Best Dark Humor Poems
One pitch black night I was driving home and was ready for my bed
My usual route was closed for repairs so I took the minor road instead
I was just approaching the old derelict mill that was over to my right
When out of nowhere a lady appeared dressed from head to toe in white.
I tried to swerve but hit her head on and it gave me one helluva fright
Thought what was she doing alone out here in the middle of the night
I quickly jumped out of my car and dialed, nine one one on my phone
And thinking that I might have killed someone, chilled me to the bone.
But there was no sign of her and I feared she was underneath
I caught sight of my face in the cars mirror ; I'd gone white as a sheet
I quickly got down on the ground and used my phones torchlight
And I started praying to God up high that the poor lady was alright.
But she wasn't underneath the car and thought was I going insane
The wind was howling loudly now and brought with it heavy rain
I was all on edge, then got in my car and had the life scared out of me
When a loud voice said " operator here, what's your emergency"?
Something Spooky 8 to 16 lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
Written 5th October 2021.
All the fairytale violence
Life’s too Grimm already
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C O N S C I O U S N E S S
Let Red Riding Hood bloody-hack the wolf to death…
Let the sleeping beauty jam an apple down the witch’s throat…
Let Hansel and Gretal pull out all the witch’s teeth
without putting her to sleep…
Let Cinderella make her stepmother step in shards of glass
while she whistles and laughs…
n
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Life’s too Grimm already
I just can’t…
You are what you eat; it is true,
So cannibals are people too!
5/06/22
Killing with an Epigram contest
Sponsor: Margarita Lillico
On these bare walls
there once hung
artwork that was picked by you,
which you'd then picked over,
leaving only a needlepoint
your mother made for our wedding
and a picture an alcoholic friend gave you
of a bear
How ironic now,
it seems, they're not so bare
since I've hung a painting of
dancing bears on the bare wall where
I took down the needlepoint
and a butterfly,
in the bare spot you left
by the front door
"Poets are Us"
The blood dripped
off each piranha's
sharpened fang
acquiescing
compliant
with tragic complacency
keep it neat and clean
within the margins
no detours
stick like Teflon
to the poetic rules
virtuous and unsoiled
aa bb cc dd
pristine are us
sanctimonious sugared pus
we live for
accolades are us
Dorothy reads
Poets are us.
Smiles wryly,
laughs
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Happiness"/ Goldfrapp
https://youtu.be/mnHlGONToIc
"The downward slippery slope...."
(Anonymous)
"Un Coeur Simple", Gustave Flaubert, 1877
https://interlinearbooks.com/blog/our-sixth-interlinear-translation-un-coeur-simple-by-gustave-flaubert/
https://www.encyclopedia.com/arts/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/simple-heart-un-coeur-simple-gustave-flaubert-1877
e-book
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1253/1253-h/1253-h.htm
"Flaubert's Parrot", Julian Barnes
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flaubert%27s_Parrot
https://www.supersummary.com/flauberts-parrot/summary
e-book
https://pdf.allbookshub.com/general/flaubert-parrot.pdf
I think I'll open a tragedy club
where people can come to weep
I'll tell the saddest stories around
admission will be cheap
I'll call the venue Tragic Relief
where heartache is the norm
and "open mike night" amateurs
can mournfully perform
To be a standup tragedian
has been a lifelong dream
No longer caring to cry alone
I might even form a team
We'll bill ourselves as "Wailing & Tears"
and tour throughout the land
We'll have them bawling in the aisles
til they can hardly stand
They'll cry a mighty river
at our films from year to year
We'll throw in fresh cut onions
just to wring out every tear
Appearing at my club some time
to do a special show
the hottest new tragedians
will tell their tales of woe
No matter if your background is
from denim or fine silk
we'll gather round and cry all over
puddles of spilled milk
So take a break and come on down
and turn your joy to grief
Just keep your eyes peeled for the sign
that says Tragic Relief
My pet monster
best friend I ever had
through all the good times
and even all the bad
we walk the streets together
some people gawk and stare
when you moan "hi" to them
it gives them quite the scare
I don't mind when you drool
and your eyes roll in your head
your still totally cool
and always welcome in my bed
and when your limbs and tail
fall off and need repair
I can stitch them on again
I will always be right there
Nurse Narcolept’
Give "poetry" a go She said
She said, you won’t never look back
take a lie down on my couch She said
She said, give my poetry a go
she pulled me in deep
the agony was infernally slow
Nurse Narcolept’
and her whip
traced my outline
in a steady stream
of purrfectly pert poems
such an odd sensation
my hands and tongue tied
poetically biting the bit
there was no turning
which way or that
white square or black
right or left
what’s left of right
let alone finding
the most decent
indecent way back
from the craziness of It
the mind caressing the
anima animus id
the cool cats all watching
whisper under
their hormonal horror whiskers
run Dick Run
for those cross-dressers
voyeuristically entangled
run Jane Run
oh what fun
doesn’t walk like a duck
absolutely no quack
lethally tap dancing
gang'star across keys rat-a-tat-tat
no need for a gun
Candide Diderot. ‘24
News for Andy/Iggy Pop
"canon service"
“We follow the rules here”, he said incorruptibly
like he was untainted as holy water
from the incorruptible font,
he had an upward inflection in his voice
at the end of every punctuated point,
delivered like a canon service
his gun and bullets were larger
apparently...he was high, the pulpit lofty
far above the soaped-up sinners
some of us inside were grinning
too much alter wine
he was probably juiced,
then unctuously he shared his fat sermon
as if to convey to the congregated
a good and proper sluicing,
the service was poetic
no hymns in this church
salvation tamborines
to beat the devils out,
some of us inside were grinning
Candide Diderot. ‘23
canon.
cannon.
underneath
his trenchcoat
he was
in possession
of a bent quill
he used it to tickle
words out of his
avaries of birds
moon-eyed and
sucker-punched
they adored the
dripping honey
he spooned
into their
unworldly
wide-open bills
his avarice
for swollen
notoreity
observed
by the dark
night-eyed
hunters
while he,
unsuspecting,
stalked
newly commissioned
clean and unmarked boxes
with his know-it-all
best bumbling
holy-roller turns
the nights
are full of obsessed
decent hunters
lit matches
with an arsenal
of thoughts
and a granary
of words
ready to burn
Candide Diderot. ‘24
He made her life a living hell.
Her heart immune to the death knell
She breaks down and cries
Tears spring from her eyes
Her acting days now serve her well.
-----------------------------------------
Contest: Open Poetry
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
11th July, 2015
Placed 7th
When a rough day is behind me
And all the tension is still there
When rage is flowing through my veins
And I'm tearing out my hair
When the evening sky is as red as blood
And my anger as full as the moon
You can feel my fury burning
Tell an explosion is coming soon
I really cannot help it
There's murder on my mind
And once I get that feeling
There's just one way to unwind
There's no slow-burn to this temper
It's a full-on raging storm
I'm all too keen to vent my spleen
I'll make them wish they were never born
The result is always chaos
My victims don't have a chance
But oh, it gets really messy
As through my mission I advance
And there's no doubt about it
I'm efficient and I'm mean
I don't care about the fall out
When I'm that wound up and keen
I confess the sight of body parts
Is a relief from my daily grind
Heads and legs and torsos tumble
When I've murder on my mind
I bet you're keen to judge me
Denounce my actions as a sin
But there is no mercy for gingerbread men
As I reach for my biscuit tin
I lay my dearest Susan down to rest
Of tall tales and humour she was the best
An excuse each night
Wouldn't hold me tight
There's something I need to get off my chest
See, Susan was a talented old hag
Three men at once she quite often would shag
The gents often told
Of her lips of gold
and the tricks hidden deep inside her bag
I put up with her, turned the other cheek
She was built of strength, I a man so weak
Shame filtered these eyes
She laughed at my cries
Til they found her in the bag by the creek
*no bags were hurt in the making of this poem*
A masochist plans his own burial
You'd think our man was malarial
But a fallacy it is
'Tis pain that is his
Ado for such an actuarial
What if the orbiting earth were to unexpectedly run into a brick wall
speeding through the galaxy one night in the middle of Fall?
Can you imagine the sounds of death, destruction, and annihilation
as Christchurch, New Zealand, crashes into the Atlanta Metro bus station?
I don’t think that that would be any fun at all!