What will it be now?
A seagull screech festival?
To be continued...

Just checked the oven
Haiku baked to perfection
Now adding Ex-Lax

I found a shamrock
Might not be a lucky one
Made from fresh feces

Digester s Reader
Shiterature Magazine
Worstsmelling Authors

Digester

Figpucker's Tales of
Sodomy, Pyrotechnics,
and Shenanigans.

Where can you find it?
Published by Reader's Digest.
Kills your Digestion.

Cornered beef sandwich
Not so fast with the mayo
Toreador, gored

The click of the Colt
Archaic, deadly, savage
No blue steel- compares

The country I love
Changed to some other place
Hope it will survive

What the hell happened?
Youth gone changed to sorrow
Like a lightning flash

The Surprise Party
Pin the tail on the donkey
Lead them to your ass

I like that story
Send it to Reader's Digest
They should publish it

Tootsie Roll rum balls.
That's an original thought.
Use One-fifty-one.

Bacardi's strong stuff.
Your rum balls like getting drunk
and eating some ass.

One of my funniest memories is shooting a bottle rocket over the heads of a bunch of old people playing bridge at the local park recreation center one night. One of us held the door slightly ajar, I held the bottle rocket steady, and the other one of us lit the fuse. We ran away laughing like mad and didn't stop laughing for like two hours. It was awesome. But, sadly, no heart attacks like we were hoping for. Oh well.

Aren't I a work of art?! ;-)

I once set off a
Saturn Missile Battery
in a shopping mall.

Cigarette delay
so that we can walk away
and watch from afar.

Stomping on cartons
can get you detention time
or lunch room duty.

And deaf kids hate it.
It fucks with their hearing aids.
Watch them writhe in pain.

You think it's funny.
It's not cool unless you're cruel.
Which I guess I am.

I cum in yo bum.
I bust a nut in yo butt.
I spew in yo poo.

Satisfactory
deep down in yo Tootsie Roll
factory, per say.

I swear I'm not gay;
it's my nature to offend
way up yo back end.

Everything you write
Can/will be used against you
In a court of law.

I'm at a truck stop
Really fun to watch the rigs
Pulling in and out

What would Jesus do?
Stomp on empty milk cartons
In the lunchroom? Boom!

Last one exploded
Papa got a brand new bag
Colostomy bag

Keep the faith,poets
All your hard work will pay off
God reads these poems

But, back to rum balls
I always take a shit first
"Forget" to wash hands

I'm not a robot
Pardon the clunking noises
Could you oil my nuts?

While you were sleeping
Rearranged the furniture
Set your bed on fire

Strange Circumcisions
Like crop circles on hot dogs
How do they get there?

We all make mistakes
Reading this haiku might be
Your latest mistake

Account in arrears
Unauthorized deposits
No interest at all

Here's five silly bulls.
Cocks, cunts, and crusty cum cakes.
And here are five more.

Do not save your farts.
Your gut's not a bank account.
Set those stinkers free!

Dink sounds minuscule.
I would much rather say cock.
Or maybe just schlong.

Prodigious chin hair
How did I get this ugly?
I think it's chemtrails

Dink is the best word
I don't like saying penis
Leaves bad taste in mouth

Every new haiku
A gift we give each other
Like a saved up fart

Inappropriate
homosexuality
Snuffleupagus.

Wrestling match today?

Plan on wearing longer shorts
When wrestling gators

With a name like that
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It has to be good

Jogging shorts too short.
Try for a quarter mile sprint,
mister dink flops out.

Sorry 'bout that, girls.
Now just try to unsee that!
High school running track.

Jogging does seem to bring back the brain pain. But strangely on opposite side from where it used to be. Maybe the bleeding is shifting around or something. I really hope this kills me. Life has gotten to be... I mean, jeez, it's like a prison. Really.

Alcohol. That's what I need!

I let it jiggle.
But that's what I always do.
sometimes it sneaks out.

Wet stain on sweatpants
Darth, is that perspiration?

Shorts over sweatpants
Ready to wrestle gators
Balut egg, Rocky

Do you wear a cup?
I mean, when you jog around?
Just let it jiggle?

And most people jog
to live longer, not to die.
Wish me lots of luck.

Imagine there's no Darth Figpucker.
It's easy if you try.
No shit haiku below us.
Above us only politics, religion, and vhs.

I wonder what ever happened to Iamback. He was a funny guy. Talking about Darth Gaydar and Nipress... whatever the hell that is. Maybe if I'm gone he will come back out of hiding. Maybe he's in prison. Fucking Juggalo loser. Woot woot.

Jogging a few miles every day seems to be making my head feel strange again... Some vitamin E and other blood thinners... maybe a stiff drink at night. No more of this shit life. I mean, you have a be a real fucking work of art to try to post on here all the time... Well, at least it's not Farcebook. Even I don't sink that low.

Some are born in shit.
They are born, they live and die
In deep filth of shit.

Darthless Bad Haiku
That would be a lovely thing . . .
Figpucker-free verse

Note: Gruesome footage
I never clip my toenails
Never wash my feet

My cunts bigger than your cunt.
My cunts bigger than yours.
My cunts bigger 'cause it gets
huge black cocks.
My cunts bigger than yours.

Cats about fight.
Sounds like karaoke bar
in the Philippines.