Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} reallybadpoetry) wrote,@ 2007-07-24 22:17:00 |
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Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal - A Gift
a gift
by Hirsch; unknown location
My key fits but the door seems so far.
I wage a war, yet no volunteers. Caused so
much pain, my vessel became callous. Love's
blood is sweet so I binge. Its voice cries
out, I ignored the echoes. My drink got
thicker. I dilute it with warm honeyed
water, yet it got dark, cold and bitter. My
thirst now relies on sorrow. My eyes has an
affair with tears, but makes love to shadows
once glimpsed opposite the door. Where's the
door, is there another path? I wouldn't
know where to begin this journey. In
desperation I hold the key, and in insanity
I cling-on. My path is obscured, haunted by
ghosts with familiar cries. Cries so loud
they can't be ignored. The words would rip
the very flesh, which is engorged with
undeserved kindness. Here, please, take my
key. Do not mind the bloodstained grooves,
for they taste sweet.
I'm three lines into reading this poem and I don't want to go any further -- not when author invokes the image of a key without a door (think about it...) and a calloused vessel (don't think about it too much...). Later, he holds and clings on to this key -- probably while watching late night Cinemax and/or something starring Jenna Jameson. Later still, he invites the reader to take the key from him. And because he's been drinking "love's blood", it's bloodstained. Now I suppose that he might have been drinking this metaphorical blood out of his cupped hands before handling the key and that's why it's ... tarnished... with blood. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to be violently sick all over the place.
Okay, I'm back. I've always imagined Goths drinking with elaborate silver flagons rather than cupped hands. Ah, well. I'm still wondering how two independent metaphors can merge like that. They shouldn't, but they do. And why would anyone be eased by the gift of a bloodstained key because it tastes sweet? Who's putting keys in their mouth? Oh god! The contents of my stomach!
... ... Okay, back again. Better to not think about it too much. We're going to assume that Hirsch intended this as a Goth-y poem because if he didn't, then I'd have to give up. If this isn't a Goth poem, then nothing on this planet makes any sense at all. Luckily for everyone involved, there is a lot more to examine in this composition besides the key. "Love's blood" is a good place to (re)start. Goths enjoy vampires in the same way that anime fans enjoy screaming. It's hard to read "Love's blood is sweet so I binge" without thinking about the Nosferatu of your choice or burning a copy of an Anne Rice novel and then peeing on its ashes. Okay, so he is saying that he is bingeing on love. He's a man deeply in love. He's passionately gaga over another human with a penchant for feminine trenchcoats and eye shadow. A voice cries out -- Hirsh naively ignores it. It would appear all is not well back at camp. The drink becomes thick. I think Hirsh is trying to say that his girlfriend started writing really terrible Goth poetry and rifts started developing. The honeymoon period of their relationship was over-- it'd been over for several weeks. Hirsh was just too dense/blinded by the light to realize it.
Realizing that something is dreadfully wrong, Hirsh reacts by smothering his lover with sweet (honeyed) affection -- which, of course, doesn't work at all. Love becomes "dark, cold, bitter." I was going to make yet another Goth joke at his expense here, but I'm starting to feel mildly sorry for the poor sap author. But, for the record, the joke was going to be something like... "yet it got dark, cold and bitter" -- so the two Goths lived happily ever after? Zing. Aw, poor Hirsh. Now he's sorrowful and crying, haunted by ghosts of Girlfriend Past. It sounds like he's suffered his first major breakup. Empathy is the last thing he needs. Maybe he should just sit down on his couch, microwave some blood-flavored popcorn, and watch a few hundred episodes of "Dark Shadows." Go. Barnabas Collins is waiting for you.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A = worst poem imaginable]: A
a gift
by Hirsch; unknown location
My key fits but the door seems so far.
I wage a war, yet no volunteers. Caused so
much pain, my vessel became callous. Love's
blood is sweet so I binge. Its voice cries
out, I ignored the echoes. My drink got
thicker. I dilute it with warm honeyed
water, yet it got dark, cold and bitter. My
thirst now relies on sorrow. My eyes has an
affair with tears, but makes love to shadows
once glimpsed opposite the door. Where's the
door, is there another path? I wouldn't
know where to begin this journey. In
desperation I hold the key, and in insanity
I cling-on. My path is obscured, haunted by
ghosts with familiar cries. Cries so loud
they can't be ignored. The words would rip
the very flesh, which is engorged with
undeserved kindness. Here, please, take my
key. Do not mind the bloodstained grooves,
for they taste sweet.
I'm three lines into reading this poem and I don't want to go any further -- not when author invokes the image of a key without a door (think about it...) and a calloused vessel (don't think about it too much...). Later, he holds and clings on to this key -- probably while watching late night Cinemax and/or something starring Jenna Jameson. Later still, he invites the reader to take the key from him. And because he's been drinking "love's blood", it's bloodstained. Now I suppose that he might have been drinking this metaphorical blood out of his cupped hands before handling the key and that's why it's ... tarnished... with blood. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to be violently sick all over the place.
Okay, I'm back. I've always imagined Goths drinking with elaborate silver flagons rather than cupped hands. Ah, well. I'm still wondering how two independent metaphors can merge like that. They shouldn't, but they do. And why would anyone be eased by the gift of a bloodstained key because it tastes sweet? Who's putting keys in their mouth? Oh god! The contents of my stomach!
... ... Okay, back again. Better to not think about it too much. We're going to assume that Hirsch intended this as a Goth-y poem because if he didn't, then I'd have to give up. If this isn't a Goth poem, then nothing on this planet makes any sense at all. Luckily for everyone involved, there is a lot more to examine in this composition besides the key. "Love's blood" is a good place to (re)start. Goths enjoy vampires in the same way that anime fans enjoy screaming. It's hard to read "Love's blood is sweet so I binge" without thinking about the Nosferatu of your choice or burning a copy of an Anne Rice novel and then peeing on its ashes. Okay, so he is saying that he is bingeing on love. He's a man deeply in love. He's passionately gaga over another human with a penchant for feminine trenchcoats and eye shadow. A voice cries out -- Hirsh naively ignores it. It would appear all is not well back at camp. The drink becomes thick. I think Hirsh is trying to say that his girlfriend started writing really terrible Goth poetry and rifts started developing. The honeymoon period of their relationship was over-- it'd been over for several weeks. Hirsh was just too dense/blinded by the light to realize it.
Realizing that something is dreadfully wrong, Hirsh reacts by smothering his lover with sweet (honeyed) affection -- which, of course, doesn't work at all. Love becomes "dark, cold, bitter." I was going to make yet another Goth joke at his expense here, but I'm starting to feel mildly sorry for the poor sap author. But, for the record, the joke was going to be something like... "yet it got dark, cold and bitter" -- so the two Goths lived happily ever after? Zing. Aw, poor Hirsh. Now he's sorrowful and crying, haunted by ghosts of Girlfriend Past. It sounds like he's suffered his first major breakup. Empathy is the last thing he needs. Maybe he should just sit down on his couch, microwave some blood-flavored popcorn, and watch a few hundred episodes of "Dark Shadows." Go. Barnabas Collins is waiting for you.
Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A = worst poem imaginable]: A
