Long Deadpan Poems
Long Deadpan Poems. Below are the most popular long Deadpan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deadpan poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:
“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”
“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany
LIFE IN ACORNISTAN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a brown-haired squirrel named Stan,
the charismatic, electrifying mayor of Acornistan.
His fur held a most strange zap
“We’ve got to do something ASAP!”
His advisor suggested, “Call in the g-man.”
They summoned a blind man from Bhutan
‘You’re fur’s gotta go,’ he said, his face deadpan.
‘But like Samson, I’ll lose my power
To this static I shall never cower!
You’ve got to have another gameplan.”
‘Maybe some crème rinse or a bit of Dippity-Do*
will eliminate the static from your furry ‘do.’
‘Dippity Do,’ Stan exclaimed. “Just who are you?
Go back to Bhutan, you silly man. Shoo! Shoo!’
‘Stan decreed. ‘No static in Acornistan. Static adieu, adieu!’
*Images of Deadpan by Gfycat.
Evermore
Soul savored in wealth bestowing images
plus instances, beseeching recalls throughout
the happenings of first expended journeys,
~~solely me and you.
Midnight dreamingly drifts nigh twilights twinkling
stars, drooping its points into dawn's golden sleigh
and swept via some constant sun, elicit
~~towards both of us.
Fragmenting chapters riddled with episodes,
timelessly abandons in tattered photos
loosely bordered in leather, amassing dust
~~of our life courses.
These lonely days drag into lonelier nights
and a smile on my face dons from smiles barely
shared, yet gently my eyes fill and breathe life in
~~you--happy am I.
2020 July 05
*1st Place*
STRAND completely new ( 5 ) any theme any form
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2020 July 06
Bison, bottle up a brew.
Boiled above a fire.
Mantle earth, the stoked red flue.
Core beneath, blue dire.
Trick of modern man, orange plan.
Deadpan, zombie horde.
Tub in which they scrub, black ban.
Widow white, reward.
Awesome force, know risk? Remorse?
Killer's knife, off course?
Paranormal, high horse? Source:
Zoanthrope or zorse?
In fact, formidable? Sure.
Underworld, thy tour?
Bottled essence, keeping pure?
Disease fatal, cure?
Opponent or enemy?
These problems reduce.
Latter, sink it in the sea.
Former, set to use.
Priory, civil or short?
Element, burn fine.
Spark in heart, green out of sort?
Lachrymose, lark, line.
Brine salty sea, zymurgy.
Brewing up a drink?
Life is vicious. So are we?
Anyway, ink. Blink.
Rook roundabout, riddle read.
Shiny objects sought.
World, tan tweed, grit game glass greed.
Sold, old? Bought, robot?
Or Woman, Or Child, Or...
The following elucidated
conjecture actually can
(reed best) be taken with a grain
of salt, and no re ban
nah nah split 'ope ya 'ere me
cloud and lear, cuz (Oh my...
heavens to Betsy), ennui
got pulled by Evan -
Jewel Lean, who handed this long fellow
(wads worth to you)
speculation with fan
see prestidigitation legerdemain - tan
ta mount to cheap tricks
re: out of thin air
by this half
fast hue man,
Hill Billy Willy Wonka Nilly,
who blithely doth asseverate
apothegm (poem title) equally applicable
Century21 today Aswan
damn maxim initially
bespoke, when collective
primates begat enfant terrible
foo fighting predetermining anon
metastasizing debacle Yeti
bedeviling civilization
a bajillion years in the future with
Matthew Scott Harris deadpan
words worth less his way
before even an odd iota
of dire straight sultan
of swing didst merely span
spottily scattered amidst
pristine Earth, where
unchanging arboreal
beastie boys to oman,
and flock of sea gulls
continuity elapsed – Ivan
hunch, albeit un
recorded disc contented sow
sow hogtied pan
dum mo' nee ham, or
blessed historical events,
kept (stay'n) alive,
courtesy"FAKE" Trump
petting Dapper Dan,
where he knit pattern,
qua oral tradition, sans clan
destine scattered hot pockets
of sparse *****sapiens,
i.e. humanity LESS preponderant,
primary, and/or prolific,
where superstitions parlayed
(voodoo with no Fran Schwa),
and whirling dervishes fed elan,
which earliest recorded (doctored,
digitized, and demented
oh yea), not
tomb mitt to dimly mentioned
asper "time and tide
wait for no man"
purportedly by one
Saint Marher, circa:
1225 anno domini.
It’s nice to have some holiday downtime and not be all go-go-go. I’ve even gotten in some Animal Crossing play. After 40 minutes of picking up weeds, Bianca, one of my villagers, told me she’d heard I was dead.
Later, we’re in Lisa’s living room taking turns playing songs from Spotify.
Lisa just played “Woo”, by Rihanna. When the song ends, fading out, Leeza deadpan said, “That song is pure evil.”
“You guys, I forgot to mention it but that is my energy song, it makes me feel so HOT.” Lisa adds with a chuckle.
“It has an evil vibe,” I admit. “An evil vibe,” Leeza confirms.
“Don’t be judging,” Lisa reminds us.
“Your next,” Lisa said, nodding to Leeza, “What’ve you got for us,” she speculates, “some mental health rock?”
Leeza’s had this girl-punk-rock group called “Vancougar” playing on a loop in her room. At first, I wasn’t enthusiastic but now I think they slay. Her mom’s even gotten on board, dancing “the twist” to “Philadelphia” when it rolls around. Leeza has great taste in music although she leans a bit EMO (emotionally hard core) for me. She makes me feel old by introducing us to all these new bands like “Youngest and only,” “Calling all Captains” and “Beatrice Dear.”
“I’ve got one song to play,” Leeza says, “Paparazzi, by Lady Gaga.”
“I’ve been listening to that song all WEEK!” I gasp, “I love that song, it may be her best - that’s so random,” I finish saying as the song starts.
As Paparazzi ends Lisa says, “That song has major Gwen Stefani vibes.”
“It DOES,” I agree, “It could be “Cool” or “Sweet Escape.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Leeza agreed, “shoutout to No Doubt.”
Leeza says, “I have a conversation topic: What’s something we all acknowledge is cheugy but we still do anyway?”
“Being blonde,” I say, which gets stitches of laughter because it’s true and Lisa and I are.
“That’s true, that’s fair,” redheaded Leeza laughs. “Anyone blonde is dead to me,” which gets her a pillow in the face.
“Ok, I’m going to come for a lot of people,” Lisa says, “but yogurt, yogurt is cheugy.”
Leeza gasps, “You think yogurt.. It’s not cheugy!” she practically yells, “It gives MOM.”
.
.
slang..
cheugy = something off-trend, or behind in an awkward way - millennial, but not fully vintage.
gives mom = a comfort activity
Lacona, Iowa, 1938.
a chicken coop is on fire at 5 a.m.
eight year old sees it, puts down feed bucket,
walks back to house on autopilot.
Her name is Lucille.
She sits down for breakfast
with her family of nine.
She is the third oldest of the girls.
No one notices her blanched face
or her dumbstruck silence at first
As they begin to eat.
She eats in silence.
Her mother asks, “What is the matter Lucille?”
In a deadpan voice, a voice none of them have ever heard,
a voice deep within the bowels of confusion and shock
Lucille says “the chicken coop is on fire.”
I have heard this story many times.
It is never funny.
The chicken coop fire being such a trauma
for my mother, Lucille.
banal
yet
deadpan
absurd
clashing
symbols
heard
in
the eye
where
imagery
is
all
dimensions
share
one
frontal
view
side
&back
converge-
stark
styles
merge
into
symbolic
cubes
bright doodles
erupt
from unconscious
minds
the common fears
and complaints of life
Of looking into
of looking through
the imperceptible crowd
of creative gravity
found
things no-things
no-forms
afloat
whirling
or resting
in the
mansions
housed
within
off the wall
out of this world
drifting
together without
a care
kissing
missing minutes
become hours
one dream becomes
another
No
mirror
of the soul-
Archimboldo
art,
more
satire
by cartoon
on nature's still life
I watched some DVD’s
Of Johnny Carson’s late-night show.
I’d seen a few but that was
Many, many years ago.
He really was hilarious.
His laughter was contagious;
And nothing really flummoxed him,
No matter how outrageous.
He sparkled with non-human guests –
Orangutans and roosters.
Comedians considered him
The best of all their boosters.
As Carnac the Magnificent,
His face could not conceal
How silly were the answers
That his “power” would reveal.
So many pies were thrown at him,
He took each one in stride.
He’d suffer all indignities
If laughs they would provide.
His deadpan looks were priceless
And his banter was the best.
He took the role of talk-show host
And man, was it finessed!
As far as TV shows today,
You really can’t compare;
But after just a taste, I wish
He still was on the air.
ESCAPADES
inescapable
the
clarity
illustrated
in the
mysterious
erupts
to
illuminate
that
hidden beneath
the enigma
&
perplexing
&
teasing
to transform
the
meticulous
detail
the
challenge
the
unfailingly
humdrum&
monotony
of existence
a
faceless
lifetime of
masquerade
unsettling
decades
of
tedium
episodes
appear
to visualise
then
retreat
before gathering
a raisonné
so enjoyable
akin to a
vivid
&
memorable
sojourn
a
passage
int
eccentricity
with delivery from
the
chaotic
&
deadpan
contemplating
the impossible
reflection
in
a looking glass
of concealed
questions
curious
cryptic&
fragmentary
&
cheerfully
chaotic
on its
own merit
readily
accepting
the challenge
& never
resting
a nuanced
memorial
so
superbly
typical
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.