Member Poem

Humor iz a vital stove topface component
to survive the cares and concerns
oven uncertain culinary future, that presages
over heating of this planet concomitant
with extinction per the human race.

Many gauges point toward an irrevocable
debacle where the evolutionary timer
seems to ticking, heading, and (hmm…more
like barreling) toward becoming a cooked goose!

An ear splitting ruth less buzzer will be an
impossible mission to clap quiet while steam
issues out the airwaves from stymied paunchiest
pilot light buck kit brigade!

If and/or when such a fiery fate befalls this
arrogantly bombastic, conceitedly egoistic,
forlorn, grievously hapless, irascibly jangling,
kookily middling luddite, he hopes his demise
will be brutish, short and nasty while the surviving
foreign legion members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal person to laugh
as the world turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the edge of night (especially
with dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling threnodies sotto voce.

Rational quartermasters promulgated outlandish
no mans land. Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earthlings’ dragnet cleaved
bona fide actualization.

What other option available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly gingerly
loosened upon the terra firmae?

Nothing short of an uproarious chortle would be
prescribed from doctor demento to ameliorate
the tightly wound tension arising from local or global
aggression arising from bullies calling their bluff
fed goat bluster, division by the zero sum game.

Thus, this mechanically nonsensical, pop sic cull
pot purée to throw fire retardant on the conflict
frission intonating loopy outré playfulness with words
hoop ping quadratic equations totally add further
meaninglessness.

Hence muff friend, aye axe hew, how does
humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside. Jest
parody offers funny types of humor.

Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?

Repression of natural mandated libidinal kick
starter jammed in high gear feeds e-z dropsy clodhoppers
bursts of hyena sounding eruptions!

The cervical contractions puffed up like jiffy
pop laced pompadour, increased with greater frequency
and intensity asthma due date approached (which felt like
violent shaking of the biological booty re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully described Arabesque.

She gravitated to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake to water, and
salve and duff heat whirled pool ache kin to preparation H
soothing the pain in the ass of hemorrhoids.

Hours elapsed with incessant stretching (while in a standing
pose) blithely drawing ne either leg or the other
up against those roseate facial cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along the family way with
yours truly, thy status while in utero where her cervix
stretched akin to a taut rubber band near ready tubby
(or knot tibia) snapped, like ballet slippers suspending
balanced balls of toes pointed to maximum flexion, or
inflated balloon ready to pop beyond capacity or, bulged
in utero, she maintained a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish
veneration asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina.

This passion to bend body electric defied laws of fig
newton’s, finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged joie
de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant passion recognized
talent unbridled versatility waiving youngest attaining
burlesque.

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity transformed
thine mama into a holographic, kaleidoscopic, and
opportunistic piquant rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality,
and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance asper
flexibility of muscles in conjunction with defiance of physics.

Once immersed in a classical routine, thee supple rubbery
form assumed by thine mother fucking focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic.

An audience member vicariously experienced dalliance of
some mind-numbing narcotic minus the addiction.

Stupefaction transfixed the gaze upon the dynamic parameters
of space and time to present an enchanting
moveable feast replete with operatic poetry, quixotic romanticism,
and sculpturesque statuesque totemic union
verging on affects cast by a singular whirling dervish.

A heightened indoctrination of jubilation radiated from every
cell of this artiste in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque
dark shadows and etched the faux edge of night scenario with
gigantesque ghoulish phantasmagoric veterans of many
tragic-comic composers long since vetted into the storied
ballroom of fame.

No surprise then that when mine exit from the berth canal
of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris witnessed by a
full house, my denouement propelled from the tender vittles
tulip ruffled private naughty bits induced balletic movements.

Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys Anne
Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself (terrifically totally
tubularly) within whose intertwined arms and legs that emulated
an analogy to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug.

A pause (which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned out
the impetus signifying the first breath of this wordsmith. Only
as the slap happy flesh diminished did ardent hard fans
of a triumphant fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style
winged goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing with a
riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially forcing this now
grown baby boomer former chap -lain cocooned for nine
months within the womb), thyself made headway into an alien
world, whereat this full term new born did provide his own
wailing lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian).

This now grown baby boomer chap lain cocooned for
nine months within the womb, who sought nothing more nor less
than that which necessitates being swaddled, pampered,
mollycoddled, cuddled, bundled, and held close to the bosom.

As grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to a X-Files
rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms toward picturesque
pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized politically incorrect breastworks.