Still, nothing happened to us,
Safe on first, the human circus!
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
Remember that night we stood awkwardly in the cool night air? The half moonlight bathed the streets in a desolate hue as we clumsily tried to appear like we knew what we were doing. So we walk back in silence; both of us lost in our own individual selfish thoughts. Your gait comes off comedic as you try to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk and I nervously pick at the frayed edges of my notebook hoping you don’t notice how my hands tremble each time they brush against yours.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Looking for inspiration
In a desolate dreary wasteland
The same **** just different days spent
Hoping life will finally make sense
Cos I've got bored and aggravated
With the drama I know will unfold
Is this really the end of the road before me I behold?
So I form facts from fiction
To try avoid repetition
Of dreary events to which each week ends
But my yesterdays tomorrow
You know so my yesterday will follow today
A bit like Bill Murray
From that film Groundhog Day
But with a lot less adventure
Or comedic reflection
A script not to question
And no seams between scenes
I'm caught in a dream
I can't see me come free from
Those are the facts son
There's no lights camera action
No glitz and no glamour
Definitely no famous actor
With the hardest tasks keeping track of...
Straight from morning to night
In the flash of an eye
The same simple ending
A yawn then a sigh
Only to wake with a shudder
Butterflies inside flutter
Feeling nothing but gutted
No new day
No new dollar
It's the same as before
As I walk out the door
The same route to work
To live out another day stuck
in my white collar Call Centre curse
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 5:22 AM UTC
feel the heat off his cheeks like a love poem
brown eyes beating down
sinking into mine with a definitive
bite.
he smiles while he interrupts our game
and i stare up, hands arranging tiles
astounded by the sheer kindness
of every tiny, comedic, unabashed piece of him.
he looks at me so much
laughs so much
yells my name
as i walk by, hands full.
i want to sit down and read those cheeks
like a book
my lips scanning every crest
kissing eyelids that bless me with that
brown, soft look
across a table.
he is so perfect
so similar to me
i can hardly believe
i get to look at him
hardly believe
i get to smile at him
in those other-world moments
between just he and i
so quietly
while everything else
rages
by.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
He was born this way
In a world filled with light
But none of which he could witness
They simply called him ‘The Blind Man’
As he wasn’t very unique in any other way
Entranced in his wanderings and musings
One could spot him
At the corners of supermarkets
Wandering and loitering, almost interchangeably
Nobody had ever approached him
Even the notion of ‘parents’ was alien to him
As they had apparently thrown him out, at the sight of his unreflecting eyes
Perhaps this gave him a tint of bitterness
Thus, The Blind Man lived
Approaching life with the barest of efforts
Considering by the second why he couldn’t end it
It was in this musing which he found himself that fateful day
Once again enveloped in his blanket of self-pity
But, for the first time, found himself approached by another
She was a petite little thing
Able to count the years she had lived in the palm of her tiny left hand
But her heart was greater than most foretold to be older (and somehow ‘wiser’)
It may have been a comedic sight for an outsider
A blind, helpless wanderer approached by a pure, innocent creature
Yet, such a sight invoked a saga told through generations
He asked her what she desired, as he had never experienced another’s interest in him
She said nothing, only holding up what seemed to be the smallest of morsels
He never found out how he understood her meaning
Only that the smallest of her motion seemed to move the world around him
He wondered, as he accepted the small portion of cheese and bread
Wondered how suddenly the world had become so bright
How the smallest of hands
Could somehow give the most
The Blind Man had lived his life in darkness
Shunted away from society, convinced of its malice
But sometimes, all it takes is the smallest kindness
To change the greatest of convictions
He asked her for her name
And she whispered it out sweetly, before being shunted away by her wide-eyed parents
He mouthed the innocent syllables silently
And then, for the first time in his life
The Blind Man opened his eyes
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC