write a really bad poem

[cacian]

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

[cafolini]

No chlorella
No moringa
No maca
No spirulina
No cacao
No wheatgrass
No camu-camu
No acai
Can reverse
The damage of cacianosclerosis.

[cacian]

Oy cafolini the damage of cafolinisclerosis more like lol

[Adolescent09]

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?

[cacian]

prison no?
dungeon no?
oubliette yes

[Adolescent09]

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.

[YesNo]

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.

[cacian]

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?

[YesNo]

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.

[cacian]

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

[cacian]

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

[Adolescent09]

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

[Adolescent09]

I am somehow liking the idea of writing rambling single sentences. Not that I do not do [it] already anyway

You're so cute, lol

[YesNo]

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.

[cacian]

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

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