You looked me in the eye
With the same smile you gave me
A long time ago.
You let me order your coffee for you
I knew which one
It's still the same
From a long time ago.

I laughed about the jokes you told me
You laughed at how unfunny
Mine were
And you playfully hit me
I frowned, you laughed,
I laughed, you laughed again
And said sorry
Just like you did
A long time ago.

The worst of it all
Was that when your hand
Accidentally brushed mine
I shivered
Just like I did
A long long time ago.


-- Eleanor

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown."
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

The sky wept
the sky wept
the sky wept
the sky wept
while I leapt,
while I leapt,
well I leapt thru fire.

Gasp sigh perspire.
give me your tired
huddled and heavy laden
that loud light holds us up high
in his left hand and will be *******, man.
we'll be *******, man.

Harvest moon incited madness
granjero in a gas mask
destined
to manifest the liberation front.
watch me kiss the sun.
thirtytwo one, I am done.
canvas demon,
lower the lights &arise.;
like who wouldn't wanna kiss the sky...

Miss 'My,my,my' meet
Major fleet week
now yall dance and drink
each other's blood
doesn't that sound like fun
isn't it so sweet

wonder some
praise the priest
***** mothers ******* sons,
my lachrymose lack of passion
weighs a **** fantastic ton,
I wish someone would come &
divvy me a dole
of fresh faced inspiration
and vintage faded soul...

I am mobile homosapien.
I am not your friend
simply a lazy ally,
I reside in the unfunny pages.

Dated and bathed in flame,
given back to the air
where I came from.
humdrum funk,
under the ugly sun
feelin lovely in the slums.

Undone undone

I was raised by a pack of fools
Who proclaim Caucasians are the best.
And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint
To put the whole matter to the test.
They have an entire joke routine
And descriptive names they repeat
In minimizing and insisting that
Their right to decent treatment isn’t real.

There are references to some animals
And unfunny comments about color.
The statements about characteristics
Of body and features always go together
With a special set of gross anecdotes
To cover any kind of non-Christian belief.
And the refusal to consider equality
As a decent attitude stands in bright relief.

Beneath all this horror, not very deep,
Lies a sickening river of hate and fear
That fails to improve as education is
Rejected year after disgusting year.
Pointing out the error of their ways
Might earn you a punch in the eye
But the bigot hangs on to their rage
And never gives fellowship a try.

The American Bigot claims to be
A staunch Christian all the way through
Which forces them to hate and cheat
And lie as much as Jesus would do.
Of course, we know that Jesus was
A preacher of love and acceptance
But it seems that bigots never quite
Made that Jesus’ acquaintance.

So, here we can see we need to add
Some terms to this kind of individual
Whose relationship to peace and love
Is at best slight, scant and residual.
We also need to append to their titles
Of masters of anger fear and prejudice
The unhealthy pallor of indecency,
Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.

This is a formal complaint to one Cupid
on behalf of the population of earth.

We find that you've become somewhat,
how can we put it mildly....
      unsavory
ever since you started drinking.  We've
found that you have not been taking
your job seriously at all since that time

We were understanding at first.  Your
job?  It's not an easy one.  It tolerates
almost no failure, and requires both
physical and mental capacity that is
beyond what most of us can spare.

However...we feel that the alcohol is
affecting your judgement and character
in a way that we can no longer accept.
Below, we've listed the particularly
heinous abuses of your power


1.  Taking bets on what you can make people fall in love with.  John is now smitten with a cactus while Jenny can't stay away from the inflatable Santa Claus on the Morgans' lawn.
2.  Having very attractive women fall in love for your...erm...personal pleasure.  That's just offensive
3.  Having members of the same family fall in love.  The vulgarity of it all is just appalling!  It's an ****** epidemic!
4.  Shooting your arrows at Rhinoceroses and then laughing as they charge a poor unsuspecting person is not funny.
5.  Likewise, shooting an unsuspecting person and having them fall in love with a Rhinoceros who doesn't reciprocate is equally unfunny
6.  Last, but not least...Please fix the Republican Candidates.  Mitt Romney and Rick ******* are trying to get married next week.  While I'm happy that they are now "for" gay marriage, this cannot be tolerated.


So?  Do you have anything to say for
yourself?  Is that alcohol I smell on your
breath?  You don't even care, do you?
Well...we have no choice but to revok---OW!

Oh dear.

Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Decided to run for President
Even though, they neither had
An idea what that title meant.
So Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Both thought it would be lots of fun
Dump because of the money he'd make
And Pence for fame when they had won.

Lumpy Dump seemed to think
The title made him King of the Earth
Denso Pence hoped to show
Exactly what he was really worth.
Neither one of them realized
They'd have to follow all the rules
Which they were not a mind to do
Because they were both such fools.

Lumpy Dump strung words together
He didn't make all that much sense
But he felt he was doing just fine, as
He sounded brighter than Denso Pence.
Lumpy Dump thought he was slim
Not dumpy like a big ******* of fat.
Denso Pence thought he was bright.
That shows where these to were at.

Let's all hope this is all we hear
Of these two unfunny circus clowns
After Hillary kicks their *****
And runs them both out of town.
We have already had such bad times
And need good times to commence
Which will not happen unless we nix
Lumpy Dump and that idiot Denso Pence.

at fifteen i drew a map of my high school
and stuck gold stars on all the girl’s bathrooms -
this is the best one for crying , for hiding , for skipping class because you are afraid of the wrath of a teacher whose class you skip too often .
i used to sit in the stalls and draw hearts on the scars on my knuckles .
at fifteen i was afraid to raise my hand , to break the spell of invisibility .
i thought nobody could see me
and i liked it that way .
but today , on the edge of eighteen , feeling golden
i went to the bathroom that used to be the best room for hiding.
i went to wash my hands and check my makeup ,
not to run from any demons except the fullness of a lit class lecture .
and i expected to be alone ,
but i wasn’t .
she was on her knees in a stall ,
high school sophomore , sobbing and coughing and gagging .
when i came in she started gasping
and scrambled to her feet .
here she was , hiding like i had for so many years
and i was banging on the stall door .
because i have always been the unfunny tall one ,
unable to connect or understand or relate .
i have always felt like an alien , gasping words in a foreign tongue
before an audience of unforgiving strangers .
it isn’t funny ; it’s scary .
and when you are tired , kneeling on the tile floor of your high school bathroom ,
vomiting lunch and flushing ,
you understand more than anybody
that hell is not in the afterlife :
it is a place we visit on earth .
so i was banging on the stall door ,
praying she was a stranger .
she said , “ leave .”
and i said , “ god , i can’t .
hell is a high school bathroom .
will you talk to me .”
she was fifteen , blonde with scars on her knuckles and makeup stains on her cheeks .
i said , “ listen to me .”
i said , “ you are brave simply for existing .”
and she cried , and she cried , and she cried .
she said , “ i’m only fifteen and i’m sorry .
i didn’t mean to end up here , with a stranger staring me down .
i didn’t mean to be so ***** and worthless ,
but i don’t think i can do this anymore .”
i gave her a tissue.
she said , “ i’m failing math and english class and i have a D in science and my friends can’t stand me , and lunch is awful alone ; no one ever invites me to parties , and boys think i’m fat and i’m ugly and i’m lonely , god , i’m so lonely and no one can save me and nothing’s worth saving .”
when i was fifteen i used to practice writing suicide notes in my diary .
it was never serious ,
it was just an idea to play with when i felt unwanted :
letters from the deepest cracks of high-school society .
god , it was like looking into a mirror .
i saw the blush in her cheeks , the brightness behind her eyes , and the fading scars on her thighs .
high school sophomore , you know you will not be this girl forever .
beyond the unfinished homework and the test scores is an entire world worth seeing .
she said , “ i am in love with a boy and he doesn’t love me .”
i said , “ it’s the same for everybody .”
“ i don’t want to live , but i don’t want to die .
i guess i don’t want to do anything .”
she was fifteen and as wild as a poisonous berry .
i told her i could hear god in her raw throat and see infinity in her eyes .
there isn’t much you can say to a girl who doesn’t want to die ,
but at fifteen i didn’t feel like doing anything either .
i told her , “ a year from now you will see things clearer than you ever have before .
a year from that you will be back in the bathroom , looking at the floor and seeing ghosts .
there isn’t a lot you feel like doing , but right now you don’t need to .
i feel happy for you .
soon you will be lifting yourself from the floor of the bathroom , and walking swiftly in the direction of your dreams .
at the first sign of change you will feel your insides exploding .
it is beautiful ; there is so much to learn about living ,
so much to learn about humans and strangers and the feelings that keep us connected .
what is happening now is not worth forgetting .”
and she said “ i’m scared because i skipped class for the first time two months ago , and now i skip an average of eight classes a week . last month i smoked **** for the first time and now i feel guilty .
my best friend hates me . i don’t know what to do because i keep crushing delicate things with my fists . there is a scar the shape of a cross on my wrist, but last week I burned my bible .”
i smiled and looked in the mirror .
i told her ,
“ at fifteen i was just as lost as you are . i’m still lost , for the most part . i still want things i don’t need and feel emotions too deeply , but i’m learning .
and i learned a lot more by burning on the floors of bathrooms than by sitting in classes .
keep your face forward . trust everyone . you are living in the world like a wildflower , and you will be just as beautiful .
god , high school sophomore , you will find everything you are looking for .
just remember nothing matters
as much as you think .”

i’m seven years old, waiting to get old.
i can’t wait to make my own decisions:
eat sweets before lunchtime, buy every
barbie out there, run outside when i
want to.
i can’t wait to be old.

i’m fourteen years old, waiting to get old.
i cannot wait to be myself finally: be
independent without my parents,
wear what i want, go to every place i
want to, say every curse word i want to.
i can’t wait to be old.

i’m seventeen years old, scared of getting old.
i’m scared of becoming eighteen years old:
to go to university by myself, having to move
out by myself, to pay all the bills i don’t even
know how to, to be adult which seems so tiring and stressful.
i don’t want to get old.

i’m eighteen years old, trying to enjoy my youth while it’s here.
i’m taking the most while i can: taking spontaneous trips to
my grandma, going to the cinema at 10 in the evening,
listening to all the mellow albums i can, dancing in the grass,
wearing all the dresses i have.
i’m trying to be young.

i’m all the years to come, trying not get old.
i’m a little scared of death and a little scared of
getting old: of being unfunny, of not smiling anymore at
beautiful sunsets, of not enjoying myself anymore, of not understanding children anymore, of not being myself anymore.
i’m young and old and everything in between.
i'm accepting being that.

I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.

I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.

Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control;  they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.

All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.

When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.

And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.

They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.

I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.

**** these annoying little itches
Just go away, stop playing tricks
You're acting like 9th street's ***** *******
Who act like they're tired of just ******* *****
You start with being a little tickle
A quick scratch to attempt satisfaction
Nope, you're too fickle
& are becoming a wretched irritation
I swear it's an invisible hair
I feel the *******, I know it's there
Tricking me by switching spots
**** your evil plots
Just when I thought you finally gave in
TWO MORE PLACES ITCH, I ******* can't win!
It's the ceiling fan that's to blame
Blowing the air with no shame
But I got to keep the fan going
Without it, I'll have a sweat layer profusely glowing
.....Wait a minute, is this really happening
You swear I'm not dreaming or imagining
The itching has finally called it quits
WhoooHoo, no more scratching fits
I don't think I could handle that much more
Just as annoying as it was before
The ghost hair loves to pop up at random
I can't stand them
With all their UNFUNNY pranks
Such a pleasant visit, Geeez thanks!
But it never manages to last
BECAUSE  I will ALWAYS be the one who will outlast!

If you're ever feeling blue,
sketch a smile onto your face
Draw the curve and dimples, too
But all in pencil, just in case

Just never sketch a smile in pen
For soon the time could come
A day or two or three or ten
When one starts to feel dumb

**** the ever-smile
That can never be wiped, Or scraped, or covered fully
For the mockingish smirk
Would start to look like a ****
And the smiler is now a big bully

And when a dangerous bloke
Asks Ink Face for smoke
And the latter hasn't got any,
The smile of pen is mistook for a poke
And the joke? Well, it's sadly unfunny

"hi!! how are you guys today?"
i turned towards my friends, leilah and lillie

my momma always tells me to "let them go" but i dont understand.
the doctors say its a way for me to cope, but i dont know what theyre talking about.

my momma always jokes around and tells me that leilah and lillie are dead, but i dont think it's a very good joke. she also says that i need to "own up" and "stop pretending" but i dont get the punchline.

everyone tells me that im the one that killed them, and i should stop acting like they're still here but i just dont get it.

they're right there. i can see them. we even play together everyday!!

there's no way they're dead.

everyone's just in on some big unfunny joke.

Because I cannot write, I cannot tell you what my brain knows and has known since ancient days (such as the early nineties).

I cannot tell you that I know where we go when our bodies die, how to free the Jews, the best way to lose weight, if the tree falling in the woods makes a sound when no one is around to hear it, how to cure the common cold, who killed Tupac, and, ultimately, the meaning of life.

Because I cannot find the words, I cannot tell you what happens to all the characters that collectively make up whoever I am, that all the tiny people who experience life and report back often do so in a garbled mess that I have to accept as my own, that they don't know what they're talking about, and they're contradicting, and so am I (as a result).

I cannot tell the reading community how to straighten circular reasoning into a nice fit line, remove red wine stains, or determine the *** of an unborn child.

Because I cannot make thoughts more concrete, I cannot build a door through which my ideas can run out, like the incandescent light bulb and the printing press did that one time, when they didn't even bother to turn the door **** because they were so **** excited to get out of the prison cell that was their home, when they found out that these concrete walls were obsolete and forgot to tell me, so everyone up here is getting real claustrophobic and vomiting on one another.

I cannot let them free, because my brain, like most peoples' brains, has a "guilty until proven innocent" system with all the tiny thought people, and I can't let them out unless I am certain that they are sober and unarmed.

Because I cannot create anything worthy of literacy, I cannot use words like "contumacious," "ambrosial," "frutescent," "barcarole," and "peccadillo." I cannot communicate to my Chemistry professor the reasons why my answers don't match his and why I am absolutely correct in my reasoning.

Because I cannot be a translator between ****** information mediums, I cannot explain how the sun actually melts at the beach and drips and floats on top of the water in a jillion pieces, that the butterfly that got half ****** up by the vacuum cleaner today looked pathetically like the veins of a decaying leaf, that the sound of knuckles cracking is actually a miniscule drum that your fingers play as an outlet for stress, that there is a partially chemical, partially magical reaction when you're outside sweating out all your insides and the air shifts and a breeze forms for the purpose of running, sprinting right into the brick wall that is the back of your neck.

I cannot convince all living organisms that we invent the universe in our heads, then how we're all supposed to avoid insanity while outwardly moving about in it.

I cannot explain to you why I will walk past my destination carelessly several times without noticing, why I pull out my eyebrow hairs, what kind of construction materials I use for my self-esteem, why I am nostalgic and regretful and satisfied, and why I adore the people and things I adore.

If I could write, I would write poems and short stories and love letters and angry letters and journal entries.
I would not write comparative essays, experiment abstracts, binary codes, or unfunny comic strips that exist in great quantities (and no quality) every day in the newspaper.
I would explain my universe and compare it to yours.
I would write something other than this...

I’ve dreamed I was falling asleep
And shaking myself to keep awake.
There’s only so much weirdness
And crap a poor dreamer can take.
It was all involved with friends you see
That I don’t see now, because they
Were stranger than my dreams
Or maybe I was. Back in the day.

I would be partying with them
And walking remembered streets
But I’d look around and everybody
Found other people to go meet.
Then suddenly the Hollywood
I knew and loved for twenty years
Became Kansas City boulevards
And Hollywood totally disappears.

Or maybe I’m coming home
At the end of a tiring long day
And look around, find myself
Saying, no way. No effing way;
This is not my apartment!
It’s fine, I kind of like the place
But someone is pulling a joke
The housekeeping is a disgrace.

Then someone would come in
Who I was supposed to know
And this chick is my roommate?
Oh, no. This woman has got to go.
But before I can get my head
Wrapped around standing up
My family is there too, cooking
Handing me a steaming hot cup.

Well,, now I can’t offend them
So, I sit my *** back down.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful
Like some unfunny kind of clown.
******, I leave to go for a walk
Thinking I am in Tucson but then
This is the Country Club Plaza
And I’m back in Kansas City again.

One time I was building something,
Under an expensive sort of contract
But none of the sub-contractors
Or the assistants knew how to act.
They were putting the thing together
Like a Rube Goldberg machine.
I was going ballistic on them all;
The ugliest thing I had ever seen.

These are the dreamworlds for me
On a regular, but often bizarre basis.
Streets change while walking
And people I know change their faces.
Or I am tasked to do something
Involving technology or looming mass
I end up getting no help at all
And wind up falling right on my ***.

So here you are Grief...
I've evaded you so long.

I always knew you'd come for me.
Perhaps you waited til I was strong.

For years I've danced around you.
Purposely putting on my facade.

Hoping I could appease you,
With a few tears now and again.

But you won't go, will you?!
Without taking what you're due..

Only brutal honesty,
will ever free me from you.

So here's what I've done to cheat you,
Out of what was yours.

I've swallowed up my anger,
Lived my shame behind closed doors.

I settled for feined indifference,
Hostile, and surly glares.

I never told them of their blindness.
Or insisted my story I must share.

I've mastered laughing at the unfunny,
Made the best jokes at my expense.

Cuz lord knows if your not laughing,
Your alone without any friends.

I'm super good at pleasing..
And will not protect myself.

I'll work to make others need me.
Be overly concerned at their offense.

I'll loose track of my own boundaries.
Cuz did I tell you how I flirt?

Helps me seal the pain inside.
Helps me cover up the hurt.

So Grief lets have at it!!
I promise I won't hide.

We both know its time.
To unlock that girl I left behind.

i'm not interested

in living anymore

i don't want to die
living just doesn’t hold much interest for me

i don't feel good

i don't feel happy
only tired

tired tired
 always tired
i live in a perpetual nothingness

i can never find words
they lodge in the back of my throat and spiral out flat

may as well cut my vocal chords out
and replace them with yarn
maybe i’ll be able to string sentences together then

i’m buried in layers of ink and skin
they allow me to close my eyes and fall away
into my own personal oblivion

where it's dark and jazzy elevator music plays in the background
and there’s no sharp pings under numb detachment

there's a different breed of darkness to my oblivion
it's soft and shadowy
rippling over all my anxieties like a velvet tide
light shines in dusty shafts from no set direction
it doesn't illuminate anything
it’s nicer that way

i forgot what happiness feels like
not this halfway happiness that’s induced by comfort food and fuzzy blankets
but real happiness
that comes from deep inside of your being and spirals and glows

this is just a long complaint

hem hem

observation
about me

my life

is it really mine?

i feel so detached from it

i spend more time in dreams than i do in it
sweeping castles of words and swing sets that swing themselves


can i just leave?
fade away
into my oblivion
the one with the jazz music and the infinite velvet walls
i've come pretty close
may as well go all the way

i'm an inadequate mess of negativity
i can't function quite right anymore
unfunny angry pathetic boring
i'm me
and i don't hate me
hate is a strong word
i'm just tired
a slowly graying towel
long used and recently wrung-out
hung up to dry
dripping mediocracy onto a standard tile floor

ha

i'll show myself out

You would think
A fool who always lies
Would finally surmise
He is known to be unwise
In most other people’s eyes.

You would think
A snake in the grass
Would not have an ***
But it comes to pass
That some are all ***.

You would think
A pile of dog manure
Would smell himself for sure
And that would insure
To show that he's not pure.

You would think
A **** so full of hate
Would not aspire to be great
And instead would wait
Until humility reached his gate.

You would think
Being socially quite blind
No ability to be quite kind
Would someday soften the rind
Of almost any creep you’d find.

You would think
With so many tramps around
And unfunny political clowns
Someone would knock him down;
Teach him something on the ground.

You would think
Some lesson would be due
To give this reprobate a clue
And help him know what to do,
But that might never come true.

Donald, what is wrong with you?
You’re really acting strange.
It’s like your mind has measles
Or bubonic plague or mange.
Something sick is going on
Down deep inside your mind.
It seems to make you stupid
As well as deaf to facts and blind.

Maybe sometime decades back
You might have made some sense
But we have watched a long time now
And it hasn’t happened since.
You don’t seem to be able to
Tell the facts from the lies.
You are getting stranger daily
We can see it in your eyes.

You always were a reprobate
A fact you couldn’t really hide.
Your responses were so obvious
We saw the truth you kept inside.
You looked down on women,
Looked at them as just toys.
You carefully referred to gays
As naughty twisted boys.

You never had much use for blacks
Except for menial kinds of labor.
You certainly didn’t want any of them
To end up as your neighbor.
And now you want control of
The Presidential nuclear codes.
Do you want to sell them off
To buy stuff to put up your nose?

No, Donald, you are sick as hell
And we’ll be glad when you are gone.
The rest of us have had enough
And think you should move on.
Maybe you can get a job
Playing high stakes liar’s poker.
That might fit a guy like you:
A dangerous and unfunny joker.

For laughter I came here
for the same I stayed
'til it became vitriolic
and unfunny
my shape shifting to suit
uncomfortable and not recognised
I shed the farce
and walked away..

She works all day in a dead end job
And the money is not the best
The boss is a bit of a pervy ****,
Keeps staring at her chest.
Laughing too loudly, at unfunny things,
And tipping her the wink,
Hiding the lines of his wedding ring
Or so he likes to think.
Too-tight jeans and garish shirts
And teeth unnaturally white.
She'd like to kick him where it hurts
Even dreams of it at night.
He offers to take her to a bar,
Wherever she'd like to go
And he'd drive her home in his flashy car,
So nobody needs to know.
She nods her head and smiles her thanks
And makes a discreet phone call.
Her boss is as thick as two short planks and is about to lose his *****.
They enter the bar, he sees his wife
And knows he's out of luck.
He's either going to lose his life,
Or his wife's going to make him a ******

You’re a smack down
Kick-around, clueless clown
That tells unfunny jokes
And runs with the blokes
That put up with your antics
And your busted semantics
Because they think someday
Things might swing your way
And they can profit by association
With a human abomination
That enjoys investing atrocities
With scarifying velocity
On the halt and the lame;
Running opportunistic games
On those who cannot defend;
World without end, amen.

But heaven forfend
That you might have a friend
Who seems a holy prophet
But does not seek for profit
And acolytes to their cause;
A bogus Santa Claus
Who leeches from the people
In his church without a steeple,
Just microwave towers
Sprouting like ugly flowers
To spread out the message
So we can read every passage
That boil down to a sermon
To send money to this vermin
Your bund proclaims a messiah
When he is really a pariah
Nobody has yet recognized
He’s so well disguised.

But, be aware, polecat
Some know what your at
And what you are doing
I nothing more than accruing
That which you can bank.
You have nobody to thank
For the outcome you inherit
From the outcome you assume
When your calumnies bloom
Into the realities that appear
When the truth draws near
And tars and feathers you
And when your victims do
What they should have done along
Was reject your ways gone wrong
And found a rail lying around
To ride your **** out of town.

Winking, Stinking and Clod,
Each with a gross ugly ***.
Each a miserable  thief
With greed past belief
And all were hatched out of a pod.

Two hundred silly baboons,
So like unfunny cartoons,
Overpaid and mindless,
They call them a congress.
We won’t be forgetting them soon.

Floppy, Tipsy and Cottonhead
Three bunnies talented in bed.
They rake in the gold
Doing what they’re told
Repeating to no one what’s said.

Hakey fakey Doctor Duck,
Gives glowing reports for a buck.
Not much they’ve done
Was anything like fun
But his hush money fills a truck.

Liar, liar, pants on fire
How does your bank account grow?
We hastily must warn
The banks are foreign
So Americans have no way to know.

Apple core, Baltimore
Some people know the score
They know very well what
This little verse is for.
I don’t have a clue, you see.
It is totally a cypher to me.
It’s a snappy verse, obviously,
But is nothing more than poesy.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.

It’s a kind of little kid rhyme
That lost its meaning over time.
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Kept up with the chronological climb.
But the other is one of those things
Like popsicles and onion rings
That living in the USA brings
But leave me standing in the wings.

Bumpy jumpy, bouncing around
Trying to stay on solid ground
Is chancy at best, I have found.
Its reasoning is not that sound.

Olly olly oxen free is another
The invention of someone or other
To help kids call in their brothers
When the game is curtailed by mother,
Or someone decides it’s done,
Or maybe just no longer fun,
And those hiding one by one
Can come in home on the run.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.

Pinch you owe me a coke
Is another sadly unfunny joke
Created by some sadistic bloke
That should have got his nose broke
But turned into a game that’s used
Whenever people become amused
By saying the same word the other used.
I don’t like games that leave me contused.

Icky wicky bother and blame
Practical jokes are bad games.
Ask me once I’ll say my name;
Every time it will be the same.
Bumpy jumpy, bouncing around
Trying to stay on solid ground
Is chancy at best, I have found.
Its reasoning is not that sound.

I think it's funny
how you string me along
thinking I believe everything that flows out of your mouth
which just silently screams falseness

I think it's funny
how you think you can pick me up and drop me again
like a child being reckless with a toy
not realising its true worth

I think it's funny
how you think your lies are disguised as promises
and you think I won't see behind the mask
of your priorities

I think it's funny
how you claim to be friends with me
but really, others are more appealing to you
whilst I'm just a ghost in your background

I think it's funny
how you tug little pieces of my heart away
because I believed you were my friend
but you do not care about my heartstrings snapping

I think it's funny
how your little stabs of supposed superiority
are reflected in the pinpricks which you force into my back
which deflated all my confidence and self worth

I think it is very unfunny
how all of these pointless metaphors
are what I feel our friendship finally became

I know you are a liar
With a suitcase full of lies.
You’re a peddler of snake oil
To those who are unwise.
You only deal in falsehoods
No matter who you hurt.
To me you’re two feet lower
Than pocketful of dirt.

You’re a gold-plated tinhorn
Not really worth a hoot.
You’re like a old plow horse
Too miserable to even shoot.
Half-deaf and selectively blind
You’re an stremely unfunny joke
And not really good to anyone
Especially decent moral folk.

I’ve seen guys like you before
They make me want to hurl
I could tell you immediately
Not to leave you with any girl.
You are the kind of criminal
Only beloved by a nut.
Someone should take you aside
And kick you in your crooked ****.

Your evil twisted lying self
Make me lose my religion.
I hate it every time you make
More suckers into pigeons.
I can’t stand to see your face
Let alone to hear you speak
And I am sure your followers
Have minds that are weak.

They’ll find out in a year or two
All the stuff we have foretold
When fans as well as the rest of us
Are freezing out in the cold
And all his cronies are safe
In the corporate welfare he creates
While we honest people pay the bills
And starve at his penthouse gate.

I’ve seen guys like you before
They make me want to hurl
I could tell you immediately
Not to leave you with any girl.
You are the kind of criminal
Only beloved by a nut.
Someone should take you aside
And kick you in your crooked ****.

Never a poet
but a tattooed Clown,
Laughed at,spat upon
adorned with your debris,
Waste not to be wasted
But thrown,
Hanging like a puppet
stinking and unfunny,
not ever a poet
held down....

He's a catch isn't he
young and far from virile
nonthreatening and funny
in an unfunny way
to me,
the textbook *******
a guy that couldn't
do or deal with half of
what I do daily--

and after all my
pleas of love--
the poems I wrote you
the letters I wrote you
bearing my soul--
putting everything on the line--
you still won't look me in the eye
bet you'll look him in the eye
because behind his eyes are nothing
you love that

when you look behind mine,
you see the pain
you inflicted
you see the dreams
unrealized
but mostly you
see the pain
and the guilt seeps
and seeps
I hope

I tried,
out of both spite
and courtesy,
to tell him you'd just lead him on--
wait for him to bear his soul
then get uncomfortable with everything
and he took my words
and put them on a platter
and, with them, sat his--
delicious, appealing, and
poisonous
telling of how you love him
and you swore to me--
he was nothing--
less of a friend than I--

either way,
you'll cause my emotional death

make me sour for any woman
much  
           less
                   you

and now,
finally,
unlike every other time
I haven't forgiven you
I have but made you seem forgiven

for, now, at the last,
is the time for me to pull
the strings--
for me to ruffle your feathers

and I hope you tumble down
and eventually make it to my level
where you see the gods from below

and find them

all
but
divine

i hate you.

i hate every single little thing about you.

the way you laugh way too loud,
and smirk way too much.
the way you flirt with other girls,
and dress like a ***.
the way you are hilariously unfunny,
and just a tad bit to mean.
the way your hair is unkept,
and your room's never clean.

sadly, i'm mistaken.
it was once said there's a thin line between love and hate,
and i really don't hate you at all,
quite the opposite actually.

“Why do you like to read?”
They ask me, their unseeing eyes curious, undoubtedly dubious, unable to comprehend.
Well, you see…
I sigh, look each of them back in the eye, trying to compress and quantify all that I feel into a single reason without having to choke out a lie.
Well, um, you see…
It is quite a difficult question to answer.
To people like you, perhaps, it becomes an unfunny and sarcastic, maybe basic kind of joke
To me, I read to feel my heart bleed at the twisting melodies of poetry and prose.  
And to say that I simply like it does not quite fit and is merely a cheap counterfeit of all that it has done for me.
It is not only the thrill, the way all the world is at a standstill when my eyes both hungrily ***** and gently caress whole symphonies on a page.
Sometimes they’re ballads or serenades, played in a wide array of conflicting emotions.
In a story, one is always a turn of a page away from a broken heart or halfway to being okay
The end of the world or a brand new start, the rare flare of hope or the stare of death.
Does all that do nothing for your mind, or do you kind of see but wish to stay blind?
People ask why I’m always with a ******* book; well, look,
Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of backstabbing friends and loneliness is more of a tendency.
And after all that, I no longer wish to blend or pretend to be someone I’m obviously not.
You might have always been lucky in the friend department and that’s grand for you,
But characters were my only ones for quite a time, back before I started writing all these vomited words with the same used-up rhymes.  
And who in their right mind would choose false friends and be fine with a fragile line for a life?
I’d rather be alone, solitary but not all that lonely, because I’ll have a friend within the pages.
Are you starting to get me or have I just been babbling badly?
I think I’d live in a fantasy all day if I could, the silver and gold melody carrying me away
To places where even the broken, the outcasts, the fallen, and the downcast,
They can experience love.

It's the small things that make me love you.
Like the way you pause in the middle of sentences to thing of what to say.
And the way you touch the middle of my back when you know I'm sad.
The way you push your hair back out of your face.
The way you laugh at my unfunny jokes.
The way your hazel eyes light up in our favorite cafe.
The way you always apologize with a crooked smile and eyes to the floor.
The way you smile with teeth (unlike usual) when your favorite song comes on the radio.
All these things made me fall in love with you.

I was hoping for sunshine
Instead you brought me rain.
I thought it would be all pleasure
But it ended up causing pain.
I wish you’d sung me love songs
That fell on my ears like psalms
Instead you turned away from me
And I had nothing in my palms.

I wanted to assuage my heart
That I would not be alone
But I seem to be a person who
Disgusts you to the bone.
I’ll never understand how you
Could turn from hot to icy cold
Somehow the love you felt at first
Quite suddenly got too old.

You no longer gently smiled at me.
And you found my jokes unfunny.
We began to live in cloudy skies
That never quite turned to sunny.
We both had misjudged the other
And things went south from there;
Made a wrong turn at Albuquerque
And I think I know just where.

It started when you realized
I’m not good at one-month stands.
You looked up and looked around
To see who else was at hand.
And since there are always those
Who date based on a guy’s looks
You became all hot and bothered
And I became one for the books.

One more notch on your pistol
A face to avoid on meeting.
One more victim of your game
That deserves no kind of greeting.
The good side of this story is
I am no longer under your spell.
I am going to move onward now
And let you sashay to hell.

you call my name and my heart stops
before racing double time
a rhythm beating in my chest
in response to your voice

i hear phantom words
your phantom laugh
the phantom feeling of your fingers on mine
as you grab my hand
and we laugh together at you smacking me in the face
inadvertently

your hair dances in the wind
and i want to run my hands through it
we compare lengths
and i tease you, tell you mine is better
and you agree

you crack an unfunny joke and i laugh
because everything you say sounds funny to me
as if you’ve taken up residence
between my ribs
and are tickling them with your very existence

your shirt is open at the collar
and your neck calls to my lips
the impulse to trace patterns onto your skin
and leave a mark
too strong

you share a look with me
when you find someone else amusing
as if we are co-conspirators
a unit against the rest of the world

you hug me so encompassing
that i never want to leave the circle of your arms
i want to linger and hear your heartbeat respond to mine
and smell your cologne on me
for the rest of the day

you whisper in my ear
observations, jokes, utter nonsense
and my pulse races as i lean closer
snatching away these small moments
to keep with me
when you’re not here

The plan was simple enough to picture
Drink till I don't miss her
Dreams they come to taunt me
Caught my silent wanting
Truth be told I trust to much
Break me down to build you up
Season's changing gives me greif
Warn me - winter's still asleep
We dream alone
Of summer
A cold, unfunny joke
The punchline is the sunshine
We laughed till we awoke
Alone together
Me and winter
A recluse, abused and cold