The Badness Continues… Bad Poetry Continues at the Blog
Yes, it’s Bad Poetry week, here at the blog, where we take my birthday week and enjoy sharing with one another the worst poems we can create. If you’re a sensitive, deep, and misunderstood soul, then we WANT your crappy poem gracing the blog! All you need to do is go to the “comments” section and type in your words. Share your deepfulness and reflectiveosity with others. The badder the better. Have a look at some of the rotten stuff that was written in the previous day’s blog, just to get a feel for the mood. For example…
Tom Threadgill gets us going with this truly terrible opener:
“Knock,” he said to no one.
Since he was alone in the room, so alone.
(Unless you count the other people in the room, which he
didn’t. Sometimes he did, but not this time.)
Deep. Meaningful. Bad. And crime writer Steve Jackson shares this:
I was there
Then I wasn’t
like the water in the toilet
swirling down into lead-piped emptiness
carrying with me the byproducts
of my broken life…
So… dare I say it? Truly crappy, Steve! I’m sure everyone will like the fabulously bad images Neal Worle shares with these wretched words,
My love for you fills me,
a flooded basement.
I must not drown,
I bail out my heart.
This poem I write,
a sump pump of love.
And we are immediately thrown into both brightness and badness! Becca Jackson takes a thoughtful tone with:
I was walking on the streets
bare and rusty, like someone’s
half-drank bottle of underwear
”Am I a play thing?
Have you no conscience?
I say, Who died and made you king?
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What’s in my head cannot be said, so I’ll put it to bed. If
I write it out I MIGHT JUST SHOUT and offend a guy named Fred
Okay, so here’s Fred: Internet dating sites left him a
blissful state,
while still mildly conscious, a space elf appeared
Goth, plugged, pierced, and a sexililsious neck beard
said Fred never
this space elf, with its enhanced mental health slowed his house
clocks but not the one on the shelf
that one just glowed
then outside it snowed
Fred, a man of reason and fortitude, felt, for some reason,
he was an awesome dude
danced outside in the nude
said this dude
he was quaking with pumped love, asked elf to be his wife
now Space Elf is cranky, riddled with strife
Fred put a robe on to run for his life
but goth elf caught up, and cut his cheek with a knife
a dirty knife
… and then he found five dollars
why
do you lie
you know
i hate it
when you spit in my eye
with your fallacious
untruths
borne of a heart
cultivated in
green-grey moss-tone stone.
no
actually
it’s okay to lie to me
(see, look
i can lie, too,
asshole!)
It’s this sort of sensitive, deep work we treasure here at the Bad Poetry Contest. Nice work, Hymn.
The rising of a day anew
The rising above the night agone
The rising call to all human alabor
The call to rising aduty.
I thought of you again
and my heart swelled
and swelled.
My lungs were getting squashed.
My fingers tingled and went pale.
They said, I think she’s dying of love.
Well, duh!
Somehow they revived me.
I will live again.
But this I know:
I will never love again.
Too damn dangerous.
Wonderfully bad, Nice Lady. Thanks!
Noggy
Noggy was a boy.
A lovely boy man.
A boy man who grew and grew.
A handsome feathering haired man with yellowish hues
streaked like strands of goldeny goodness.
So boy-manish and sumptuous I could intake wafts of his
skin-scent all the live long day.
Mmm, boy man.
Sniff. Sniff.
(Said standing with feet apart, then closed, then
apart—alternating action with each line, with the last line ending in a long
elbow-crease sniff. Then eyes scan nodding audience. Then blink. Blink again.
Perform sweeping bow with tips of fingers slowly caressing the wood planked
stage. Relish thunderous applause with sheepish grin.)
It’s better with the stage direction, Dabney. Thanks for participating.
The dog bolts out of the door
Free to run
And run
And run.
Like a fool I chase
Running
Walking
Running.
I reach out and grab for his collar.
He slips away
And runs out of reach again –
Just like my dreams.
So close yet so far.
I chase again.
So close to being a good poem… and yet so far.
Oh Peach, you are my Princess,
Oh Mario, so Super,
Yoshi – you’re a dinosaur,
And Bowser, you’re a loser.
You’re all so very real to me –
The fun just never ends!
Real people, they just can’t compare
To animated friends.
You always want to play with me.
My mother says “No way.”
She thinks that you will rot my brain.
But I say, “Not today!”
I owe it to your kingdom
To save you from the doom
That no doubt would befall you
Were I to leave the room.
I’m getting pretty hungry.
I’ve been in here a while.
I smell a little funky
But you won’t let me die!
And if I do, then what of it?
The game, it tells no lies.
It says I have three hundred lives,
And who needs more than five?
You all are just the greatest friends
A kid has ever had.
Who cares about the outside world?
I’ve heard real life is sad.
It is indeed sad, Grasshopper. Stay inside. Be safe. Rot your mind. You’ll be better for it if it generate poetry like this.
My 3 yr old daughter’s contribution (some potential plagiarism involved but she’s a toddler so that’s an automatic pass, right?) :
“I may never ride in the infary
toot in the tootery
march in the infamy”
Our judges have said your toddler is in violation of IRS Rule 43(b) 527 BP (Baby Poetry). You may want to call a lawyer, Jaime.
The rising of a day anew
The rising above the night agone
The rising call to all human labor
The call to rising duty.
There are just 3 things:
What is this you think
of while viewing the black circles in my eyes when you’re
controlling me when I pet Junior the cat?
My brain is telling me things I don’t want it to.
1. I like Junior.
2. Love so fierce
I want to cut your
head off and carry it around so I can see your face whenever I want.
Your eyes are like mangos … no wait, one eye,
the other is blind and cannot see nor stare.
3. Mango eye watches.
Mango eye watches are SO overdone this year…
your love is the stuff in my refrigerator. Or, Ode from a hungry person. I couldn’t decide.
your love is milk. good for my bones.
your love is a mango. red, green, or yellow depending on how long I leave you.
your love is a zuchinni. underrated.
your love is an avocado. thick skinned, and smoother when I mash you with a fork.
your love is bread. darker on the outside, fluffy on the inside, allergy inducing to my mother.
your love is a piece of…what is that? cheese? no…me–no, not meat….okay, well
your love is this fuzzy thing. its been there longer than I can remember and has grown over time.
More mango? See what I mean?
Peoms are fine
this is mine
rhyming I love to sing…
Let’s all celebrate Chip’s birthday
with shocking poetry!!!!!!!!
Peoms? Really? So my birthday only gets 15 seconds and no proofing?
A PRAYER BEFORE BIRTHING
Oh, the dark and cavernous womb.
For so long just an echoing tomb.
Yet, now I feel the push of life,
I will be born, but with great strife.
Who is that yelling I hear without
Is that my mother, is that her shout?
Oh dear God, humbly I pray to thee,
Don’t let that be the mother of me.
Bad couplets! Yes!
Opulent clouds in an opulent sky
Corpulent slugs with splintered eyes
Decadent picnics of ‘strami and rye
Purulent poetry’s heaving sigh
did you use a Thesaurus? 😉 I need to go look up “purulent”
I had to double-check its meaning, Jaime. But it was the right word! 🙂
I feel purulent when I read this, Cynthia…
Wasn’t that the idea? 🙂
I’m the dust on the seat of the swing set
marring the perfect whiteness on the shorts of humanity
Brushed off with careless hands
Only to fall, unseen, to the sharp green grass
Okay, I’ll admit I actually LIKE this one, Jane. The shorts of humanity go well with the T-shirt of Meaning and the White Athletic Socks of Awesomeness.
If love was a plant it would be a genetically modified Venus Fly Trap fertilized through a hydroponic system while being injected with miracle grow and Prozac. People would poke it with sticks and take photos of it. It would become choleric and maniacal and would release repulsive pheromones and space monkeys. People will become afraid and wish it would just go away but instead they would become cocoons filled with knott’s jelly and consumed by wild wombats and dejected yellow bellied lemurs.
But we all know love is NOT a plant, Bailax. Love is a bad song on the radio, sung by five white teenagers with very little talent but a strong PR firm.
The drool on your lips,
The extra 450 pounds on your hips
Cake crumbs dance on your cheeks
The slow drip when your adult diaper leaks
Love is blind, but I must be out of my mind
“Ode to a Sizist”?
I’m laughing at this insanity
flowers bloom
rain rains
grass grows
children make mud pies
animal crackers are going to rule the world
two by two
eat-em-up, yum!
No, seriously, Ginger… take your meds.
A-round my square room
All I can see
Is the unseeable.
My future?
I really hope not.
You wrote that in junior high, didn’t you?
Haha, I’m not telling…
There is a time for everything,
There is a time for all.
But when you get kicked from behind,
It is a time to fall.
I’d just like to point out that my commenting here connects us as “Chip and Dale.”
I am the internet!
Use me
Abuse me
Believe you can control me
Until you are lost
Tangled prey to be devoured
In my world wide web
Song lyrics for a Teen Angst band?
Roses are red,
Violets are…well, whatever color they are.
I can never remember.
Purple. The color of my prose.