write a really bad poem

[slipee]

Persistent capitalists rip subscriber twits with iTunes' policies
seducing clueless queues subdued by auto-tuned monotony
rarest commodity modesty's probability's like winning lotteries
selling proprietary daily our private poetry from pirate repositories
remarkable marketing arguably targeting moronic teen majorities
still we remain the epitome of creative slavery to a technology


<:3_)~ .. <:3_)~ ..

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Sub Urbane No. 4 in C flat; tempo: affannato
The second movement


(Please listen as you read):
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oBDmAxS...%3DoBDmAxSFt6A


Itz...itz, a pearl man!
Oh, you sweet dear,
a pearl for your mum.
No...no, he's straddlin the various.

What're ye curry in oon uhboot noo lad,
cannuh yeh nah finis uh sentence?
I'll strap yer hind quarters wi' thistle,
ee ye doon star mak'n sense!
The various what?

T'aint...t'aint no riddle
I mean to say, he's boowin uh fiddle.
An...an on 'is Bach a painting he totes
uh velvet painting of murky motes.

Sweet mother of Walter Scott's goost!
That'd be oono them Aberdeen hawkers
peddl'n tha new trashy Mozart.
'An just look ow they're pushin it
on the junk Mahlers too!

Send eem oon is way boy
an gee Bach ere an pull
those beets from the Beetoven.
I'll serve 'em wi gruel.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soil_Stradivarius

[mazHur]

MazHur's piece is too funny to be bad. But the huge typeface made my eyes hurt!

sorry,Aunt, I didn't mean to hurt you,
I didn't mean to make you cry
I was just cleaning down my closet
My bad! It was too large!!
(MNM lyrics)

[Majesty]

A really bad poem for bad poets
(the black sheeps who ruin confessional poetry).

I know people buy your books
when they feel like stalking someone.
the diary pages inside
which you call poems talk about
your sexuality and your angst-
important things to publish.

what can i say? that you
make a living out of your living?
art that comes from your selfish emotions,
of which you are proud to say.
If you want to confess this much,
visit a religious institute.

Majesty.

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Sub Urbane no. 7-Calamine Lotion Reprise
The Third Movement; Tempo – fester itcho


Please listen as you read:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmCnQDUSO4I


There…there you go Bert,
now you’re get’n a Handel
o’ color’n them eggs
for th’ Easter ensemble

Look! the motes art hawker,
he comes through the gate
all red with uh rash
even the top o’ is pate!

Well put on yer Schubert
an’ run down to stop him
take the calamine
and uh tub to soak in.

Where’ve you been Haydn,
you velvet sham?
In a cove on loch Shasta
caught in ivy, hunt’n Easter ham.


Aye…then you’ll be suffr’n from that nasty Shostakovich!

[slipee]

Egocentric affliction
in weird, unfitting alacrity
twas the nature of prediction
and the lack of an apostrophe
so no more tongue twisters
or cacophonies of misery
for I shall wedeth nay more
my Poetry with Catastrophe

[cacian]

how to define
bad
and how doest it start
add
does it have to
write mad
or does it have to sound
had
I guess it is a question
of sense
gone out of the window
hence
no meaning whatsoever
stance.

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Sub Urbane No. 8; A Mother’s Day Suite
4th movement (and last thank God)
Tempo: affectionado

Please listen as you read:
Saint-Saëns Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmOClcEk124

******

What cacophony hies from yer room Bert?
Turn doon that deavin rock man…enough!
Whutsa ma, you want to hear Rachmaninoff?
Nae boy, I’d rather not hear any ting atoll.

Unless it’s the pipes boy…

Aye, I’ll take the pipes ‘o Pan on the ides of May.
Play them now on yer dear ‘ol mum’s special day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rjbrqcQ5Sw

An who’s this slit skirt lass as got yer kilt in a flutter?
When ‘ul you get uh rondo intruducin yer mudder?
Her name is Camille, she’s from Saint Saëns;
a capricious bird, with a bow on her sconce.

She took the low road from the south of France.
If she’d taken the high road, she’d nae dusted ‘er pants.
You could uh ridden Debussy lassie for nary a pence,
it stops at firth and forth, right next to our fence.

Ach naw! it’s tha painter of moats token on a missile,
look’n like a clatty wraith wi uh dose ‘o jump’n fits.
Higher ‘an Abbey Craig from smok’n too much thistle,
your faether would say he’s got a bit ‘o the “Heifetz”…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NeApec5uZMU

[prendrelemick]

Heh heh.that's a braw bit o a poemin laddie

[YesNo]

Appropriate use of the affectionado tempo for a mother who'd "rather not hear any ting atoll".

[Gilliatt Gurgle]

Heh heh.that's a braw bit o a poemin laddie

Appropriate use of the affectionado tempo for a mother who'd "rather not hear any ting atoll".

hehe, thanks for listening.
btw- this is the "rock" that Bert was listening to:

I suggest advancing to 4:00 minutes to see the second recording... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWF3S9OgQho

(^ courtesy Prendrelemick, I believe, posted on the blokes thread back in the day)

[cacian]

badly done
and yet written fun
words are all the more
stun
everything turned out to be
wun

[YesNo]

Yeah, it does seem that writing bad is fun, cacian.

[YesNo]

What a sky-is-blue-grass-is-green sort of day sitting
on the park bench with Alice who tells me if she
hears another rhyme between "night" and "light"
or "it" and "****" she will puke and tells me she
is sick and tired of all that happy-happy poetry
wanting angst and dread and drivel on her soul
and I tell Alice that I don't see why I tolerate
an imaginary friend like her with her abusiveness
and if anyone knew I was talking to her I could
be labeled a moron or worse and then I whined some
more about a headache and she seemed sweeter after
the whining and she said, "Here, take these," and
so I put the pills in my mouth and watched her funny
face as she waited for me to take a swig of soda
and then I swallowed the pills and she jumped like a
kid and said, "Haha, that's arsenic! You're dead!"

[cacian]

What a sky-is-blue-grass-is-green sort of day sitting
on the park bench with Alice who tells me if she
hears another rhyme between "night" and "light"
or "it" and "****" she will puke and tells me she
is sick and tired of all that happy-happy poetry
wanting angst and dread and drivel on her soul
and I tell Alice that I don't see why I tolerate
an imaginary friend like her with her abusiveness
and if anyone knew I was talking to her I could
be labeled a moron or worse and then I whined some
more about a headache and she seemed sweeter after
the whining and she said, "Here, take these," and
so I put the pills in my mouth and watched her funny
face as she waited for me to take a swig of soda
and then I swallowed the pills and she jumped like a
kid and said, "Haha, that's arsenic! You're dead!"

I most like the last line