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Art Funny Poems | Funny Poems About Art

These Art Funny poems are examples of Funny poems about Art. These are the best examples of Art Funny poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Iambic Pentameter |

Chicken Cot UFO

Chicken Cot UFO

It crossed the gloaming skies above the roofs,
in awe we followed then, its jazzy course;
mysterious would be the incensed spoofs
this ireful ship, upon us, would enforce.

Hmm..
..We said! Abominable was the ship
that traced its gaudy eights in air with hum;
predestined to avenge our ego trip,
atrocious poulets, would not succumb.

The chicken soldiers were a frightful troop
in pink-pistachio uniforms with spots,
that insolent, bombarded us with moop,
to hit our heads that were devoid of thoughts.

In order to placate the chicken troop,
some started to recite their verse to skies;
confronting that attacking chicken group,
- bird poems they opposed to battle cries.

The angry war-birds listened to the verse,
that was composed by stunned, exposed confreres,
their cackle was bemocking and adverse,
- upon their heads they wore rouge voluperes.

This myth reflected what would happen if
extraterrestrial cots invaded Earth,
relentless chicken-birds in martial tiff
would moop upon some artists of top worth.

© 12/11/2013, G. Venetopoulos

moop = Matter Out Of Place


Details | Free verse |

My Sudoku Life

And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.

Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.

Enticing my stature
to belong
to become exponent’s side-kick.

So they can welcome me with open arms.

Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.

They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.

Yes!

This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.

Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.

But, I could never fit in.

For I am neither positive
nor negative
about their (cult) ural ways.

Timing would always be off.

An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…

They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.

For they’ll just calculate,
deduce,
my sum with rusty protractor.

This Zero, into a fraction...

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Limerick |

Poetry Destryer Vs Gareth James (round 3)

For who is this poetry destroyer
A cop, but who else would employ her?
As she spies no end
No poet, she pretends
Vanilla ice in leopard skin fur.

You ask If I want mommies hug
wouldn’t that be nice, lovely and snug
You just want to hold me
Under that great oak tree
And kiss me on your picnic rug

You want the vultures to enjoy
My sweet flesh, is that your ploy?
Wanting to be them
Eyeing up my sweet gem
Tell the truth, you just want a toy boy 

Well our future together would be bright
Injets, pens and cartridges in sight
You’d color me in
Goodness what a sin
As I would always do the best write

Hang up your gloves as your are weak
You are also classed as an antique
A low blow I know
Don’t cry, don’t go
You can come back with a new technique.

If I don’t hear from the poetry cop 
I will know I have come out on top
Good bye little girl
Give us one more twirl
Now, this should be the final full stop (.)!

P.D, this is the first one ive done. Took me a while. Very good fun though. I kind of limit’s 
the write.


Details | Alliteration |

Stink Thinking

Poem by: Mr. Ronald Watson
Sep. 13, 2012
My Poetry on PoetrySoup

Stinking Thinking

Stinking thinking/ it leads to drinking./
What moisten the soul without an inkling?/
Unto making a wild left turn /while the right signal light were blinking./
Within a mild mix of rice, hops, and barley,
Since/ it is too much laugher at a karaoke party./
How Elvis sounds like,/ a broken Bob Marley?/
Now it’s as if,/ inhibitions are lowed/
Frozen in time/ and slipping far out of control./
As intuitions of minds does loathe,/ as such weariness echoes for tomorrow./
Yet,/ a stinking breath that smells just as death/ and it's where all funky asses dwells./
Though/ all hung over /and unjustified to flinging heavy heads into that porcelain king,/ 
Even this is a sight for red sore eyed Kings!/ 
It is an aftermath of ravishing through them royal purple cloth bags./
So/ afraid to admit that shallowness slowly drags!/
When,a sense of clarity which will just admit it.
That stinking thinking is difficult to kick, but
One day at a time, it is the only way to shine, or get fixed.  

Thank youMy Poetry on PoetrySoup
God Bless.


Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) |

Attention: WORD NERDS--------- The Eight Parts of Speech

---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********


now and again
a word 
sneakily obscure
approaches the fog in me
screams its name 
suddenly 
apropos adverbs appear
clearly 
startling 
perplexing 
precarious adjectives
slick little nouns
caught hiding 
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
defiling crooks
"pro"fessional nouns
jailed
beneath eight parts of speech
preposition'ed 
pre'fixed subjects
elusive predicates
slithering suffix'ation
turn-ing key
delicately 
through holes
freeing vocabulary
trapped 
within prison walls
synonyms 
pen bars 
filled in the past 
participles
plagued 
like Job's tedious job 
of siphoning
deciphering 
homographs from heteronyms 

words never mind...
 
they wind the mind
gliding 
in the wind...





Details | Rhyme |

My Fair Maiden

I called upon yonder window That was up to high for me to be For my maiden gracefully sleeps there In her bed,beside the sea I asked her to come hither For her beautiful face I yearned to see Twas yawning in the morning dew As she slowly came to the window for me To my amazement came forth a ragged wench Whos hair was as raged as the sea With eyes that were burnt as nightposts To bloodshot and squinty to even see For this was not my fair maiden? Whos beauty would forever be But a drunken harlot who came hither That she spent the night with instead of me My heart now broken to pieces Wondering how could this tragedy be? For my maiden now sleeps with a harlot? Without the love that she once gave to me? My mind was now enraged So I dashed for the wrestling sea With thoughts of drowning this useless body That's no longer good enough for my maiden to see With water just over waist height And a large wave about to crash over me I heard a calling from yonder window Twas my beautiful maiden as I turned to see Her beautiful eyes in such distress Her beautiful hair flowing so care free Twas the beauty of my fair maiden That I had called upon yonder window to see For the thoughts that raced through my mind Evidently,weren't truely what happend to be For it was her promiscuous sister Who had come from the other side of the sea My heart now rebuilt with a sigh of love A large wave suddenly crashes over me The last thing I saw was my fair maiden As my lifeless body is carried out by the sea
DannyBoy:1-24-13


Details | Haiku |

It is now

Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust 
for things start to be.


Details | Verse |

Enigma's Calling

Extraordinary, I am 
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding  the gift I shouldn't fought
 
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
My passion
The food of my soul
 
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
 
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
 
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When  my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
 
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart


Details | Free verse |

This Poem Stinks So Badly it Doesn't Deserve a Name

This poem stinks.

It doesn't rhyme 
It doesn't do anything 
It has a little alliteration

well...

it will have some

because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate 
and if it didn't have any poetic elements 
it would not be a poem 
but would be prose with 
randomly 
inserted 
carriage returns...

(are carriage returns extinct?)

and that would be dishonest. 

This is not a lying poem. 
That would be oxymoronic. 
It's a stinky poem.

And when I finish writing it 
I'm gonna print it out 
and tear it up 
into little bitty 
teensy weensy pieces 
(if I have enough patience to get that small) 
and flush it down the commode 
so it can join all the other 
excrementally effluential essences

(note the alliteration)

of all the other stuff that stinks 
almost as badly as 
this poem.


Details | Rhyme |

What a Way to Go

Of course it would involve making love
If I had to choose the way that I would die
Fornicating until my heart gives out
Is something I might like to try

The mortician might have a job to do
In trying to fix the smile stuck on my face
And the cause of death on the certificate
Might result in a little disgrace

But alas, my heart seems to last much longer
Than the other required part for this act
But I am willing to keep on giving it a try
And on that you can bet as a fact


Written for the "Die A Fun Death" contest.


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