bad poetry Words: bad poetry

By heather on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 03:13 am:

    so give me some of that (3 in the morning) very very bad poetry (poetry? not really- but people use the word for lots of things)

    i know you have it in you

    i'll start....

    it's been so long since you've written
    your name






    ok, that was it. now it's over. please don't hold it against me.

By heather on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 03:22 am:

    yuck.nevermind.don't waste your time.i'm sorry.

By sarah on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 03:39 am:

    no no, this is good. i'll contribute!

    "Untitled" (hee hee)

    how can this love
    the kind that has no motive
    that makes you smile while driving ocean roads
    that loved long
    before you met and found
    it's rest in every quirky trait
    an unreasoned love that is
    simply because it can be
    how can a love like night
    a depthless well of inspiration
    be this easy destiny
    a reason to feel
    alive again with light and laughter
    someone who needs what i must offer
    how can such a love cause veils of shame
    burnt desire into ashes making
    endless shades of grey
    how can it be wrong to want your one true
    when he does not belong to you.

    i wrote that when i was like 14.


By sarah on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 03:44 am:

    finished retching yet? ready for more?

    this one is also untitled teen poetry, but i'll call it ...

    "We Are Harmony"

    just for added barfiness.

    alone in the car with the music singing
    along to your memories
    i grip the steering wheel too tightly it's hard
    to turn
    off the past
    it doesn't sing to you now
    not as sweetly as me

    this is the next show
    i will give you the score for free
    i am the blues the lick
    the jazz riff
    lose your self
    music swirling your body
    peeling loose the destiny
    come with me
    into the rhythm
    find the lost dance

    i believe in music
    in the space between lyric
    the new song
    sing along with me
    this is the next real thing
    we are harmony.

By heather on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 03:50 am:

    'for added barfiness'


    now that's poetry

    i wrote mine with the intention of its pathetic nature, but now i wish i had access to those early teen notebooks. "horrible, yet charming in their naivete"

By heather on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 04:21 am:

    would you like me if i looked more like a boy?

    so there's some 4 o'clock poetry

    (o'clock--- what kind of word is that? some pretty archaic stuff)

By Moonit on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 07:04 pm:

    My mum has this terrible poem she wrote when she was 15 about a boy called Michael. It went along the lines of how she wanted to run hand and hand, in the sand, with Michael.

    I wonder if she'd let me borrow it to post to the world?

By sarah on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 08:30 pm:

    what IS IT with boys named Michael anyway?


    get your hands on that poem Moonie.

By cyst on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 09:05 pm:

    I know a michael. in mexico I called him miguel. and I would sing to him.

    miguel, ma belle, these are words that go together well, my miguel

    miguel, ma belle, son des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble

    I love you, I love you, I love you
    that's all I want to say

By Moonit on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 09:25 pm:

    That was weird - Just as I read your post Sarah, my mum rings. I asked her for the poem, she said she'd look for it.

    I think Michael was a popular name in the 70's.

By mike on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 10:41 pm:

    there have been 3 micheal's in my family.
    the first was my uncle, my mother's brother;
    he died of a respiratory disease at
    at 12, so i never got to meet him.
    the next died of multiple sclerosis
    when he was 24. then there was me.
    i almost died at 19; luckily,
    an undertaker (shit you not) found me
    in the alleyway in a pool of blood.

    do not name your child michael.
    do not name your child michael.
    dave is a nice name.

By _____ on Thursday, January 13, 2000 - 11:48 pm:

    it's all right. all steves are assholes.

By Gee on Friday, January 14, 2000 - 01:41 am:

    my boss is named Steve and I think he's weird. in a somewhat perverted way, if I may say.

    I wrote this when I was really interested in watching "Dallas" reruns. They used to run these commercials all the time with a clip of JR saying the title.

    "I Don't Think That's Funny"

    Lucy was a naughty girl
    When Bobby first brought home Pam.
    She slept with her uncle Ray,
    And never ate her spam.

    Sue Ellen didn't like her
    But Pammy didn't care.
    She had enough to worry about
    Trying to fix her hair.

    Cliff was bound and determend,
    To stop the Ewing clan.
    But Ol' Cliff wasn't too bright
    And couldn't think up a plan.

    Cliff would cry:
    "Oh darns!!"
    While JR exclaimed:
    "That termite Barns!"

    If anyone ever got in his way
    JR would flash some money
    And grit his teeth, and staunchly say:
    "I don't think that's funny."

By sarah on Friday, January 14, 2000 - 03:12 am:

    dave, you make me laugh.

By heather on Friday, January 14, 2000 - 06:11 am:

    it is cold



    they turn off the heat

    it sucks

    you have found the too early morning bad poetry rant channel. now go away

By J on Friday, January 14, 2000 - 09:36 am:

    My s/o is named Steve,,Gee...that poem was cute.

By Daniel on Saturday, January 15, 2000 - 07:22 pm:

    Ah yes, to add to Heather's Badass Poetry Rant:

    To Lay On Top This Spirit Music

    In this morning’s rattling
    From night’s rich flesh of slumber
    I dreamt
    You found me finally
    When moonlight’s coolest shards
    Fade into silver dawn
    Under cotton sheets
    You crept
    Reassuring familiar notes from deep within
    The hallowed music of a soul
    As you laced your legs to mine
    Crescendos musing over sleep triumphant
    Slid close beneath and holy
    I heard more the cadence clearly
    Your hands around my arm
    Your teeth upon my skin
    Your shadowed face one mirror mine
    Your touch your warmth a silken shirt to weave
    Felt the solid chant
    Of cello and piano resounding
    From beneath, within, around
    -- reminding me of laughter
    like Italians paint the sunlit sea in Tuscan scenes –
    Then with each wave wash over me
    A thousand drums in a silent grove
    A canvass yours to paint
    I woke a little more to sense
    Your truth as it surrounded me
    Strong winds in the dead familiar wood
    And now
    Singing tone on tone as if to me alone
    A brilliance you deny yourself to grasp
    Yet mingled here midst arm and lip
    And chest to breast, hair tangled fierce
    Like some impatient lovers’
    Caress me in your radiance
    And share in my forest’s gratefulness
    For light and warmth and freedom
    Laughing, full
    Repeating mysteries melodious
    We wonder
    What we sing to be


By Spider on Saturday, January 15, 2000 - 07:53 pm:

    I found this poem this morning as I was cleaning out my room. It's in my big, loopy, 14-year-old handwriting on a shredded piece of notebook paper. I remember I wrote it in 9th grade, during geometry class. It's a sonnet. I was into sonnets at the time. The syllable counts aren't perfect. Do forgive me.

    [deep breath]


    Oh, that these wearying days were quick to pass!
    So I, with an empty heart, am apt to take
    The hearts of others and turn their eyes to glass,
    Though they think it but a dream and pray to wake.
    Speak, lovely child, and tell this thief of souls
    Where one could go to find her hunting ground,
    That I may hold in mine own hands live coals
    Of human minds, and feel them die like sound.
    Hold fast, my lamb! Why do you fly so soon?
    Be it, perchance, you quake at my remark?
    O no! Sweet babe, do gaze at yonder moon.
    Why, would she shine had she a fear of dark?
    Come, gather near, and bring your derring-do,
    For I shall whisper more than you'd like me to!

    God. But that's what an 8th period geometry class will do to you.

    I don't remember it ending like that. I remember some line about "you dive into my flame out of despair, for you see nothing in the world that's fair" or something else as bad as that. I wonder when I changed it.

By Spider on Saturday, July 7, 2001 - 12:10 pm:

    I found another sonnet I wrote, this one in my sophomore year of college, during Statistics. (Hmmmm...a pattern develops...)

    Note that this time my iambic pentameter is PERFECT, and there is only one end-stopped rhyme. I admit to being proud of my technique.

    Past midnight - rainy, bloated hot: you coast
    down ruined city streets. Beneath the gaze
    of yellow lights, you find at last the ghost
    of one you used to love amidst the maze
    and tangle of debris. Still pretty, she
    reclines inertly, poses as you left
    her - head thrown back, arms folded, legs crossed, three
    or more contusions on her neck. Bereft
    of life, she still retains the quiet grace
    that drew you to her from across the black
    and barren city. Kissing her white face,
    you leave her, confident, while walking back
    and climbing in your car, you leave no clues
    as you embrace the midnight city blues.

    Oh, yeah!

By pez on Sunday, July 8, 2001 - 03:08 am:

    english-style sonnet, if i remember correctly from ap.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 10:52 am:

    You are correct, madam. None of that A-B-B-A shite for me.

    There should be a comma between "bloated" and "hot" in the first line. There may or may not be a comma at the end of the penultimate line.

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 11:22 am:

    there should always be a comma between bloated and hot.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 11:29 am:

    If you say so.

By spunky on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 11:35 am:

    i loved it, comma or no comma.

By heather on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 12:04 pm:

    i prefer the use of random punctuation

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 01:10 pm:

    random or not, you need to pause between bloated and hot.

By heather on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 01:26 pm:


    no i don't

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 03:37 pm:

    ok, you don't. but spider does.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 04:00 pm:


By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 04:18 pm:

    because sex.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 04:24 pm:

    Is it a phallic reference or something? Whatever. You think too much about sex.

By semillama on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 04:45 pm:

    (Insert obvious response)

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 06:17 pm:

    it is a nothing reference. sex, food, sleep -- these are the basis of human existence. with my food and sleep factors fairly well ironed out, that leaves a lot of spare time.

    you seem frustrated, spider.

By Cat on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 07:32 pm:

    Pronunciation: (")fr&s-'trA-sh&n
    Function: noun
    Date: 1555
    1 : the act of being frustrated. eg: by a lack of commas.
    2 a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction with commas arising from unresolved rectal problems.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 07:33 pm:

    Sublimate those desires, Nate. Bake some bread, make some furniture, research the scourges of the Ostrogoths....there's a whole lot more to think about in your spare time than sex. Good heavens.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 07:49 pm:

    You, too, Cat. Cat's name aside, you're not animals.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 07:50 pm:

    OK, my name aside, too.

    Never mind.

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 07:56 pm:

    we are animals, spider. you forget that and you forget how to live on this planet.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:13 pm:

    we're more than animals. We have rational thought. Forget that and don't bother to get up in the morning.

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:27 pm:

    rational thought is a human fantasy. there is no basis to rational thought. realize that and you become the morning.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:31 pm:

    Stop that!

    Think of frustrated as a verb and not an adjective.

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:51 pm:


By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:53 pm:

    speaking of bad poetry, i wrote this haiku for my roommate, who just came back from hawaii:

    Robert LongFellow,
    In an island paradise
    I miss your hard love.

By Spider on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:54 pm:

    because there are agents involved.

By Nate on Monday, July 9, 2001 - 08:57 pm:

    there are always agents involved.

    you need to email me about august.

By Daniel ssss on Tuesday, July 10, 2001 - 12:48 am:

    Pez,, I need a url for the dialectizer, please.

    Back from beach. C4 a success. Wonderful as always.

By spider on Tuesday, July 10, 2001 - 09:10 am:


By semillama on Tuesday, July 10, 2001 - 09:13 am:

    We must be as verbs.

    Life is a fire.

    The ostrogoths have their time and place, but sex is as worthy of brain time as anything else. Gets the good hormones flowing.

By semillama on Friday, July 13, 2001 - 10:38 am:

    Ok, I dug up some of my old bad poetry, which was published in the zine "Spam (not just Spiced ham anymore)" from about 1995-1997 or so.
    Actually, some of it I think is halfway decent, but I will begin with the worst and work my way up to my favorite.

    (This one's a stinker)

    And I will dance in the course
    of reflecting abstract eyes
    and you will attend to every verse I chant

    I will collapse into your ever-outstretched arms
    And caress your pallid moon-kissed lips

    Though you never speak
    Though you never dance
    My passion will always be yours

    And I will brush the dew of morning
    From your waxen orbs
    And I will sweep the leaves of Autumn
    From your paralyzed tread

    Misstress of chill stone
    Vigilant unto Extinction
    My absolute Psychosis.

    (this one is real bad, too)

    Take back God!!
    Take Spirit back
    From those that
    would anthropomorphize
    the Deity of our
    Once-fair world
    Spirit says we
    are all People
    (Fish, Frogs and
    French-Canadiens, too)
    and therefore all equal.
    Take God back!
    as a personal favor
    To Mom.

    (Bleah. this one is a little better, based on a dream I had)

    Once I was on an island or perhaps a peninsula with my family
    (this is a dream)
    we were on top of a wooded hill
    there were snakes in all the trees
    and the ground was like huge thick scales
    we walked down a trail to a ridge
    the trail split at the ridge, which
    overlooked a great sheltered bay
    the bay was hugged by two opposing crescents
    of land and beyond them lay an ocean
    (similar geography has featured in other of my dreams)
    The path to the left crept along the middle of
    a long cliff
    People were on the trail
    little dots
    Following the trail with my eyes I could see
    it ended at a huge pit on the tip of the crescent of land
    in the pit was a giant black bear angry and roaring
    it wanted to be let out of the pit
    I felt drawn to the bear I wanted to help
    but my parents took me down the other trail
    which lead down towards blocky houses and other buildings
    to the right where nothing ever happened.

    (this one I like.)

    Still I listen to the music of the dead,
    haunting like the promise of an echo
    ringing softly through a small quiet place.

    I try to make out their voices.
    They are struggling to be heard.
    They are not content to fade into the fires
    that consumed the hands that plucked the strings,
    that ate the voices once lifted in joy,
    that quenched forever beautiful souls.

    The music ripples and sways and will not go.
    Listening to it is like looking through old photographs.
    I can almost see them, the flash of white teeth through black bristle, the flickering feet of the women,
    the eyes that astound me with their clarity and passion.
    The eyes even now are sorrowful,
    burning like candles in memory.

    Of all that is said or written or painted
    to not forget to teach to grieve
    perhaps this music is the only thing
    to truly bring the loss home
    when the words and images fail
    this is what brings the understanding
    of Holocaust.

    (my all time favorite)

    I have faith oh my possible
    Brothers, sisters, and spiritual

    I have a god who also holds

    Many mysterious powers.
    (it can materialize anywhere
    And create a really bad smell
    Like many gods he cannot be brought in for Questioning)

    It is the quintencencial
    Trail-maker how better to say
    "Follow me" then to leave
    Intrigue-laden footprints?
    Some of you choose to dismiss
    My deity's reality. But their
    Only proof for their own are
    1700 year old words.
    Do they have plaster casts of
    Their messiah's hole-y feet?
    Is there a Patterson film of
    The Nazerene striding purposefully
    Into the woods of Oregon?
    Does Jesus pick up logging
    Machines and hurl them against
    The hard bones of the earth?
    (well, the FIGHTING JESUS would,
    But the "kick-me-while-I'm-down, please-nail-me-to-a-board" Jesus?
    I think not, Ma'am)
    Heed my words for SASQUATCH
    Shows the way to true ex-static
    Blissing in the gene pool.
    The one your children play in when it
    Gets too hot to be humans.

    (at this point, subject runs out
    of change for the payphone.)

By Spider on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:02 pm:

    I rented the second volume of the "The United States of Poetry" video series from my library because the library catalog promised it included work by Jenny Holzer.

    It turned out she just created some of the text that was used to bridge scenes.

    So I sat through an hour of hearing appallingly bad poetry being recited by its authors in ridiculously staged dramatic settings...all for NOTHING. I didn't even realize the text bridges were Holzer's until I saw her name in the credits, so I didn't get any pleasure from that, either.

    Why is so much of modern poetry utter shit?

    Look, here is one of the poems from the video, complete with screenshot. This is horrible.

    This might be worse.

By heather on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:08 pm:

    i have a little gray jenny holzer book called 'laments'

    my friends' grandma found it in his car once and had some weird freak out about it possibly contributing to his cousin's onset of schizophrenia.


By Spider on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:18 pm:

    Oh, that's cool. I didn't know her work has been published in little sets like that. Do you know how your friend came to have it?

    I have a book that's a collection of her work, but it contains only excerpts from each of her series.

    I got excited when I visited the Museum of Fine Art in Boston and saw a single LED screen of hers on display above the doors to the museum's movie theatre.

By kazu on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:25 pm:

    GAG! Spider! Though that first image, if it were meant to be a joke, would be less horrifying. Otherwise, no. It's especially fun, on a slow computer, to read the poem and then have that guy's face pop in.

    I wonder if my old roommate is writing any of his lovely sad penis poetry these days.

    I used to like Sharon Olds, but I haven't read any of her new stuff.

By heather on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:28 pm:

    i got it at the DIA art foundation during an exhibition in 89 or so

    it reminds me of me

By kazu on Wednesday, March 31, 2004 - 07:36 pm:

    I just read through the whole thread.




    I wanna know who that poem is about ;)

By patrick on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 01:26 pm:

    this morning a colleague tried to get me to read some poety submissions that were beyond bad, that were nearly insane. We get horrible submissions like that all the time. poety is amongst the worst. i could read only a few lines.

    i had coffee instead.

By V.v. on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 04:22 pm:

    "This might be worse"...I swear i met that girl.

By V.v. on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 04:32 pm:

    ...And i bet she has a cold clammy handshake,like a dead fish..or,...somthing thats dead,but has hands...AH HA,a dead mermaid perhaps!

By V.v. on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 04:47 pm:

    Burn in Hell,Maggie Estep.

By sarah on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 05:58 pm:

    i wrote a poem today. it's called:

    Fuck The French

    it goes like this:

    Fuck the French
    oh fuck the French
    pass me some brie
    and then i'll be
    happy to fuck the French.

    Fuck the French
    oh fuck the French
    the Eifel Tower
    should be used to deflower
    happy to fuck the French.

    thank you. thankyouverymuch.

By 16 million killer klowns from outer space on Thursday, April 1, 2004 - 06:30 pm:


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