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Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - Launching Pad

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Jul. 30th, 2011 | 07:27 pm

Launching Pad
by Dee


She bought her clothes at the discount chain,
No sugar Daddy, no gravy train.
A simple girl of ordinary means
She often ate wieners without any beans.
She imagined better and in her dreams
She ate elegant chocolates, only the creams.
She drank bubbly, expensive champagne
Soaring the world in her private plane.
She knew imagination was totally free
So late at night she would smile with glee
Picking piles of bills from the money tree.
She went on adventures wearing only her robe
With zebras and elephants she traveled the globe.
If anyone would ask her and discreetly probe
How she could afford the adventures she had
She would show them the library that was her launching pad.


As a lifelong fan of libraries, I can appreciate that Dee used a library as an escape. What I object to is her smug bragging. I escaped to the library because I didn't have a lot of friends and the library was peaceful and quiet. It's rare that I admit to sharing a quality with an ABPJ author, but I would think Dee doesn't have a lot of friends either. Imagine this dialogue that Dee paints at the end of her poem.

"Hi Dee! How was your weekend?"

"It was awesome! I took my private jet to a secret tropical island with Michael Crichton and then had dinner with Anthony Bourdain and then uncovered a awesomely stupid religious conspiracy with Dan Brown! Then I had a threesome with Rosemary Rogers and Truman Capote!"

"Wait, isn't Michael Crichton dead?"

"Yep!"

"Well, since I have the brain of a tapeworm, I have to ask, how did you afford all of this on the salary of a dental hygienist?"

"An excellent question, old friend. I will tell you where I began this trip. You need not look farther than our local library!"

"Oh Dee! That's wonderful! How insightful! I wish I could read! But I can't because I'm a contrived bullshit device in your crappy poem."

I was going to compliment Dee on her consistent rhyme scheme, but then I double-checked. You will note that she switches abruptly at the halfway point. Somehow this feels worse than if she just abandoned the rhyming scheme after the first four lines. Check out her rhyming skills. She rhymed free, glee, and tree. Then because she was on a roll, she knocked down robe, globe and probe. Ogden Nash can suck it. Dee continues to aggravate me with her "money tree." A money tree doesn't seem like a thing that would be imagined as a result of visiting the local library. It feels like something that would be imagined by a hobo high on opium in 1931.

I would be remiss if I did not bring up the fourth line of the poem: "She often ate wieners without any beans." If Dee was invited to read this poem to my peers when I was in 4th grade, this line would have caused a riot that would have eventually destroyed most of our affluent suburb. When writing any poem, you have to ask yourself if any of the lines will cause a 10-year-old to eventually throw a brick through the window of a fro-yo business. If the answer is yes, the line should be immediately exorcised. I am not so mature that I cannot see the humor in this. Ignoring the potential ribald jokes and viewing the line from a literal perspective, aren't beans significantly cheaper than hot dogs? You can buy twelve 13 ounce cans of Heinz beans for $21, according to a quick Google search. That's $1.75 per can, for almost 10 pounds of beans. Wouldn't it be more cost effective to eat the beans without weiners? You could argue that beans are marginally healthier.

Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A = worst poem imaginable]: A-
zoinks!!
The Amazingly Bad Poetry is definitely not made possible by a grant from the National Science Foundation.

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Comments {3}

Respice finem

(no subject)

from: malsperanza
date: Jul. 31st, 2011 02:40 pm (UTC)
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<3

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There are only 2 things to do, & you're 1 of them

(no subject)

from: introspection63
date: Aug. 2nd, 2011 06:25 pm (UTC)
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This is awesome, and your commentary is very astute.

I have to say, I can't imagine how a group of fourth-graders could destroy a school, much less an entire community. Aren't they, well, short? and have parents that limit their activities?

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Darth Figpucker

Death Support System (Poetry Reading)

from: darthfigpucker
date: Jan. 28th, 2014 08:13 pm (UTC)
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I confine myself in a crowded cage filled w/ Death-Worshipping Machines. They constantly suck on Death’s little white dicks while conveniently putting $$$$$ in the collection plate at the corner quickie shop—Automatons passionately embracing their murderers.
Feeling nothing, I close my eyes and grimace w/o pain, ignoring the necrophilic stench of their breaths while they fill the funeral urns with their own ashes. And I cannot weep.
A robotic claw-like hand rams itself into my anus, reaches deep inside, clutching my dead heart, pumping rancid fluid through my rotting veins. *Pump pump… Pump pump… Pump pump…* It won’t let me die in peace.
A large fat cellulite-filled sack of butchered meat wobbles itself over my face—a gigantic sweaty disembodied ass that spreads its cheeks over my blank staring face and farts into my lungs, inflating them rhythmically w/ methane, hydrogen, amines, and sulfides.
Acrid fumes sting my already blind eyes, never meant to see anyway.
Snorting Crystal Drano to clear my sewer mind, scraped out and laid on the table before the autopsy even begins. A car battery w/ jumper cables neatly attached. 6-V spasms simulate animated life. Animated animosity for all.
Sewer mind, never mind, never-never minde, never-never lande, animae-shunned. Movie theatre seats one. Sit behind and watch what I C U. Sitting there. Rehearsing. Concerned only with your performance, you missed the funeral while giving God a hand-job in the limousine hearse. Re-hearse.
All these rusty needle-pens found in the gutters and hospital dumpsters plugged in, injecting sugar water, caffeine, vitamins, synthetic feelings, and thrift-store-bought 2nd-hand emotions. “Soda pop corn?” “Snuff porn?” And the occasional hallucination… Hallulu-ya. Sin. Nation.
This is my death, my artificial life, my Sleeping Beauty crystal see-thru coffin.
These things are here before us. These things are you. I suppose they’re art.

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