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Monday, July 6th, 2009
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8:01 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - The Treehouse
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The Treehouse
by unknown, but we'll call him (or her) 'George'
so this is America, right?
the rag-tag band of punkass bitches
who left the motherland
like a little kid
who takes three-fourths of a loaf of wonder bread,
an opened jar of peanut butter,
two pairs of underwear,
who yells “I hate you.”
and punctuates it with the slam of the screen door.
this is America.
big cars.
big houses.
wal-marts people debt airports ideas nukes
skyscrapers egos potential stadiums tax refunds
if only our minds
were as big as our shopping centers
And our potential
does that star-spangled banner
still wave o’er
The land of the free
and the home of the brave?
Listen, I despair of this country as much as the next red-blooded working man, but how will writing angry yet weak poetry get us through this crisis? I know I speak of all of us when I say that I wake up every morning not knowing how Christopher Nolan is ever going to top "The Dark Knight" if the third Batman movie ever happens. Should they just leave well enough alone? Remember what happened to "The Godfather Part III"? For a person as pessimistic as I am, I'm actually optimistic in regard to the country's future. That's assuming the country has a future. I don't really read the news, but I know there's a race of giant shape shifting robots, and while some are here to protect us, most of them are here to destroy us. And the little brother from the Disney Channel's "Even Stevens" is now President? I just hope I'm dead by the time Khan Noonien Singh starts the Eugenics Wars.
George's poem is obviously meant to be read in a poetry slam setting. You can tell from how it's constructed. It even follows some of the rules set by Taylor Mali's "How To Write A Political Poem". I'm surprised the author didn't try an "e.e cummings" style breakup of the lines. And where's the random cursing and ethnic slurs? We get the punkass bitches -- then nothing? Where are the Wal-Mart people fucking in their Hummers? I feel cheated. Rather, I feel gypped. Gypped just like like those wandering punkass bitches who founded our country! Hey! See what I did there? As for George's metaphor of little kids running away from home, it works a tiny bit if we're speaking of the original English settlers, disgusted by the Church of England and the Catholics. Except that a little kid, after running away from home, will inevitably come back home and our immigrant ancestors weren't changing their mind about leaving their motherland because they didn't want to miss "ALF." I don't know if I appreciate having my ancestors referred to as "punkass bitches." Unless George is full Choctaw or Iroquois, I don't think his ancestors would appreciate it either. And if he is an American Indian, I'd expect him to be considerably more angry.
George's poem isn't entirely negative. He points out the country's potential--twice... although he doesn't seem to have anything else nice to say. I've never fought fire with fire before, but he's my quick poetic reply to George's poem:
My country, 'tis of thee
fuck - remember when Bambi
was learning how to walk?
Above the fruited plain?
And Thumper said
"Kinda wobbly, isn't he?"
That's sort of
how
(from every mountainside.)
I (let freedom ring) feel.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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| Friday, June 26th, 2009
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6:47 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Crucify
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Crucify
by Richard
We send another dagger deep into its side;
And still we are forgiven.
We crucify and curse it,
If every drop of blood is not given.
We watch with anticipation,
As it staggers from its wounds.
We clamor for our buckets
To scoop up the oozing crude.
I return to view the violence
And survey the scene of our desecration.
But all that remains
Are the scars of our devastation.
We must change our course,
For if we fail to make the correction,
Finality will fuel the future,
And there will be no resurrection.
What will we do when we
Have bled our victim dry?
What will we do when there
Is nothing left to crucify?
I have a question. What will you do when your Christ-as-earth metaphor runs out of juice almost immediately? Or rather, instead of running out of juice, it runs out of oil. See what I did there? See? See? Why can't you see? What did I do? Tell me what I did and I'll change! Why won't you just love me?
This poem won't make anyone happy. Environmentalists might not dig the death of the Mother Earth being represented by the death of a male prophet. I know I don't appreciate it. And Christians might not appreciate their god being used as a metaphor, along with the casual attitude Richard has toward continuity and Biblical canon. He's really in trouble with the people who are simultaneously passionate Christians and environmentalists. Or you can dislike the poem because it's terrible. It's about as subtle as a Jay Leno monologue or a Dreamworks animated feature. I would have preferred it instead of writing the last three stanzas, Richard wrote "GET IT??!" in large capital letters.
There are vials of flash-frozen sperm in secret underground Disneyland labs who know the Earth is dying. The last thing we need is a self-important poem from Richard reminding us that we fucked up. Can't you just see Richard patting himself on the back for his cleverness? Actually, I'm doing everyone a disservice by writing this review... since a lot more people are going to read this poem as a result. This poem deserves to be eaten by worms in a compost pile. I don't want you think that I take the planet's environmental crisis lightly. I wake up every morning screaming something nonsensical and often terrifying, and after that I offer thanks to my god that I probably won't be alive when the unspeakably horrible apocalyptic events occur. That is not to say that I don't worry about the children of my friend's children. They'll probably have to wear really silly special hats when they go outside. "In my time, I chose to wear a silly hat," I will point out from my self-aware Professor Roy hologram.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B
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| Saturday, June 13th, 2009
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11:30 am - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Four Times the Pleasure
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Four Times the Pleasure
by Hannah
To wake up in your arms
I set four alarms
perhaps an extreme measure
but it's four times the pleasure
Now I'm running late
no time for make-up
I have no time to wait
Hurry up, wake up
What a lovely morning
definitely worth while
Work is rather boring
another poem for the pile
Slow motion is the pace
I'm daydreaming of your face
Can't wait to leave this place
Your lips I can't wait to taste
Tick tock, tick tock
Looking forward to six o'clock
I'll leave the door unlocked
Don't bother to knock
And tonight I'll set four alarms
to wake up four times in your arms
an extreme measure, maybe
but four times the pleasure, baby
A young woman is in intensive care in the morgue tonight after her liver and both kidneys were stolen. Police suspect she is another victim of the Vital Organ Thief. "She should have locked her door," police chief O'Hara said. "Even if she was expecting someone," her landlord added, nodding. Not only was the door unlocked, but the doorbell was broken and there was a note "Don't bother to knock." "Really?" a neighbor said to this reporter. "Didn't she read the news? I thought everyone knew about the famous Vital Organ Thief. There's 'wanted' posters everywhere, and he's on the TV every night. And you definitely shouldn't look in my industrial top-loading freezer because all you're going to find in there are Otter Pops. I love me those Otter Pops. Much better than vital organs. Blech!"
My alarm clock is more than twenty years old. If you want to set multiple alarms, you're limited to two. Not four like high-falooting Hannah and her modern clock radio. Four, for heavens sake. That's almost twice as many as mine. At least Hannah admits that this habit is an "extreme measure," which I take as being her personal code phrase for "I am just a little unpleasantly insane."
Setting four alarms so you can wake up four different times in the arms of your lover -- it's actually cute idea. But it's not really possible. Waking up next to someone is awesome, but it might start to lose its simple beauty if you overdo it. I imagine I'd fall back into cynicism around the third alarm. "Oh...hi... Yes, I love you too... Can we get up now? I need to evacuate my bowels. And I'm hungry." Also -- I've never used a snooze button in all of the years I've been using an alarm clock. It must feel so unloved. I'm not bragging at my lack of utilizing the Snooze bar. Rather, I'm just saying that I prefer to wake up gradually instead of waking up, going back to sleep, only to wake up again in 15 minutes. It's moot, as this would never work with me. I wake up every morning screaming something nonsensical. And I'm single. Ladies?
"Work is rather boring / another poem for the pile" -- aside from the prostitutes who read the ABPJ on a regular basis, a great deal of us can relate to work being boring. I spend the last three hours of my workday thinking "if I ate this six-month-old unrefrigerated bologna packet, would it get me out of work or would it just kill me?" Damned if I get what Hannah is saying with this second line. Is she referring to the poem she's presently writing? How dully meta. She's writing poetry to pass the time at work. I used to have a co-worker who would work on a novel during work hours. I would have admired his hubris except he was a class-A dick and second of all, he was constantly working on it. His and Hannah's casual attitude should make your teeth hurt. Writing poetry or a novel should not be easy. I'm a strong believer in this adage: if you think writing is easy, you're doing it wrong. Example: while writing this review, I broke up with five different girlfriends and developed an opium habit.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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| Friday, June 5th, 2009
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6:56 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Don't Notice I'm Alive
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Don't Notice I'm Alive
by Cassie, Calgary, Alberta
one look one smile
your touch your skin
your vioce
everything you do
it amazes me, drive me crazy
but you dont relize what's standing right in front of your eyes,
right in front of your eyes
you don't notice I'm alive
cover me like a blanket
lay me down and stay
I don't want you to leave
never and not today
but you dont relize what's standing right in front of your eyes,
right in front of your eyes
you don't notice I'm alive
I was initially befuddled by what sort of relationship Cassie has with the person she's addressing in this poem. But now I think that's because at this point in the APBJ's history, I've lost my humanity. Unrequited love is what we have here, but it's left unclear whether or not he does, in fact, know that Cassie is alive. The microscopic pinch of erotic flavoring in the middle of the poem throws me off. I may be wrong but I get the feeling that there's some carnal knowledge between these two. It's just as likely that he's the star quarterback for the Calgary Stampeders and this is just a little fantasy tossed into the poem like so many Baco-Bits... but heck, she mentions his skin in line two.
I've said this before in regard to another poem, but I really hope that this is a song submitted to Poetry.com, masquerading as a poem. Otherwise, there's no way that I can reconcile myself with Cassie repeating "right in front of your eyes" right after writing the same exact line. Then she does it again at the end of the poem. Blatantly. She doesn't even try to hide it. Christ, I found myself reading all four instances of the line over again, hoping that she slipped in some twist. No soap. At least she could have titled the poem "Right in front of your eyes" and made it a solid five times.
It might as well be a song. It's my understanding that all Canadians are given an acoustic guitar as soon as they're born. Think about all the Canadians you know who can play the guitar. Michael J. Fox. Ellen Page. Keanu Reeves. Kiefer Sutherland. The guys from the band Rush. The other possibility is that this was for a school assignment that Cassie fudged. "The assignment clearly says that the poem must at least 15 lines long, eh," the teacher says to Cassie. "In fact, eh, it's repeated on the assignment sheet twice." "Repeated, eh?" Cassie thinks to herself. But unless the teacher gave Cassie 30 seconds to finish the assignment, I still can't excuse this sort of behavior.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: F
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| Monday, May 18th, 2009
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8:19 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Louder than Words
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Louder than Words
by Terrie
free to be me at any time--so are you
life lead by symbols and signs, maybe love anew
directions here and there everywhere we go
they tell us in their actions
how they feel without congruency to words
spoken as if truth could be concealed
we know what is truly real--what is not
the hug is a sacred moment between us
sincerity is not a game of points
but a matter of charactor and trust
tell me how you really feel
Lies are dangerous, they hurt and steal
so they go out with the trash
with the fish heads wrapped
in the black and white news of day
after the cafe lights go out
while patrons stroll the moonlit street
as the hope for new love drifts
pointlessly away before it really has a life
before it has a heat
Poet laureate Billy Collins wrote in his poem "Workshop" that "I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none." This is a perfect example. I wouldn't be surprised if this poem was written by two independent individuals, neither aware of the other person's existence. If these two people met, chaos would reign. If they touched, the universe would end (like in "Timecop").
When you read the first few lines of the poem, is anyone else reminded of the song "Signs" by the (Canadian) rock group, the Five Man Electrical Band? It may just be my mood at the time of this review, but I'm really disgusted by Terrie's self-righteous tone. Hey, thanks, Whitney Houston, but I already knew that it was important for me to be myself. Thank goodness I read this poem, because for the last ten years, I've been pretending to be a character from the movie "Akira" because I thought that was how I could get people to like me. But now I understand that I'm free to be myself, all thanks to Terrie's intervention. Bless her. If Terrie tried to hug me, I think I would take one big yet polite step backward. Sort of like the time in 1994 when I went to a New Years party of AOL trivia contest players in Palo Alto, and a happily drunk woman named Peggy tried to kiss me. (Not wanting to be entirely rude, I let her kiss my cheek). And Terrie believes the hug to be a sacred act! If a hug is sacred, then what is coitus? Also sacred? Less or more sacred? This isn't a riddle. I want to know.
Soon after the talk of hugs, the poem takes a dramatic and inexplicable left turn. We're comparing and contrasting sincerity and dishonesty, but then suddenly there's fish heads? Okay, fish heads are disgusting and maybe Terrie was looking for something gross to parallel with the idea of lies... But it's like she intended to connect them via a simile and then she got distracted by someone jangling keys in the next room. So Terrie recognized these lies for what they were and threw them away, throwing away fish heads while she was at it...? I'm still not sure why she chose to frame the last third of the poem around a cafe. It may have been the path -- trash led to fish heads to the restaurant to the Italian stereotype singing a song to Lady and Tramp. Oh, wait, that last part was just me. Perhaps a former boyfriend of Terrie's broke up with her by leaving a pile of fish heads on her porch, invoking his ancient family tradition?
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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| Saturday, May 2nd, 2009
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2:23 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - A night with the devil himself
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A night with the devil himself
by 'Ashley'
The darkness holds me with its cold arms
Kissing me with the venom of a scorpion
Touching me with the blood of an innocent
Death feels the room
As the devil takes control
He seduces me to his side
Carrying me to his bed
And kisses me with sins
Leaving his marks upon my neck
And I have nowhere to go
So bite into my skin
Slit my wrists and drain my life
Take out the liquid that satisfies you with bliss
Tie my hands so that I don’t flinch
Love me or hate me
My dark lover for you is a nightmare
For I no longer love you
So I bid my good byes and walk into the bathroom
Just to rinse away my sins and blood for tomorrow he will return
And I shall be the one who’s innocent and having my blood as wine.
Stephanie Meyer, be not proud. Okay, I understand you're not personally responsible for people's vampire preoccupation--but you certainly didn't help to vanquish it. Is there a secret rule that there has to be a wildly successful vampire novel every 20 years or so? Check back with me when I'm in my 50's. I'll be the one pissed off by whatever new overstuffed take on vampires has come along. At least when it came to the Anne Rice novels, they were...it was... okay, I can't think of anything nice to say about the Lestat books either. Well, at least the first one focused on the so-called appeal-slash-curse of being a vampire, rather than dressing it up with a teenage romance. A forbidden teenage romance, no less. That will always put them in the seats. Shakespeare didn't invent the star-crossed lovers. The first version was actually written by a primordial slug who has fallen in love with a primordial slug from the other sulfur pit.
It might be that this poem wasn't inspired by "Twilight" at all and I'm scapegoating Ms. Meyer. To this, I reply with a respectful 'eh.' If Ashley hasn't been locked away in a hospital after biting a policeman's horse, I'm sure she saw "Twilight" and read all of the books. That's assuming she never stopped being 15. If you haven't gathered by now, with a few exceptions ("Let the Right One In" is brilliant), I have an extreme dislike for the vampire genre, including that tiny percentage of the population who seem to be taking it a bit too far. I suspect Ashley is taking it too far. Far be it for me to judge what you do your free time, especially since I have no argument to explain my aversion. I'm still shaking my head over seeing "Interview with the Vampire." I've been shaking my head since 1994. The only explanation I can manage is that I must have thought it'd be like "Fright Night". "Fright Night" is a great and funny vampire movie, but even it has an extended sequence with the female lead being seduced (by Prince Humperdink).
I have no idea what she's trying to say when she writes that the darkness touches her "with the blood of an innocent." Could it be that Ashley confused her Satanic sacrifice cosplay with her vampire cosplay? It happens to me all the time. It's time for some of the sex with my girlfriend but I forget to look at the calendar, and it turns out that I'm supposed to be the radical Civil War abolitionist this particular night, and not David Lee Roth from Van Halen. We had a good laugh after that, after the cops left.
When Ashley writes that "Death feels the room," I think she meant to say that "Death fills the room." The ridiculous truth is that the typo improves the line. You're not going to see examples like that if you read good poetry. What if there'd been a simple typo in the original First Folio? The first line of Sonnet 130 might have been "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the buns."
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: A-
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| Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009
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7:38 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Ex Prince Charming
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Ex Prince Charming
by Gabrielle, unknown location
Concealed behind a stylish mask,
Stealing sips from a hidden flask,
Drunk with ambition for the next treat,
You're driven to the next beautiful girl you'll meet,
Lusting away after pretty girls,
The young ones with blonde curls,
Succumbing to your hidden desires,
Laughing away with sirens and liars,
Kissing necks and plotting prey,
Hoping you'll feel better with the next lay,
Knowing everyday you'll feel worse
Because letting the girl of your dreams run away
Was your biggest curse
The mask didn't always exist. Ergo, the mask metaphor didn't always exist. I've done extensive, indisputable research. The first masks were probably worn in an ancient, one-night-only production of "Revenge of the Nerds" by the Babylonians in 1742 BC. It was part of their religious ceremony. Specifically, this first mask was worn by the Lewis Skolnick character, when he wears it to impersonate Betty's boyfriend and thus, have sex with her in the carnival funhouse. Interesting fact: by an amazing coincidence, the Babylonian actor who played Betty's boyfriend 'Stan Gable' -- also named Ted McGinley.
Some time after this drama, there was an unheralded ancient poet who can be credited with the first mask-related metaphor in a poem. His or her peers probably thought it was awesome at the time. "Dude!" they must have said to their poet friend. "It's like we're all wearing masks every day! I mean, do you really know who I am? I could be wearing a mask right now." Then, of course, some of them had to have the metaphor concept explained to them, because it was brand new. In case you're not aware, ancient civilization did, in fact, carry on conversations like surfers in 80's movies. When masks became a prevalent part of our day-to-day society, due to the success of the dramas "Mask" (with Eric Stoltz) and "Son of the Mask" and the TV series "MASK" (an acronym for Mobile Armored Strike Kommand -- yes, Kommand), the everyday Joe or Jill can write a poem featuring a person wearing a mask. Like, say, Gabrielle here. I'm 90% sure that this poem is about John Mayer.
Gabrielle is clearly not over this guy yet, especially since she ends the poem with a declaration that she is the girl of his dreams and insisting that he must be feeling bad about bedding an endless caravan of blondes. She wants him back, even though he's clearly an asshat douchebag. Memo to Gabrielle: even if you believe that all of his casual sex is causing A.D's soul to decay, he's not feeling the least bad about this. You know why? Because he's an asshat douchebag who is having sex with various blondes he meets at parties. I would love to be an asshat for a few weeks, as long as I was having STD-free sex with blondes (or brunettes) with natural breasts. Not the terrifying plastic "Girls Next Door" types. Does someone want to volunteer to explain all of this to Gabrielle? While you're at it, explain that the sentence "Because letting the girl of your dreams run away was your biggest curse" doesn't really work as a sentence. It should really say that he cursed himself when he let the girl of his dreams run away. You're better off without him, Gab. Call me.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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7:15 pm
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Dear ABPJ fans,
I just found out today that Poetry.com, as we knew it, is no more. This is excellent news for the planet at large. Finally something good has come out of the global economic crisis. If you've never read my "mission statement," perhaps you did not know that the former owners of poetry.com were no better than, say, snake oil salesmen. The International Library of Poetry, poetry.com's former owners, went out of its way to convince amateur poets that their poems were brilliant. This was so their customers would then buy their junk (books, tote bags, mouse pads, convention tickets, anything else they could think of, etc.). The site preyed on the naive, the emotionally fragile, and on the deluded. But they're kaput. I suspected it might be, since they hadn't updated the front page of the site in months. I couldn't be happier...
...although it might be a little harder to find poems now. The new Poetry.com appears to be legitimate, in that they're not trying to cheat people out of their cash. That is, the new company's outlook seems to be totally different. The real-time poetry entries link still works (for now)... it's where I got all of the poems for review... but it refreshes after 60 seconds. And that's too long to wait. I have another site in mind, and hopefully it will bear some worthwhile bad poetry fruit. No, I don't know what fruit would equal bad poetry fruit. Probably some sort of melon.
Love,
Professor Roy
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, April 8th, 2009
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7:18 am - Warm puppy? Bah.
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Happiness is finding a half-written (longhand) ABPJ review, considering that you searched for it for an hour when you realized you lost it months ago, and it still counts as 'happiness' even though it's not as funny as you remember it being when you originally wrote it.
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(comment on this)
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| Saturday, March 7th, 2009
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6:25 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Raven
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Raven
by 'A', Wasilla, AK
Offer up your pain to Raven's spear
Let him chase away the fear
Hearts are broken on black wing nights
Picked clean by mornings light
Stumbling the hoard flees isolation
A scattered and bizarre migration
Rippied and torn, eaten hot
Disconnection has marked a fatal spot
A butchered and slaughtered feast
Laid out on a table awaitning release
A hollow heart disappearing fast
Bloody Raven finishes his repast
I am going to try to make this a sarcasm-free review. So much of the humor on the web is just thinly disguised snark. But after reading this poem, I've decided that a leopard can't change his spots and I must announce an end to my ban on sarcasm. I say this because it was a pleasure to read this short poem, especially when you consider the lack of any legendary works that revolve around a raven. This poet saw a available niche and flew at it. Now he's wedged inside that niche.
Here, the raven represents the emotional torture experienced when someone suffers a broken heart. We've all been through it. It might not be with your first cousin, but you know the feeling. You will recall Greek mythology's Prometheus, introduced fire to mankind, was chained to a rock and had this liver eaten by an eagle. That would be bad enough, but every night, his liver would regenerate and "oh no!", here comes that hungry eagle again! Would you rather have your heart eaten by a raven or have your liver eaten over and over again by an eagle for all eternity? The first two lines of the poem seem to contradict the rest of the poem. Raven with his spear (the beak?) can chase away your fear? Fear of what? Is the raven trying to trick his way into your house so he can eat your heart? And 'A' is working with the raven? It's a conspiracy!
I like to imagine 'A' reading his poem to Poe as he lies in his hospital bed, dying from alcoholism or possibly rabies. And this poem is just enough to push him over the edge into oblivion. Yet another thing that I would do if I had a time machine. If that didn't work, I'd explain that in the late 20th century, lunatic musician Michael Jackson wanted to make a movie about his life, where he'd play Poe. Really. (How would you explain Michael Jackson to a writer in the mid-19th century? Explain.) "Oh, and there's a version of rugby played in Baltimore, it's called 'football.' And the team is called the Ravens. Named after your poem, yes. They even have a obscene cartoon mascot ... named 'Poe.'" Then I'd do that motion where I close his eyes.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, February 14th, 2009
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6:25 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Mystical Light
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Mystical Light
by Ann
A dark, black sky changes into midnight blue.
Clear, cold air permeates, chilling through.
Silver stars are twinkling and smiling.
An irridescent moon is beguiling.
One enormous star appears from nowhere,
Alerting the world that Jesus is here.
Casting its light on a peasant's poor place,
It illuminates the Babe's newborn face.
His heavenly halo is all aglow
With holy radiance in Supreme show.
As shepherd's flock, adoring angels sing.
Thus heralds the birth of Savior and King.
Then wise men arrive from lands afar,
Bearing gifts after following a star.
Gathered together on this holy night
Is a miracle scene, seen in mystical light.
What can I say? Thank goodness that Ann dedicated a poem to the birth of one of the most important cultural figures in all of history: Bebe Neuwirth, famed star of Broadway and TV. You know her -- she played Dr. Lilith Sternin, Frasier's wife, on "Cheers"? As much as I appreciated her work in "Cheers" and "All Dogs Go to Heaven II", I don't know if I would go so far as to declare that she's the Savior and King. She's won a Tony and two Emmys, but it's possible to be overly effusive with praise. Excuse me for a moment. ... really? Huh... Folks, I was just informed by my spiritual adviser that this poem is about Jesus Christ and that I'm going to hell for reviewing this one. No, don't worry, non-secular friends, I'm not going to say anything blasphemous. At least not on purpose. If there is a God/Jesus/Holy Ghost, I'm sure I'm on my last warning.
Besides, you can't effectively mock Jesus when he was a baby because you can't really make fun of any baby. What are you going to say? "Hey baby, I can control my bowels most of the time. Aren't you jealous? Yeah, I bet you are. Stupid baby." Mind you, I'm sure baby Jesus didn't soil any of his swaddling clothes. He probably didn't poop at all. Notice my lack of blasphemy. But let me be blunt: why write a poem about the birth of Jesus? I can understand if you admire him or worship him, but why deliver a poem about this Hall of Fame prophet that effectively reiterates the basic facts known to anyone who knows the lyrics to one of the Jesus-themed Christmas carols? I'd like to hear something about the original December 25th that no one knows about, except Ann. For example, maybe an ox wandered off from the stable, and returned fifteen minutes later with a basket of figs to present to Mary and Joseph. That's delightful. Where did he get the figs? Did he steal the figs? Or how about telling us what happened to the placenta. Did a goat eat it? Were there goats? Is there a secret cult in Jerusalem that still has the placenta? Is Dan Brown going to write a book about it? Do I ever want to see a placenta? No, I do not.
I really love it when a writer manages to invoke the same idea in two consecutive lines of poetry. Example: "His heavenly halo is all aglow / With holy radiance in Supreme show." Ann, sweetheart, we can do the math on the heavenly halo. We're not a Bizarro Rembrandt. I'm also not sure why "Supreme" is capitalized -- or what Ann is trying to say there anyway. Are we talking about Diana Ross and the Supremes? That's a nativity scene I can get behind. Shove the Little Drummer Boy out of the way, I want to hear "You Can't Hurry Love".
Mind you, while this poem is as dull as an unholy halo, I certainly prefer it to a poem about the Crucifixion. I think the terrible, misguided film by the boozing Australian lunatic ruined the Passion for everyone. That part of JC's life was so light-hearted and cheerful, then the star of "The Man Without A Face" had to ruin it for everybody. Nick Stahl -- you make baby Jesus cry.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, February 1st, 2009
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8:08 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - The Best Thing
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The Best Thing
by Derrick
Sitting by the moonlight waiting for sunrise,
Stareing into the stars like i'm looking in your eyes,
Got me fantasizeing of a place very far,
Don't want to return the sensations in my heart,
More exotic than a benz or some other foreign car,
Blood rushing quick,
I'm wilder than captured animals at a city park,
As I stare harder,
I sense I light in the dark,
Beautiful, a angel you are,
Take me from here with your care,
You'd make any one go the distance
Even if their in a wheelchair,
They don't know you like I do,
They unaware,
About the enchantment your enhanced with,
You're a loveing princess yet you chose this prince,
You opened up my heart with your warm lips,
I'm hooked when we make love,
I have a tight grip,
You the best thing that happened to me.
This poem begins with a quick pace that I'd describe as averagely mediocre, an 'F' on the scale of bad poetry. But then, something magical occurs. As Derrick becomes more and more confident, as the poem hits its stride, he manages to hang himself with the poetic equivalent of extra-thin, waxed dental floss. "Stareing into the stars like i'm looking in your eyes," despite its unoriginality and the misspellings, isn't a horrible simile to use in the first act of your poem. Nothing wrong with invoking the stars. I'd be lying if I said that I haven't done it myself. It's just a shame we're not reviewing one of my poems. Then he writes, "Don't want to return the sensations in my heart" and I say to myself, "Well, I certainly can see where he's coming from -- wait, no, I have no idea what he's trying to say." This line doesn't sound like something that belongs in a love poem. I'd say that it definitely doesn't belong in a love poem, but since I have no idea what he's trying to say, I don't want to pass judgment. It sounds like someone attempting to deny the impulses of their heart. It sounds like he's advocating listening to his own head, rather than the heart. You generally don't expect a line beginning with "Don't" in a love poem, unless the poet is saying that he doesn't want to give you up, or let you down, or run around and desert you.
Then we follow this up with a line about automobiles. Is he referring back to the sensations from the previous line or are we on to a whole new topic? The sensations are more exotic than a Mercedes-Benz? Or is she being compared to a European luxury car? Is this the same poem? What is with all of the commas? Why doesn't line 12 have a comma? Shouldn't the poem end with a comma? Who am I? In an aside, let me address Derrick directly: stop talking about yourself, bonehead. For a poem about the woman you love, you refer to her, directly, a grand total of one time in the first half of the poem. Bravo.
"You'd make any one go the distance, Even if their in a wheelchair" -- I'd love to blame this on the rhyme scheme, except there is no discernible rhyme scheme aside from Derrick's mild interest in rhyming every other line. Heaven forbid then that Derrick realize that this comment and the following lines ("They don't know you like I do, / They unaware") makes him sound fiercely prejudicial toward paraplegics and quadriplegics. When you say that someone "went the distance" in this context (i.e., not talking about a marathon runner or an astronaut), it's a metaphorical distance... except Derrick cites an actual mode of transportation. So Derrick, please enlighten us, what is this inevitable distance that will be traversed -- even if you're in a wheelchair?
I thought about ending this review with the prior paragraph, but I have to mention the last kick in the ribs Derrick delivers to his own helpless poem: "I'm hooked when we make love, / I have a tight grip." We all know that when he writes "tight grip", it's in reference to being "hooked"... although the phrases are somewhat contradictory. For example, a fish isn't gripping onto the fisherman's hook. But given the proximity to the phrase "make love"... I'll let you use your filthy imaginations.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C+
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, January 14th, 2009
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6:05 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Piano Music
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Piano Music
by Lee; unknown location (because poetry.com stopped listing the city/state)
piano music, it's so depressing
my suffocating heart is done compressing
all the liquor that I drink
does nothing more than make me think
of all the times we shared
every night I thought you cared
but now I see you
and see a blank stare
I gave you my heart
and you gave me a burden to bare
piano music, play me a tune
dim the lights and look at the moon
come home to me honey
come home soon
What about Billy Joel? Is "Uptown Girl" depressing? What about "Downeaster Alexa"? (A little trivia for you folks ... "Storm Front" ... first album I ever bought.) What about Elton John? I don't see anything depressing about some "Crocodile Rock" or "Benny and the Jets." I supose Elton could be perceived as depressing if you consider all of the women in the 1970's who had a crush on him. My point is that it's pretty presumptous for Lee to open his poem with an apparent labeling of piano music as depressing. I would dare to suggest that when you're depressed, all songs are potential downers. A happy song like "Yellow Submarine" can remind you of the Subway where your then-girlfriend used to work, and you'd pick her up when her shift ended, and she always had a free sandwich for you, then before you know it, you're calling her up at 3am to weep into the phone to her. Excuse me for a moment...
There's torch songs, then there are torch songs. This is one of the latter. If you close your eyes, can you see Lee? I certainly can. He's sitting in front of a TV, with a dial and tinfoil-bound antennas, watching a fuzzy infomerical for the Magic Bullet, drinking Gatorade, a half-eaten TV dinner sitting on the floor. Even though he doesn't have a cat, there's a dead bird on the doormat to his apartment. When he does discover the dead bird, he will burst into electrolyte-laced tears, because he and his erstwhile girlfriend picked out the doormat together from Ikea. But he hasn't discovered it yet because he hasn't left his apartment in three days, ever since his so-called "girlfriend" told him that she thought his bad poetry blog was "asinine." Excuse me for a moment...
Surely Lee is drinking because he wanted to dull the pain of his distant girlfriend but lucky for us, it only serves to make him even more contemplative. I'd like the poem a whole lot more if it threw in his vomiting into a houseplant. You will notice that I labeled his girlfriend as being 'distant.' I don't get the feeling that they've broken up yet. Please take my opinion with a grain of salt, especially since I also believe that he's dating a mannequin. That is, maybe her blank stare is the only expression that she has (unless he attaches another head to her neck). The poem opens and closes with Lee addressing 'piano music.' You don't suppose that's actually her name? Piano Music Smith? There was a character on Sesame Street named Don Music. And the voice of Garfield was Lorenzo Music. It's easy to do a Google search on a person with a unique name, but if you're named Piano Music, no one will ever successfully GoogleStalk you. That's why I'm going to name my daughter Richard Nixon.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 17th, 2008
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3:42 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Rehab Confession
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Rehab Confession
by Yolanda
Sitting in rehab doctor told me to write a letter.
He said all addicts do.
it because he will get a chance to know us better.
So I tell him im a addicted to love.
Im under age over stressed
He didnt really understand.
In my rehab you got your drunks and crack fienes
But I stand out because im addicted to a man.
Im a fiene with a monkey on my back.
He telling me to love and never turn back.
I wrote love letters and stuff like that.
He felt no remorse for me because I had the "love jones"
But in rehab you need to turn your back.
Because you see people with drug problems and stuff like that.
But im in rehab because im addicted to man
This is a rehab confession of love
Oh, and meth. I'm addicted to the meth too. Absolutely love it. That's why I'm in rehab. Well, that's the reason the Man says I have to go to rehab. Was it my man who turned me to meth? Actually, no. The only thing Bob was addicted to was McFlurries. He weighs 600 pounds. I'm still not sure how I managed to lose him in that mall. I used to keep my spare meth in the freezer right next to his spare McFlurry stash. Sometimes when we'd end up sneaking to the freezer at the same time, we'd have these little skits where his McFlurry cup would talk to his baggie of meth. "Hi Meth-lissa, how are you today?" "I'm doing awesome, Mr. Flurry, how are you?" "I'm doing okay. Sort of depressed about my lisp." Then sometimes I would accidentally pick up his McFlurry or he'd accidentally pick up my meth. We'd always have a good laugh over that too.
When we'd go behind the couch and do the skits for my dealer, he never found them funny, but I think we could have gotten on "America's Funniest People" with Dave Coulier if we had more practice. What? That show was canceled in 1994? WTF? Well, in that case, I think we could have guest-starred on "Sesame Street." Twitchy Bertram--that's my dealer--wouldn't know quality entertainment if it shot him in a drug deal gone bad. All he wanted to know was if I had the money because he wasn't down with the sex-for-meth arrangement anymore. Bob and I cracked each other up, and that's the important part. Oh, those were good days.
It was around that time that everything started to go bad. Our beloved pet hedgehog, Hedgy, nearly suffocated inside a McFlurry cup that was accidentally left near his Habitrail. Hedgy had to spend several weeks in the hospital. I'm just eternally thankful to the people at the Only Hedgehogs Clinic in Anaheim for bringing Hedgy back to us. Of course, Hedgy is now with Bob and I have no idea where Bob is. :-(
So that's why I'm in rehab. That hard-ass judge didn't show me the least bit of sympathy when I said, "Your Honor, if I'm guilty of anything, I'm guilty of loving that man of mine too much." He said something about Tammy Wynette then banged his gavel on me (not literally). I'm writing another poem where I talk about how the gavel is totally a phallic symbol, dig? And how all judges are gay.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B-
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, December 7th, 2008
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11:29 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Ebony goddess anna
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Ebony goddess anna
[title edited due to the fact it contained a last name]
by John S., unknown location
Upon yesterday a moment of a goddess upon chariot
Not a harlot not a prostitue just a godddess saint
Enlightenment of arts of heaven woman&or she ebony
Ebony woman of heaven&beauty ebony black skin anna
Yes anus of gorgeous anna ebony goddess oh goddess
Yes better beautifuler than many faces of goddess'
I love u anna aura of africa I love u forever please
Please sorry please thanks welcome goddess anna free
Yes my tongue only caress upon your anus&breasts
My love tool&your vaginal please anna please or else
Ebony goddess'another gonna take I ball&chain i'd die
Someone unfamiliar with the ABPJ might be confused by my frequent ritual of praying that English is not the native tongue of the writer. Some people pray for the health of their family or for world peace-- I pray on behalf of terrible poetry. Hey, I don't judge you if you pray for the Chicago Cubs or something equally ridiculous or futile. I'm more-or-less positive that English is not John's first language. Otherwise, this was submitted as a prank or it was produced by the same artificial intelligence that creates the subject lines for spam emails. Computers nowadays are even smarter than the one in "WarGames" -- I can believe a spam computer developed a creative streak, independent of any programmer, and decided to submit "Ebony goddess" to poetry.com. I say this knowing it will make my computer science doctorate friend spit Coke all over his Linux.
But either of those scenarios is preferable to this poem being genuine. It may not be right to make fun of a poem by an author without a fluent understanding of English, but lucky for you, this is a poem about a man trying to get laid. Let's start with the love tool. Anyone who's opened the worst kind of trashy romance novel is familiar with the love tool. There's worse euphemisms in romance novels, as if all of those female writers are allergic to the word 'penis.' Either that, or there's a secret game going between them to see who can publish the craziest term for the male unit. Mind you, I'm not one to talk. I spent the first 15 years of my life embarrassed by the word 'womb.' I'm over that now, as indicated by my frequent use of the word 'anus' later in this review. Considering how graphic the rest of the poem is, I think it's strange that John employs a substitute rather than just whipping it out.
What is the anus? Well, the American Heritage Dictionary defines it as "a heavy block of iron or steel with a smooth, flat top on which metals are shaped by hammering." Sweet. I'll have to remember to incorporate that into my wedding vows. When we first read this word it's in the line, "Yes anus of gorgeous anna ebony goddess oh goddess", as if someone "off-screen" said "Her anus? Really, John? You're into that?" "Yes. Anus," John replies. His habits and preferences in the privacy of his bedroom are really none of our business, but I think we'd be remiss if we didn't point out that he mentions the anus twice. He must really love ... that part of the anatomy. Far be it for me to judge. I really like female shoulders. John loves anuses. Or rather, Anna's anus specifically. Let me reiterate: not our place to judge. However, if Anna sees this poem, she may not be flattered by his attention by his attention to that certain body part. She'll have to weigh the anus references against the ebony goddess compliments.
Despite a shaky grasp of English, most of the poem makes sense. That is, you can understand the basic gist of his phrasing. Except for the last line: "Ebony goddess'another gonna take I ball&chain i'd die." There's definitely some crucial words missing from this sentence. This is just a weak guess, but I think he's saying that if someone else takes the ball and chain (i.e., Anna) away, he (John) will die. It would appear that John does not know that "ball and chain" has a generally negative context.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: A-
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(11 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, November 24th, 2008
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2:32 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Puppet
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Puppet
[author unknown]
A man brought out a stitched puppet
Limply its arms hung down
Life pulsed through its body as the mans hand
Moved slowly up the inner back
A fleshy spine in all the stuffed rags
Slowly the head turned to look about the room
The mandible shifted up and down
As though loosening its aged stiff jaw
Working the muscles out of rigor-mortis
The eyes mechanically moved back and forth
Blankly observing crowd
Sound throws itself into the mouth
It opens; Closes
To the off-beat rhythm of the speech
At times the head turns back to the man for some conversation
But it always returns to the crowd
Ten minutes pass; The act is over
Life slips from the stitchery
The hand slides out
Slowly the limp form is placed into its casket
The lid closes
Clasps snap; Lock clicks
This life is over
Reincarnation awaits
While this is ostensibly a dark poem, it's a summary of a "Dora the Explorer" episode when you compare it to my first attempt to review this Tootsie Roll Pop. I leave it up to the reader to decide whether this poem is about an actual puppet or if it's about mankind's struggle with God, fate or the universe. While I'm pretty sure it's the latter, I'd much prefer it if the poem was about a goofy pal made from an old coat. It's times like these when I want to struggle with a reuben sandwich and a milkshake.
I normally have no problem with puppet-based entertainment, but the author manages to use the sort of imagery that makes you feel eerily numb after reading it. Goofy puppet pals never go further than insulting the men in the audience and flirting with the women... but the puppet in this poem comes equipped with a "fleshy spine." Just because you think it's a clever or apt metaphor doesn't mean you need to use it in your poem. Just imagine if a ventriloquist was doing a show for a 1st grade class, and he described his puppet that way. There aren't enough grief counselors on the planet to recover from that. "Why am I being arrested? Don't they want to know how the puppet works? I was just explaining to the children that Bingo here has a fleshy spine!" Then the beating would start. I've said this more times than I can count, but in case you're new, I really don't think these authors ever read their poems.
The author also explains that there's conversation between the ventriloquist and the puppet--which is pretty standard. An avant-garde comedian might do a show where he never acknowledges the mute dummy on his knee. Just let it sit there, observing the crowd, blinking. Or even better, the puppet could never acknowledge the presence of the ventriloquist. The author also feels the need to remark that the eyes are "blankly observing [the] crowd." Blankly. Thank god -- I thought those were actual human eyes in the puppet eye sockets. They're not able to see, you say? Blankly, eh?
Maybe this poem was written to educate people who don't understand how ventriloquil figures work. It's hard to deny when presented with the evidence. "Does he ever fall off your knee and hurt himself? Are his feelings hurt when you make fun of him? Does he get mad when you lock him inside the case? Okay, slow down. Let me make sure I understand you correctly. This puppet of yours -- not self-aware whatsoever? Less sentient than a jellyfish? Really. Rest easy everyone -- witchcraft hasn't infiltrated the county fair! Corndogs on the house!"
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B-
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, November 7th, 2008
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7:03 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Across the room
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Across the room
by Michelle; Mansfield, OH
I see him there, He see's me too
He approaches me from across the room
Our eyes are locked, Both in a daze
He is amazing in so many ways
Longing to touch, yearning to feel
Everything feels so real, Its time to leave
I don't want him to go, theres so many things
That he must know.How much I love him,
And what he means to me.
But now he is gone, Over the big blue sea.
He has duty's in lands unknown.
So for now, I am alone.
The way we met is amazing to me,
I am happy as can be.
Our eyes were locked, both in a daze
All my troubles they faded away.
Do you believe in a love at first sight? Well, I used to, before this poem solidified my belief that no one should ever fall in love ever and we, as a human race, need to re-learn how to split apart like amoebas when we feel the need to reproduce. It's all chemicals, people! We're just monkeys! Stop with the sex! Anyhoo, sharp-eyed ABPJ readers will recognize Michelle from the ABPJ review "Another Place Somewhere." I was going to suggest that Joseph (we find out his name in the previous poem) only exists in her imagination, but as she clearly has no imagination, this man of hers probably exists.
This poem remarks on their first meeting--briefly. It doesn't occur to Michelle that it's terribly cliche to talk about some enchanted evening and meeting a stranger across a crowded room. Does she believe that we deserve any additional details about their first hook-up? Nope. Was it in an airport's Pizza Hut outlet? What was the first thing you noticed about him? His eyes? His hair? His bootleg "Family Guy" t-shirt purchased in Tijuana? His crab infection, also purchased in Tijuana (albeit unwittingly)? Just a single un-cliched detail would do wonders for this poem. "The way we met is amazing to me" Michelle says (emphasis added), suggesting that it's colorless and depressing to anyone else who hears about it. Perhaps we shouldn't take a lot of stock in what Michelle considers to be amazing. Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper might top that list, followed by Asian people. "I am happy as can be," Michelle burbles. Oh, clearly. I was going to honorably discharge Joseph from the military, pay for your wedding, and buy you a golden retriever puppy, but since you're happy as you can be, I'll move on.
"Lands unknown" and "I am alone" isn't the worst rhyme I've ever read, but I'd still like to explain to Michelle that when she says "He has duty's in lands unknown," it sounds like she has no idea where he is. If he's living in an unexplored Pacific Ocean trench with King Triton and Sebastian, okay, I'll accept "lands unknown." Could you not think of a decent rhyme for Afghanistan? Let me preemptively say that I have nothing but sympathy for the loved ones of our armed forces, separated for long periods from their friends and family, but Michelle -- haven't our soldiers suffered enough without your poetry being sent over there?
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, October 16th, 2008
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7:48 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - I Senced Spring This Morning
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I Senced Spring This Morning
by Matthew; Ham Lake, MN
I smelled spring this morning:
Moisture in the air
Salt melting off the snow
Buds opening as trees begin to awake after a long sleep
I felt spring this morning:
Warm breeze moving over my face and hands
Crack, slosh of an ice laminated puddle
Loose gravel under foot
I heard spring this morning
Sparrows twitter with a robin
Sounds clearer through the lack of snows insulation
A lone crow gliding lazily over head jabbering to himself
I saw spring this morning
Sun pushing back the clouds
Patches of brown earth appearing
Squirrels scurrying up and down in the trees
I sensed spring this morning
It's near!
Oh, like spring is so great! Hitler was born in the springtime. So was Pol Pot, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Andie MacDowell. I usually mark the beginning of spring by desperately trying to avoid running over sex-crazed squirrels with my car. If the squirrel isn't Oregon's official state rodent, it should be. There's an inordinate number of them in Portland alone, despite their annual rash of mass suicides. Matthew is writing us from Ham Lake, Minnesota. I really enjoy that town's name, "Ham Lake." It was either named after someone named Ham (boring) or someone was conned into believing that the lake produced hams (awesome). I'm not going to look it up on Wikipedia, because I prefer my theory that the town was founded after a well-meaning Norwegian rube bought the lake and thousands of acres surrounding it, believing that he'd be able to haul out several tons of spiral-cut ham every day. And soon, he'd found a ham empire. Then he drowned himself in the lake when he found out he'd been cheated by the Fox and the Cat. And that's where we get Pinnochio.
While not comparable to what they get in Minnesota, we do get a few inches of snow in Portland at least once a year. Just enough to be pretty and send the city into a frenzy of car accidents. And let me say, there's nothing I hate more than seeing the roads of my city covered in gravel. If you live in Florida or California, let me explain: when you drive over the roads that have been covered in gravel (to aide traction), the gravel leaps at your car like attacking ninjas and you can hear nothing but the sound of gravel slapping the more expensive parts of your car's underbelly. Oh, it's lovely.
I haven't spent a significant amount of time in the American midwest, but it is my understanding that these states just go straight from winter to summer and back to winter again. I also understand that Minnesota has giant mosquitoes that will suck you drier than Robert Benchley's wit. Just ask native Minnesotans Keith Richards and Quentin Crisp. Matthew conveniently leaves out the fact that in their beloved lake, millions of mosquito larvae are waiting to hatch. He mentions three different species of bird (he's really reaching), but no mosquitoes. In this poem, we cover smell, sight, sight, hearing and touch. All four senses. It's a good thing there's only four. Matthew -- if you're going to have a gimmicky poem (as this ostensibly is), you can't just leave out part of the gimmick. Luckily for him, I can't think of anything good relating to ones tongue and spring in Minnesota, apart from scrumpdittilyumptious calf tongue and I wouldn't want to offend my veggie readers by mentioning that. (I've never had calf tongue. Please stop throwing tofu bricks through my windows.)
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, September 29th, 2008
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5:23 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - If i died tonight
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If i died tonight
by Barry; Brandon, FL
If i died tonight...
would i feel the wind from fluttering wings...
Beatinging upon my face like babies fist.
or would i feel licking hot flames
from all my mortal thoughts...
life on its own terms leads me in my direction.
I follow the path i knoow.
Even when nudged to the known right direction...
I feel the intense heat, even before...
But, dream of what if...
No one has ever asked me the "If you died tonight, do you think you'd go to heaven or hell?" question. I gather that it's something you expect to hear on the sidewalk if you run into televangelist Kirk Cameron or a crazy homeless religious fanatic. I don't know why no one has ever testified to me, eventually getting to this oh-so-important question. Maybe it's because I carry a large dull pitchfork and my feet are cloven hooves.
As usual, I'm getting off-topic. I don't know if Barry is a Christian or born-again and I don't care if he's either. But he is contemplating what's going to happen to him when he dies. Will he go to heaven to be with those loved ones who aren't in hell? Dale Earnhardt is in heaven, as is Barry's other cultural hero, Lord Byron. But maybe heaven isn't the Care Bear kingdom that I imagine it to be. Barry mentions that there's angels wings beating your face like a "babies fist"? What sort of babies are you hanging out with, Barry? Violent babies, evidently. An infant Sean Penn? A 3-month-old Mickey Rourke? If a baby started punching me, I would mess that baby UP. No. I'd politely ask the baby to stop and if the baby did not understand our language, I'd put the baby in six point restraints.
The alternative to being beaten by angry angels is, of course, hell (where I will be going. To visit). This is where our hero will encounter "licking hot flames from all my mortal thoughts." Which shouldn't be confused with "licking hot dames"! Now that I like! Thank you! This has been the "Filthy Cabaret Humor from 1935" blog! But really, ALL of his mortal thoughts? What if some of those mortal thoughts are positive, Jesus-style thoughts? Will he be tortured by the Balrog for those thoughts too? I can understand hell's demons punishing you for staring a bit too long at that cover of Vanity Fair with Demi Moore wearing a painted-on suit (guilty) or eating an entire pie while cheating at Monopoly (guilty again). But what about all of the birds that I buried in my parents backyard after my cats killed them? That has to count for something. Memorandum to hell's administrators: show some discretion.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, September 15th, 2008
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5:37 pm - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Wine Cellar
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Wine Cellar
by Chad; unknown location
Our wine cellar has no wine,
just floors grown cold in Minnesota winter.
Cold floors where naked feet dance,
limbs intertwine, hidden from prying eyes
and eyebrows raised in scrutiny.
Here lips touch in an innocent but guilty
life, beginning but dying
to the sounds of Miles Davis
slowly seeping through the cracks in the door,
through the chatter of those who have lived no more but
in this moment lie resurrected.
Here our young lovers grasp for something:
the heat of each other's body,
intoxication in a world devoid of drunkenness.
Sex on the beach. Sex on the dance floor. Sex on a tent, in a tent, next to a tent. Sex in the wine cellar? It's been awhile since we've had any sex scene on the ABPJ, vague or otherwise, so you will forgive me if I run with this. Chad wastes no time in acknowledging the problem with boinking in the wine cellar. It's going to be frigid. I'm picturing concrete floors. The floor will bruise various asses and the cold temperature will bruise male egos.
There's something taboo about this love affair, although we don't have very much to work with here. "Innocent but guilty"... is this a "Flowers in the Attic"-style taboo or a simple extra-martial affair? To complicate matters, there's metaphorical ghosts who would be listening in on the sex and giggling -- if not for the Miles Davis LP (probably "Bitches Brew") playing on a phantom hi-fi system. Who are these ghosts? Why are they hanging around? Are they the dead spirits of voyeurs? If so, does the Miles Davis keep them at bay--like garlic to vampires? Or is it part of a sexual seance ritual? "Spirit, if you are here, skip to track 5! Don't pay attention to us, we're just going to continue to bone."
Why Miles Davis? Brilliant, legendary musician, of course. But why is he here? Particulars are better than generalities ("Miles Davis" rather than just "jazz"), but might this be about Chad wanting to lend some artistic credibility to his bland poem? I'll explain. Say you're writing a poem about a true experience: sitting alone in the Kings Canyon National Park in the Sierra Nevada, reading a book in a natural granite chair. In reality, it's a shitty Dan Brown thriller that you found at a truck stop. In your poem, could "Digital Fortress" magically turn into "Anna Karenina"? Maybe? Might it have been Meat Loaf wafting through the cracks in the door?
(I once wrote a poem about reading John Steinbeck in Yosemite... but I was actually reading Steinbeck in Yosemite.)
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B-
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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reallybadpoetry's journal
