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Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal

17th July, 2006. 11:15 pm. Amazingly Bad Poetry Review - The Old

The Old
by Elizabeth; Cambridge, MA

Black backs set on scurrying legs
Beheaded, you kick at the sky
Coinhabitants of our home
Constantly multiplying
White fungus fingers pry at cracks
Peeling the water-softened walls
The bathroom door? it has retired.
Estranged, off-hinge (or napping)
Sometimes fat, fresh drops of rain
Slipping through the ceiling
Their journey ending in the hall
And then--a mass stagnation
The stove, the fridge, the sink, the wash
Still and moldy, forsaken
Mocking the purposes which are
Their master elsewhere
Tarnished trophies on brokedown shelves
New abodes, careers have blossomed
Knifes and blood and parted skin
The old? not yet forgotten.

Once in a great while, I have a nightmare about filth. You don't want to know the details. Believe me. This poem gave me the willies, I don't mind telling you. You read this poem to a child if you want to give the child nightmares. Babysitters, take note. It's like an evil version of "Pee Wee's Playhouse," what with the stove and the refrigerator and the sink and Chairry having all lost their minds. The idea of your household appliances dying from loneliness... eeeee! I have a problem throwing away old socks. You expect to see Tyler Durden wandering around this abandonned house, playing with nunchucks (literally: chuck of nuns).

"The Old" starts off creepily and ends creepily. Are you trying to terrorize your audience, Elizabeth? In the first two lines, some sort of insect is guillotined for our viewing pleasure. It really sets the tone for the rest of the poem, I'll give it that much. Are you the one who decapitated the bug, Lizzie (Borden?)? Oh, I suppose the sink did it. Yeah, I've heard THAT one before. Heed my words: in your next life, you're going to come back as a beetle. A beetle on the set of "Indiana Jones & the Temple of Doom." It's wrong for us to accuse Elizabeth of killing the bug so she could immediately alienate the audience. The bug may have just committed suicide, after all. He had been depressed for a long time.

Despite their dead ambassador, this invading species are "constantly multiplying." Maybe the house is infested by bunnies? Cute wittle bunnies. I find it difficult to believe that this building still functions at all. But Elizabeth calls it "our home." It's flooding and everything is covered in delicious mold, but they still have their 56k (4 k/s max.) connection to AOL. I think E's message is that nothing lasts, everything is mortal, yadda yadda yadda, I've heard it all before. "New abodes, careers have blossomed" - oh, okay, that's nice. I have no problem here. The former residents have moved and started successful careers. That's pleasant enough. I'll just read the next line and--

AAAAAAAAAHHHH! "Knifes and blood and parted skin" ?? What's this all about? One last 'fuck you!" to our psyches? We can see the light at the end of the poem. We're just about to escape from E's composition, and then suddenly we're in the house from "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." It's either that or the "blossoming careers" refer to butchers, taxidermists and open-heart surgeons. Gah, wouldn't that be creepy if three brothers and sisters grew up to have those occupations.

Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C+

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