My 2am is a Lyrical ha! Ha! Ha! (A Flarf Poem)

High school reminds me
of why I should stop asking myself
on how to write dirty summaries instead of lyrical ha! Ha! Adolf.

 
I enjoy logging out
of burning man jams
and resolution dumbasses.

 
My 2am grew a testicle
Shhh… it’s trying to win a poker game.
How many robotic arms, does a New Zealand rabbit DNA lady
have to bench-press toilets?

 
I make bad poetry sound like a toaster.
What if Ted Nugent discovered the first jump-rope?
Would that make him a sexist?
Can you tell the difference between Matthew Mcconaughey
& a ukulele?
What makes us so special?
Nothing, only that we still use 10% of our brain,

 
My 2am sings Frank Sinatra –
why do I even bother talking to a milk carton,
this will result with me watching 24 hour marathon of Jerry Springer.

 
Copyright © Charlie Zero

All rights Reserved.

No part of My 2am is a lyrical ha! Ha! Ha!– may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Charlie Zero and My 2am is a lyrical ha! Ha! Ha! with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Ghost Elephants & the Poetic Disease (A Flarf Poem)

 

Dry martini copes toward dramatic responses.
Smile, cornbread, and déjà vu;
Life deteriorates liberty.
Music wakes up the warm meat.
Examinations roughly desire a bruised rain reputation.

Some topics lie swiftly
beneath a never-ending acupuncture chapter.

Why is the old theory contradicting itself under the table?

The concepts of morality endure cold pretzels.
Wow! I never knew that a ghost elephant could be so sensitive.
Big descriptions on Bill Cosby
show negative signs of the Mississippi river.
Fabio would be thrill if midget Abraham Lincoln we’re to say;
“I can’t believe it’s not butter”.
Brilliance is a small annoying Davinci
who steals Charlie Chaplin’s Bowler hat.

Surrealism may be hard to beat,
but I got the Latin fever baking on my subconscious oven.

Misty, buoyant, and poetically displeased
I feel so anxiously to tell you a blissful philosophy hum-drum.
Criticism reminds me of when I got my first yo-yo.

Where is Mona Lisa’s brain-stained refrigerated?

Lord only knows if those wild futuristic zombies
haven’t already eaten roughly a cooked i-phone.
My chest-nuts somewhat resemble David Duchovny
but the moon landing was the best piece of science fiction
ever written by man himself.

 

Copyright © Charlie Zero

All rights Reserved.

No part of Ghost Elephants & the Poetic Disease – may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Charlie Zero and Ghost Elephants & the Poetic Disease with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.