The Days of Dark Soup » Poems

The First of June

Mr. Darksoup — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 04:21:36 +0000

Beware the First of June
For it brings lions and pandas
With sharp teeth to bite
And tear
At you

Also beware
The Hiffolump of Doom
Because, like the name implies,
It is not a friendly animal

But mostly
Beware the First of June
It comes in like a lamb
But a giant mutant lamb
Covered in poisonous spikes
So you shouldn’t touch it
Or your fingerprints will fall off

I should have written this poem
Twenty four hours ago
Or more
To give you adequate warning

Now
It’s really too late
Isn’t it?

The First of June is totally here
Bearing lambs and lions and pandas
To poison and stab and eat you
Not necessarily
In that order
You know how animals are

Unordered.

Spinning Flyleaves

Mr. Darksoup — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 03:35:46 +0000

Pinworms fly on flyleaves
But only when I spin those leaves
And spin standard worms
Into flying pinworms

Their arc through the air
Is like an exultant yet legato Eskimo
Who sharpens his fishing hooks
On a spinning flyleaf.

Is there anything that
A spinning flyleaf
Is unable to accomplish?
Signs point to “no.”

Their rhythms are infectious
But not the bad kind of infectious
Where you get sick and die
But the good kind. You know.

Their inductance is low
So they can be connected to almost anything
Electrical or earthenware
Everything is compatible with a flyleaf.

Except for the metric system
Which we’ll just ignore today
Because the metric system is useless for flyleaves
Except for The Beatles, of course.
And maybe pinworms
Depending on where they were made

So,
Sharpen your protons!
Contort your lemon wedges!
Unleash your gristle!
And spin that flyleaf like you’ve never spun a flyleaf before!
Make that pinworm’s day!

Warsaw Yak Hunters

Mr. Darksoup — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 04:24:13 +0000

Warsaw whelps
Quiver like arrows
As they hunt the great white yak
And purge all nitrates from aforementioned yak

And when they buy their new catamaran
With their nitrate-free yak earnings
They will ride the seas until landfall
But they will always be
A Warsaw whelp.

You may call them townies
Unless their headgear forbids it
Or their paunch suffocates your mouth
Like a blatantly open umbrella
But you know they come from Warsaw
And not Paris

So cheer the whelps of Warsaw
And give them a new drummer
And a laundered hurrah
For hurrahs are welcome
And drummers are always necessary
When you’re purging nitrates from yaks
In Warsaw.

Hubcap Eyeballs

Mr. Darksoup — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 04:21:19 +0000

You can wash out your eyeballs
With the fads of the flyblown youth
But you’ll never be able to read a novel again
Because your eyes will have turned into hubcaps
And when those hubcaps are stolen from your skull
And you call in the cavalry to try to lasso the hubcaps back
From the thieving milliners who stole them from your head in the first place
The cavalry will just laugh at you, and blame you for everything that’s happened
To your hubcap eyeballs
Because,
After all,
What were you thinking?
Your dopey eyewash has deionized your entire head
And no Pope would ever be seen anywhere near your deionized head
So who cares about your hubcaps?

Put that in your eyeshot and inhale it deeply, like a desolate glacier sliding through the ocean
Wait, no, don’t do that, you’ll get an infection.

Spider Comb Quest 2007

Mr. Darksoup — Tue, 05 Jun 2007 04:10:56 +0000

Over the hills where the giant spiders roam
I eat a spiky sandwich under the spider dome
I’m taking a rest from my quest to find my comb
That I’ve been on since they stole it from my home.

(Bad spiders. Stealing my comb. Just wait, Bernoulli’s ghost will avenge this.)

One day in the future I will write a great tome
About my spider adventures after I retire to Nome
In Nome I will live in an igloo made of foam
At least until I cash the book checks and build one out of chrome.

(Chrome igloos will be the pinnacle of trashy luxury throughout Alaska once I set the standard and introduce the idea to Eskimo society.)

A Poem For Tuesday

Mr. Darksoup — Tue, 22 May 2007 04:49:02 +0000

I take out my needle and thread
And sew you a poem that’s this one
See the fine stitching?
That’s my poem thread at work
It’s the best thing ever.

This poem will be ready for Tuesday
Because everyone can use a Tuesday poem
Because what is a Tuesday without a poem?
It’s nothing but a Saturday
And nobody wants their Tuesday
To turn into a Saturday
Especially without filling out
Form SF-782, Request For Poemless Day Changing

Your forms and your Saturdays
Are not needed, not one bit
Because my needle and thread came through
As you can see
Because you’re reading it
They saved the day
Like the IRS

Hooray for Tuesdays!

It’s Mountain Climbing Time

Mr. Darksoup — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 04:17:22 +0000

Let’s climb a mountain together
Like a pair of mountain goats
Only with more expensive parkas
And better equipped backpacks
And maybe a few GPS systems

Why don’t goats use GPS?
Wouldn’t it reduce the number of
911 calls on behalf of
Lost and
Misplaced goats?

I think we should start a charity
And a telethon
And a pledge drive
To raise the millions of dollars needed
To equip all goats with GPS

And then the world would be a better place

But until then we should get climbing
Up this mountain
It’s not going to climb itself, after all
And how will we ever find the secret
Of the Mountaintop Santa
Unless we climb it?

The Ghosts That Make Me Fat

Mr. Darksoup — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 03:44:27 +0000

Culturally insensitive ghosts and ghouls
Enter my bloodstream through my fingers
And mess up my metabolism
Making me fat.

Why do ghosts hate thin people so much
That tey would change the rawest nature
Of my wood paneled lungs
Just so I’d become obese and as lazy as a marmot?

The extent to which ghosts and ghouls will go
Dumfounds me every time
Sometimes sends me off to the asylum
Like a crazy fat person
Even on days when I haven’t stolen a snowplow.

Explain that one!

Wicker Chickens

Mr. Darksoup — Tue, 27 Feb 2007 05:30:29 +0000

Wicker chickens
Trembling at the wire fence
Building up their courage
Until they can attack my home
With such tremendous wicker power
As to render my humble cloth defenses
Completely useless and antiquated
Like cast iron chickens were once the age of
Wicker
Arrived, bringing with it modernity
And splendor
And a haze of wicker dust that settled in our skies
And coated our households with the miracle of wicker

Yes, those were great times
Wicker vapors saturating the air
Cast iron doodads chucked into the street
Like the common, useless trash that they were
Who needs iron when you have the miracle of wicker?
Wicker macaroni followed
Wicker cheese which followed
Wicker diamonds which followed
Wicker milk.

And all was well.

But those wicker chickens
Man, they’re nothing but trouble
I’m telling you.
Keep them away from your lipstick!

My New Monolith

Mr. Darksoup — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 00:07:34 +0000

The monolith towers over me on the beach
With the wispiness of a cloud
And the density of a big monolith
Like the one that I’m looking at right now
Which, come to think of it,
Isn’t really wispy at all.

Why did it hypnotize me into thinking
That it was wispy
And dainty
And fluffy like marshmallows
When it’s obviously not?

Is this all part of its evil plan
To buy a lawnmower and mow down
All of civilization
To make space for more wispy monoliths?

I hope so, because it’s really cool-looking.