Long Dark humor Poems
Long Dark humor Poems. Below are the most popular long Dark humor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dark humor poems by poem length and keyword.
Thank you for calling Your Destruction.
If you’re calling to bring forth your personal hell, press 1.
If you’re calling for emotional devastation, press 2.
If you’re calling to enact physical harm, press 3.
…Thank you. Your Destruction is now offering a summer sale.
If you are interested, please fill out the survey on Your Destruction website.
…Please hold…please hold…please hold…please hold on for as long as you can…
Please hold; the bringer of your doom will be with you in a moment…
Hello. It’s nice to hear from you again.
What can I do for you that will make you regret your life choices?
I see. Sorry to hear that. Would you like to include your friends and family?
I understand. Your Destruction will ensure that your life is utterly ruined once I’m done.
Have a nice day!
In the Hills of California
I journey out in the clean crisp air
To hike for miles in the place where
I leave my worries and despair
In the hills of California
In peaceful calm I restore
My sanity and love for life once more
If this is heaven I found the door
In the hills of California
Lured by beauty I'm drawn so high
Peaks pierce cloud studded deep blue sky
Wishing that I could some how fly
In the hills of California
Intoxicated by the beauty of it all
My footing slips I begin to fall
Rolling, bouncing like a ball
In the hills of California
Body broken lying prone
Wet with blood, protruding bone
Wishing I was not alone
In the hills of California
In my pain, so extreme
I hear the loud pitch of my scream
Hoping that its all a dream
In the hills of California
Circling high at first just one
Two, then three and more to come
Wings spread wide against the sun
In the hills of California
Beady eyes on blood red face
Circling lower, they crowd my space
I'm the meal, I pray for grace
In the hills of California
In the distance I hear the cries
Wolves or coyotes no surprise
Dinner time and I'm the prize
In the hills of California
Come and get it don't delay
Eat this pain I feel away
An all you can eat human buffet
In the hills of California
Clean my bones but leave my soul
So I can stay where the cool winds blow
In the beauty I love and know
In the hills of California
If you told me 6 months ago I'll breath
just fine without you I laugh and proclaim
you kidding
My eyes are as dry as the desert my heart
learnt hardly to partially live without you
Before time passed by the urge of seeing
you was an obvious obsession that string
along depression as it deprived the
privilege of primary thoughts
My world began with you even before me
I saw no life after you
I write again my final note to notice the ticks
that are fleshing through my crusty throat
Dear Diane
Your meaning has its own significant of the
enchanted visions of the fairest whardlock
You brought belonging to my lonely soul
I don't seek to find faults
Even if we lost the costed land that we
both built with our bare bodies
Our world were both upside-down even the
specular couldn't flip us both at the same
time
Our laughter were based on the imbalanced
hypocrisy of the hypnotic gift of dark humor
swallowed down to keep it hidden while it
swollen slowly to glow and show off!!
We covered our scarce with scarlet
bracelets that were so tied that they even
left a marker of hurt and pain
Through it all it was beautiful and messy
With these scarce I vowel to forever keep the
memory loading vividly to fall down the
envious cute vines of our commune unity
As much as we live to feel individually
separation was never the cause it was the
aches that couldn't handle the wounds
My final note to you Diane
You are my dearly beloved, my heal route,
my strength of weakness, my ears to ease,
my attention audient that applauded for my
sanity although it became unstable and
insane.
Dear Diane
I promised not to let go but I just couldn't
hold on no more
If our paths would cross and tangle again
this time it will be for better or worse
Ashleigh Ngoqo
The
other eighteenth
centurion was rewired to beat whip-
ping cream by trans-
ferring it to one of free flood plain car-
rier amigo acid barriers and then em-
BARK-
ing on his var-
ied
own
creep dis-
cussing raw plans in a goop text where he adds
a spam
and melon
ball twist to a clutch-
ing figurine piece depicting
an angle between those sidewind-
ers required for
hooking spouts
with ambiguous traces of lawful fake
muse bots
spread-
ing
gas unrest using automated pest practices
that
put real intel-
ligence to sleep behind the Wheel of Miss
Fortune's even
grey-
er and darker than usual
Legion of Heavy Petting Metal Maniacs.
Could you love
an old white redneck
with HIV,
inhaling too much medicine?
Could you love him
if he were able to listen
without judging,
but commiserating,
curious about nuances,
finding dark humor
transcending rumors
of ego’s timorous tumors
and climatic anthro-terrifying tremblers?
Could you love a sad house-bound poet,
with too many kids of vulnerable colors,
multiculturally married but neurodiversely separated,
haunted by recurring adoption-denied nightmares?
Abandonment
allows suffocation,
nutritional neglect,
dislocation
drowning embryonic surf,
tidal pools of loneliness
propelling salty
dark
dissonant compassions,
emotive compost
organically fueling preoccupations
toward resurfacing light.
Could you love him
if he could know what you feel,
and guess why
and wonder how,
and hope when,
and care where
we might want to hear
and feel and dance and breathe
this sacred co-opera again?
Could you love erotic simplicity
if delivered with truer exotic festivity?
Could you love integrity,
us becoming right synergy
here
and now?
Could we sacred love
exchanging secularized anger management
for musing compassion's
proactive
interactive
interdependent
inter-reconnecting
inter-re-ligious EarthTribe opportunities?
Could you love
these neurodiverse
neuro-sexsensory ones
you are already miraculously singing
and dancing within
without?
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 vices and my faults are legion
how I hate that cooing pigeon
pooping right outside my door
i cannot sleep for death entices
promises to end my vices
silencing my painful snore
and yet in vain I blindly struggle
beneath black blankets darkly snuggle
deny my essence to the core
within life's book the battle rages
against the truth of yellowed pages
scattered on the bedroom floor
she isn't here and never was
her memory a flaming buzz
is it the flame that I adore
scorched within and vilified
by endless nights wherein I've died
as pigeons cooed outside my door
the shadow of the swinging loop
the smell of two day old bird poop
it thus will end I'll bear no more
and yet I hesitate in fear
that she may somehow draw me near
engulf me in her flaming core
erase the pain of passion's past
share with me one last repast
a love, both lovers, so abhor
am I but fodder for her soul
consumed somehow yet still left whole
by a love we both deplore
John G. Lawless
©11/27/2023
My fashionista muse has many styles from which to choose,
and how she feels determines the colors she will use.
If she brims with silliness, it’s orange she could wear,
for couplets can be quirky heels, and heels come in a pair!
Also when lighthearted or simply wanting fun,
she dresses in a limerick, often yellow like the sun.
If she feels dramatic, she wears a long red gown.
However, she has yet to try a sonnet with a crown!
In a sonnet that’s traditional she is often seen.
When she’s feeling earthy, it might even be green.
Yet she more prefers to green - a heavenly cool blue
while simply dressed in kyrielle, tanka or haiku.
Quatrains and quaterns are styles she likes a lot.
In her closet you can see how many that she’s got.
Romance often suits my muse, for which are many hues:
from flirty pink to lavender. She’s even got some “blues.”
The terzanelle or villanelle she wears once in a while,
especially for moments when they are quite in style.
She can’t dance as easily when she wears free verse.
That style for her can either be a blessing or a curse.
Poems of the spiritual nature require that she wear white
even though she’s more inclined to wear hues that are bright.
The color black can suit my muse if serious is her mood
or if she’s feeling some “dark humor” in her attitude.
My muse wears many styles but she hates the color brown,
so if you see her dressed in it, she’s sure to show a frown!
Jan. 4, 2023
for Regina McIntosh's "My Muse" poetry contest
The air is very still
with not a cloud in the sky
the air is the temperature of my skin
as Paris sits in unearthly quiet
I love the liminal world
in the last-watch of night
the coldest-dark before dawn
when the city’s not yet alive
A low-area-mist lies on the Seine
like a luminous veil of winter breath
with stygian, pooling currents underneath
that always remind me of death
the black cat always sits
on the quay wall of the bridge
it’s there almost every day
not completely, solidly black
so i think, luck-wise, it’s ok
I make a conversational mee-oww sound
each time we pass, but it never answers back
it just jerkily flicks the final inch of its tail,
like it’s giving us the cat-bird.
.
.
A song for this:
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Levitating (Live from the Royal Albert Hall) by Dua Lipa
Waited for the sun to go down and the rise of dark
So I could cycle through Joshua tree National Park
My light shone bright, my pedals whirled:
The desert became another world.
(chorus)
I got into the flow got into the groove.
The trees almost seemed to move
The sky was a field of white blue stars
Boulders were like sculptures on a crater in Mars.
A coyote crossed the road, a snake gave a rattle:
I can't stand snakes, I shuddered in the saddle
A car shot by at 60 miles per hour
I swerved into a cactus, at least it had a flower.
No water packed—I had played it cool,
The desert answered: You’re the fool.
I pulled out my cell phone, to call a rescue team
But there was no service, like a bad dream.
So I immersed myself into the eerie sculpture garden
No one to call for help, no one to ask for pardon.
I learned to be a grownup, learned not to cry.
Brought out my inner resources, under that prehistoric sky.
Now I'm back in L.A., where my worth runs cheap,
And the homeless drift and all need sleep,
Where daily life is full of stings,
And scorpions lurk when the doorbell rings.
The politicians promise goodies, but deliver doom
I get claustrophobic, I need more room.
Can't get more obscured, can't get more stark
Might as well ride the desert, in the star studded dark.