what so bad about
this if I can write it
and stick
to the guidelines
of words
bad is not bad
if good is not good
and so poetry lures
any idea demure
Printable View
what so bad about
this if I can write it
and stick
to the guidelines
of words
bad is not bad
if good is not good
and so poetry lures
any idea demure
No chlorella
No moringa
No maca
No spirulina
No cacao
No wheatgrass
No camu-camu
No acai
Can reverse
The damage of cacianosclerosis.
Oy cafolini the damage of cafolinisclerosis more like lol :leaving:
Jorge Luis Borges, Robert Frost, Rudyard Kipling, William Blake, and 2 Chainz
Candy rappers wrap wack flows around unambitious goals
meleeing mawkish lines merely mustering mock applause
The greats laid the grounds for Hip Hop’s poetic laws
2 Chainz spits so lisp like the homie’s twig is betwixt
two grannies’ saggy chests
but it’s just silly
like liking to lick granite bricks
you aren’t slick i mean really
I’m an ape-colored hick
nowhere near ‘hip’
and I could chime a two line rhyme
that would win me your baddest ‘dime’
feeding females to mattresses sounds like crime
so why is this piece of slime
not in prison?
prison no?
dungeon no?
oubliette yes
ok, this is really bad:
May god grip pearls where light abounds
percolating to depths where death resounds
blitheness hath cauterized flagrant sin
and antagonized a risk
in a heathen's den.
After Gerald and I detoured from our walk along the lake
we stopped at Powells on 57th Street and stared at the
spines of old books until I had to use the restroom and so
asked for the key which is one of my favorite things to do
in this bookstore besides looking at books since this
bathroom is spooky with a ceiling up through the second
floor and it is where I read a poem by Tanith Lee about
love being like the sea on the wall which surprised me
since it was still there and after that we decided to get
some coffee and croissants at the Cafe du Bonjour but found
the area where we would have normally sat crowded with a
flea market of used books and students from the University
of Chicago emptying their bookshelves into the hands
of other students and people like us who weren't students
but walkers along the lake looking for something to do
but since the prices were cheaper than Powells we looked
in earnest at what we might find and Gerald found Anita
Loos's Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and I found James Joyce's
Finnegans Wake that Gerald distinctly told me not to
waste my time on and so I bought it for about a dollar
because he told me not to and we finally found a place to
sit with the coffee and croissants and our books and I
could hear Gerald laughing while I was reading stuff like
'had passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side
the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor' going WTF and telling
Gerald I wish I never bought this book and he said that
was a sign of my basic intelligence because I stopped before
I got to the second page and so I read some of his book
and wished I had his brains but then he cruelly remarked
that any monkey could find Finnegans Wake for free on the
internet, but people are still paying hard cash for Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes since no one is offering it for free on the
internet hoping someone will randomly read a few words of it
and he said don't worry but I was annoyed because Gerald
started psyching me out explaining that my real problem
was not that I was stupid but that I had no sense of place
when I wrote about the boring depths of my depressed soul
and that is why no one reads what I write which didn't
make any sense to me since all you have to do is go on
Google Earth where 'any monkey' can get a belly-full of
place but he said that's what distinguishes the good writer
from the mediocre ones like myself and if I just did as he
told me I could win a National Book Award or even better
write a book about place that people were still actually
reading that would top such memorable lines from Loos like
'London is really nothing' or 'Paris is devine' which is
all one really needs to know about Paris or London which
made me depressed enough to almost write another place-less
poem on the spot until I saw a cute oriental girl and gave
the book to her and she was thrilled saying 'oooooooooooo,
Joyce!--me learn eengish--tank you! tank you!' and Gerald
thought that was cruel, but I figured she might actually
understand it and anyway it was time to get out of this place.
wow YesNo this so different from your usual.
'had passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side
the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor''This is interesting,
passencore: not yet in French.
Armorica: that I am not sure about.
isthmus: not sure too . LOL
I like this a lot haha
I saw a cute oriental girl and gave
the book to her and she was thrilled saying 'oooooooooooo,
Joyce!--me learn eengish--tank you! tank you!
Oh I enjoyed this a whole.
I guess you have taken to represent
a Finnegan ish style right?
Thanks, cacian! That "passencore" stuff came right out of Finnegans Wake. It makes no sense to me. http://www.trentu.ca/faculty/jjoyce/fw-3.htm
Actually your comments on Finnegans Wake in a different thread got me interested in the book. I'm doing my best not to read it and it seems that Joyce did his best to make sure I wouldn't either.
The poem is in imitation of Gerald Stern who won a National Book Award. He does a better job of writing these rambling single sentence poems than I do. I actually find him enjoyable to read.
LOL I see Finnegan has done it again woken the unawakable. I am not sure the actual reason to why the wake was written and why it written that way.
To get a an insight into to that could help shed some light.
I feel maybe sometime one may explain the reason to why a style changes from story to another. It would help clarified the unclarified :)
I much prefer reading your piece anytime again and again. I enjoyed it ;)
I am somehow liking the idea of writing rambling single sentences. Not that I do not do I already anyway :p
as the jar pulled off
the shelf
it fell and crushed
half empty
well
there was so much
inside it
left
it needed airing
glad it throwed
leaving behind
a trail of
shrogue
half ridden
to a
glass of ware
its colours rushed in
through the tare
it almost looked
like splashed
paint
Picasso would've made
a tare
had it not been
sitting too blaze
against the windows
of the same
its feelings
of it
tired taint
A visage brights the floor of tile
a mock to strike dull pigeons,
I boast my cries and saints do fall
their tar engraved in lore
You're so cute, lol :DQuote:
Originally Posted by cacian
Nice ones, Adolescent09 and cacian. :)
Here's one inspired by what you both wrote. I'm not sure it makes any sense but this is the bad poetry thread.
About Something
A glass of ware
With contents bare
Has shattered on the tile.
Picasso and the pigeons stare
Although the saints themselves don't care
But smile once in a while.
Hehe YesNo your piece put a smile of my face I do not know whether it is Picasso ro the saint words. It rang well with me thank you :p
the end of time
it never
stands the hoard
of men
it culminates into
a rate
and then progrates
until it breaks
thinly and plates
segments of
freight
and then it is done quickly
to sown
Mark my laurels with your vessel of tears
Make miles languid with yonder vestige of fears
Mild manners lack woefully yellowed vicissitude of beers
Matts mold lard within Yiddish vignettes of steers
A Thug's Confession (Parody of an Honest Confession)
By ©Adol09
My pen makes rhyme sets to sail seas of tough times
Boiled lines broil chimes of my own blood's rough crimes,
I've pried guts from kids' livers,
Spilt holy secrets to soul sellers
Sold stolen poems to fib-tellers
Plucked heart strings from God-givers
Sent shivers through divine pillars
Ran beside ruthless cop killers,
And toted ropes with the intent to choke blokes
'Till holes poked through their throats
to easter the feaster
an homage to the rooster
the coco rico troopster
trust it finds a fraudster
to belladrum the prankster
to easter the ribster
a chunk of heaps and lobster
is parody to fiesta
never mind the hipster
dinner frangipane dubster
Pernicious Perdition
by Adol09
A trench of wrath bathes graves in black
A lounge for goth in wings of gnats
Pink hearts poise to leap from a breast:
The rust-ridden rib of Satan's nest
Noah's fate glides in the seeker of land
Only to dig its grave in the deep sea sand
in the swaga
rises larger
the kind that stagger
let's sit it uber
next to the tagger
and keep it rather
cold morning, deep sky
running with these animals,
no time for imagination, take your hands
don't snail, I'll show you
the good predator
unstoppable woken dream
The sun cancered our skin,
the flowers poisoned the bees;
oceans full of acid rains,
and the breeze wrecked the trees.
To kick you in the face would have been easy
Were it not for that intruding thought of Civility.
I was looking for a fight
On a dark and stormy night
But now I must be content with this ditty.
Note: not based on true story. Just followed where the rhyme.took me.
Funny to see that so much bad poetrt is love poetry.
Sweet morning, pry open my eyes
With your matter-of-fact brightness.
I left the blinds open lastnight, no surprise,
But still, I won't wake up fight-less.
Don't you just love bad rhymes?
neurosis are read
virus' are blew
shoe goo is sweat
and sour yew
Pull my finger, pull it quick
to see my brand new party trick
tug my pinkie, tug it now
without a tug I don't know how
yank my pointer, yank it soon
I promise I won't clear the room
grab them all! I insist!
please don't let my pain persist
it's not healthy, it's not wise
to see tears well up in my eyes
you took too long, I had to go
and now you'll never ever know
Haberdashery, hosiery, hampers on six
I only buy groceries to check out the chicks
Chocolate, chutney, cheeses on three
I scope out the trolley for which type is she
Teabags, tablecloths, towelettes on two
There's nothing I need but I purchase a few
Stockings, sleepwear, sunscreen on eight
Women find me so creepy I can't get a date
Grandparents, goat heads, gorillas on nine
Oops it's the fridges... that reflection is mine
Haha, a poem after my own heart.Quote:
Originally Posted by slipee
Sub Urban #1
The dog is scratching fleas,
her dander makes me sneeze.
Slurping yesterday’s cuppa joe
at daybreak I gotta mow -
the grass.
I tenderly hold on to the sound of rain,
but it is just a memory,
I hear the sound of god in the rain,
but it has been awhile.
I anxiously await the day I experience beauty and magic through my ears,
but the other senses will do for now.
my life is lived lousily
my brain is befuddled
by bad prose, proof-read by me,
my full bladder will have to be emptied soon,
zoing, zoing,
will a cigarette be smoked by my mouth
or will there be a possibility
that this habit is stopped one day
by me?
(Note: I am indeed proofreading loads of bad prose atm, and a tell-tale sign is the abusive use of passive voice that almopst does me head in!)
Oh, and I forgot some other cute things you always find in bad prose…
Thinking nodder, or the nodding thinker
She was nodding her head
and thinking to herself,
'What could I nod now,
and to whom could I think later?'
the meaning of bad
is something sad
so sad it wont
let anything
be mad
Sub Urban #2
Friday night, winding down
Blue "Snuggie" covered in cat hair
keeps me warm.
Sipping a dirty martini
shaken of course.
The old lady walks in,
time to fold the laundry.
We got off the interstate taking North Avenue east
heading for the Wells Street Art Fair when on the
right was a sign saying "Weeds" and so I put my thumb
and index finger together and took a toke on some air
weed, coughing, and then saying to my imaginary friend,
Alice, sitting next to me in the car, "This is some
good ****," offering her a hit which she refused telling
me to keep my eyes on the road and reminded me that
this art fair, believe it or not, costs seven dollars
per person to get in and that I should not try to buy
a ticket for her since she isn't really there and she
doesn't want me embarrassing her like I did last time
by insisting on paying for someone only I can see
and, knowing it would make her happy, I said, "OK."
^Haha, nice one, especially the editing comment.
Thanks, Gilliatt Gurgle. Your poem reminded me of my daughter and her cat. The problem with both of our poems is that they make too much sense to be really bad. I'm trying to think of ways to correct that in the next one I post. It can't be total nonsense either. It has to have just enough meaning to suck the soul out of the reader while offering nothing in the way of sound or content.
DieterM's suggestion to use passive voice if one wants to really write something bad would apply to both prose and poetry, but one can get away with anything in poetry. I liked the first two lines of cacian's poem rhyming bad-sad-mad to think it might not be all that bad either.
thank you YesNo I think bad can be interpreted widely it depends on the person :)
eroticism
and sadism
they ought to get together
flog each other
and make a rhythm to ever
it needs it the body's
forbiden too much hi' them
Sage advice, however I'm currently in the midst of Tennyson and also made a brief jaunt over to Coleridge "Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon" and of course ther's my long time bard buddy; Goldsmith all of whom, when compared to my feeble attempts, squarely places mine in the really bad category.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo
Nevertheless, I'll try to do badder.
Nice!
Bad is bad, it can't be 'very' bad or even 'too' bad. However, your valued comments suggest some good aspects of writing poetry, especially nursery rhymes, some of which though not bad are really absurd but funny.Quote:
Originally Posted by YesNo