Bad Poetry Contest

Regeneration

mOOnbirdShadow — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 07:22:46 GMT

Come, we are heavens,

We here offer the most freedom

Nay strict doctrines

Nay law binds

Nay bottom lines

Wants sex, goes sex

Wants meth, gets match first

We plant weeds at backyard

Harm free.

Come, sweet baby bomb.

We heaven

No racialist,

No discrimination.

Straight or curl

Thy desire,

Thou decide.

Come, boy comes.

We have guns for free,

Shoot thy parents;

Brothers, teachers;

Anyone who hits thine ego.

Gun them holes.

Come hurry, come

We are the most creature rights.

Doth what thou don’t want,

Speech free

For what thou doth not see.

Come fellow, come

Heaven here,

Nay sinne;

Nay guilt,

Conscience free

Shame and regret?

What’s that?

The Suicide Suite at the Checkers Hotel

Alyn — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 19:57:11 GMT

The Suicide Suite

The suicide suite

At the Checkers Hotel,

Goin’ straight from my room

To the fires of Hell;

The songs of Los Angeles

Never miss a beat,

Sirens chasing cop cars

And beggars in the street;

But in the hotel lobby

All is safe and sane,

The smile behind the counter

Is genuinely inane;

Bright brass flows all around, and yet,

There’s still a stain or two,

And everywhere your stare is met

By faces dull and blue;

But money is no problem

For those who stay within,

It can’t be when they charge you ten,

For tonic and some gin;

Let see the room, I’ve got the key,

It’s mine while I’m alive,

And what’s below the precipice

Of Checkers six-oh-five;

I’m curious about the view

That I’ll be passing by,

And will I black out on the way,

Or kick, and scream, and cry;

Just as I thought, no living thing,

To watch my final feat,

Just sirens chasing cops cars,

And beggars in the street;

Surrounded by square monuments

Of steel and concrete,

My blood will paint the asphalt

At their filthy feet;

But not just yet, there’s lots of time,

I’ve got to stop and think,

Can’t rush this thing, this deadly fling,

Let’s sit and have a drink;

Eight bucks for a cabernet,

I can’t believe its true,

But I’ve no need for money now,

In minutes I’ll be through;

What brought me here, I can’t quite say,

It’s troubling but true,

The weight’s too much, I’ve lost my crutch,

The world’s come crashing through;

A sip of wine, a cigarette,

Quiet darkness fills the room,

It must be time to fly away

And leave this life of gloom;

The window opens outward,

A straight shot to the street,

Below there are no obstacles,

How nice they thought of me;

I’d leave a note, but what’s the point,

No one listens anyway,

They’ll think I went to fetch a pen,

And stumbled on the way;

Well here we go, no time to lose,

It’s time to get some air,

Don’t worry Mom, I’ve paid you heed,

I’ve got clean underwear;

Down we go, down through the breeze,

Getting faster as we go,

But the street is still so far away,

And time goes by so slow;

But here she comes, much faster now,

The cold, hard world I know,

Then suddenly, “I understand…

I CAN’T DIE NOW, OH N…!”

He said, with a grin (as he wiped off his chin)

Schadenfreude — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 16:48:54 GMT

Time for a new bad poetry contest.

Who's in?

Please Stop Wearing Underpants On Your Head

topazz — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 00:03:01 GMT

Please Stop Wearing Underpants On Your Head
By topazz

Please Stop Wearing Underpants
On Your Head
It Maketh Me Doubt
That To A Sane Man I've Wed

Not To Mention What Happens
When We Walk Around the Square
Tis' Always Me Who Is Left
To Deal With All The Stares

But If You Must Pursue
This God-Forsaken Lark
At Least Be A Gent
And First Remove The Skid-Marks.

(Thank you. Thank You Very Much.)

Well Wickersby, time to pack up your knives and head south

pikes simbleden — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 17:58:10 GMT

If I may be so bold as to post a post on such a distinguished website filled with royalty and patriotic wannabe leprechauns etc, I should say that I was just talking to my friend Mr. Wickersby about his possibly heading south for the winter and he said a ghastly thing.

Egad! I thought the man was half mad not wanting to head for the California Hills during winter. Do you want to freeze to death Wickersby? Of course he thinks when I say California I mean Alaska. He's got a problem with opposites and seems to enjoy doing the opposite of what people say. I fear I'll never get that Wickersby down to California if he keeps this attitude up.

I'll never get him to firm up and mature his body, which is what time at the south'll do. Moving around the earth just kneeds the body like dough, and its good for people! I don't care what anyone says. I keep telling Wickerby that if he wants to look good without trying very hard then he needs to go south, but he just won't listen. He keeps saying something about unfinished business from the revolution and calls me Spikes Pimpslden. Whenever he says this I tell him that I've no idea how I got my name and no idea what he's implying, but if he dosn't move to California and make a big porno movie then I'm just going to publically hate the man on Slate.com; and in a private room where no one can see, but only a chosen few.

To tell the truth, I've been thinking about writing Dear Abby about all this, because this is a critical juncture for Wickersby. He's not a young man anymore, and his body is not as maleable. Soon he'll be beyond my powers of help. I just want the best for him. Well I'll have to do some serious meditating for this one, perhaps smoke a hookah full of hash in the Congo while drinking Pomegranate juice or whatever.

To Be Continued

"FPO"

Paul Madore — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 14:21:03 GMT

"FPO"

Lorem Ipsum

Dolor Sit Amet

Win some, Lose some

Best not Tibet

TED BURKE - WINNUH, WINNUH, WINNUH!

CaliforniaDreamin — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 06:26:19 GMT

No contest.

Ted has been honing his Bad Poetry skills for years....

Beached Longings

Confussed — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 16:19:17 GMT

On the Beach

Burning away

but not from the sun that’s hot.

Sitting in the sand

the lustful longing is for what?

For a pair of tanned

running shapely legs

that might kick your lonely

desires in the butt?

So utterly aphrodisiac

as the warm sand’n sun

Could only be the memory

of long forgotten fun.

ELVIS

T.L. Toadvine — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 11:57:15 GMT

He had spent 20 years on the throne

had more Mafia than Al Capone

he was a bonafied King to the bone

and called Memphis home

He had a gastronomical attack

headed for the can and never came back

weeping women all dressed in black

falling like flies

at the sight of that Hearse Cadillac

Everybody wondered what went wrong

With that hunk of burning lover of song

Now he`ll never again answer the ding-dong

or cut Graceland`s lawn

Twilight

Ceroill — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 04:40:01 GMT

Twilight

Twilight. It bridges the timelessness from afternoon to evening, but not quite night yet.

Twilight

Twilight. Getting toward time to turn on your headlights.

Twilight

Twilight. Never could quite figure what's so special about it.

Twilight.

love gone wrong

knedlik — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 18:04:49 GMT

I feel the warmth of your hand upon my cheek

like a portable travel iron;

I hear sizzling noises,

I smell bacon,

your hand is warm.

Your eyes are metaphoric caves

in which I go spelunking

dark and moist and damp

they make my lungs feel uncomfortable.

Your mouth is moving, making sounds

sounds that I cannot hear

maybe I should take my earbuds out

or learn to read lips

I tried learning Mandarin once

I think lips would be easier

Thank you and drive safely

my entry

bornloser — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 12:54:01 GMT

I think the winner at least ought to get a bottle of wine.... a bottle of red wine..

Tom and Tim

Were Siamese twins,

For whom strong liquor and bar talk

Were life-saving sins.

Potty-mouth Tom,

So vigorous and loud,

After each raunchy joke,

He dramatically bowed.

Reticent Tim,

Stayed quiet and terse,

Sipping his vodka,

Between Tom's dirty verse.

Till one day indignant good people proposed

The twins be separate, well-mannered, and composed.

Tom died on the table

Respectful and polite

Tim painfully sober

Under the bright OR light

This leads me to think

You can't reform or disjoin

Opposite sides

Of the same boorish coin.

Your Tiny Silk Underpants (Or "A dozen cream-filled at the parlor")

akclark2001 — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 19:34:25 GMT

Your Tiny Silk Underpants (Or "A dozen donuts at the parlor")

In the smoky haze of the bar that night

In your purple dress way too tight

You seemed to clench up your butt cheeks

When I said "hello."

Most women would have been thrown off

When I said, "Care to come back to the funeral parlor?"

But your thick black nails suggested I'd get lucky

In that loft with the embalming table.

Watching you walk along the stairwell

I felt a burning that had nothing to do do with my rash,

And I never seen such a tiny silk thong

On such a large woman.

There was no awkward silence in the morn

Only birds chirping, the bereaving folks singing downstairs

And the beautiful sound of you pounding

One cream-filled donut after the other.

Ode to Mothra

brockmeyer — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 15:47:39 GMT

Ode to Mothra

MY Heart belongs to Mothra

Not to Tom Cruise, my grandma, or Slothra,

Not to mention other monsters like the giant gorilla,

And I would not loan a dime to that reject Godzilla.

Like humans lured to an incandescent broth,

I am attracted like a flame to that lovable moth.

He is giant, immense, a huge flying spacula

Of insectoid organs. So unlike that bore Dracula.

On summer nights, I immerse my thoughts

To ponder on this amazing behemoth.

Of mile-long wings with furry moth hair

Two long antenna and a vacuous stare.

So long ago in a movie supreme,

Mothra came alive in a technicolor dream,

To rescue two midgets who sang a love song,

It’s a good thing you came instead of King Kong.

Moffra! Moffra! The scientists raged

As you developed from primal pupae to grow to teen-age.

You swam through the oceans and flew through the stars,

(For personal health reasons, you avoided the bars.)

As you rescued those ladies, a big bug flotilla,

You battled it out with that jughead Godzilla.

You refused calling for help on your Verizon cell phone,

Though you nearly asphyxiated on some earthly ozone.

So Mothra, this is my ode to you alone,

And in your honor I am no longer using moth flakes at home.

To my lover (or "chinese symbols tattooed to buttocks")

akclark2001 — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 16:54:03 GMT

Oh Beatrice I see you

There in the moonlight

The cheezewhiz dripping from your

Your lovely mounds of love.

A womanwich sandwich with mayo

Better than a taco salad

Better than hot sauce on eggs

You are like a drizzle of Karo.

My sore spot

lennie — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 17:48:38 GMT

Grunt on a Tuesday

When your shoe chafes

That callous you got

From inadequate arch support.

bad poet

bobdow — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 04:05:03 GMT

bad poet he was a bad poet. he was always using tricks like trying to rhyme vagina and harmonica "it's loose rhyme" he'd say smugly god I hated him. too bad... he had a great ass.

The edge of the universe

Raspberry — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 01:32:51 GMT

The edge of the universe

An egg, a dinner plate, symbolize my treacherous life.

the daisies on the sidewalk mock me; they don't know the pain and beauty in my heart.

don't you hear them laughing? Har har har!

the giraffes have always understood. love always sighs.

Fiddle dee fo dee fum.

Paris Hilton, be my baby momma.

Why do we cry? lie? spy? die? have some apple pie, and goodbye....

Why must life be so long and difficult?

Thinking of Auden

ktjazz76 — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 22:45:39 GMT

August 20, 2007

By K. T. Jazz

I sit high above shaking ground

Silently contemplating my terrorist-target work-home

Skulking erect west of the Mississippi

My sweater-set screaming cotton blend.

The stale odor of mediocrity

Offends the August day.

Exiled George Senior knew

All there was to know

About fascism and stability;

Senior understood, we see it now

That dictators are often better

Than dreams of equality;

George served over brunch at Kennebunk

To his unwilling brood,

The lessons of isolation and

Of minimalist invasion.

Little George, unfortunately,

Did not digest that meal.

George Junior knew all that Gerson could say

About Democracy

That wide-eyed dream of his

Whispered in his ear by Droves

The breeziest militant rubbish

Poured forth from his mouth;

His political mandate.

Junior prefers to make his mark

At the bottom of History

One long trudge toward oblivion, as he sees;

He does not grasp its cyclical nature.

His approval ratings show what he cannot understand.

But I and the public know

What My Pet Goat readers learn:

Those who consume everything in their path

Can not hope for a healthy return.

All I have is the billable hour

To undo the crumpled falsehood;

My 45-minute dense commute;

To my bright seaside apartment

I pass the grimier districts

Of this smog-quilted city

I breathe the same air as they, and yet

Exiting the freeway to Santa Monica, I glimpse

Ironic bits of light, the rich and liberal

Beaming out their messages, and I

Grasp the intent

Of their affirming flame:

The world may go to hell, but we

Have money and live in California.

Everyone else can suck it.

If only...

ktd — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 19:45:32 GMT

If only I had ever found that special someone to spend my life with.

If only I had ever found a job that I could retire from after thirty years.

If only I had not bought a house that is worth less than the mortgage.

If only I had managed to clean that house on a semi-regular basis.

If only I could start all over again.

Hacker Haiku

stevapalooza — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 15:08:43 GMT

Life iz teh suxx0rz
Am I l33t or just a n00b?
Pwnage cuts mad d33p

Rhyme

mrs-mookie — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 06:30:20 GMT

Presented to the Fray as a gift from a person thinking back to school thoughts and the writer- Mrs. Mookie's son- obviously never heard of punctuation or checking his spelling:

I like school at least I think I do

its boring its stupid and teachers yell at you

its like a prison that u go to every single day to sit and watch your time tick away

you see your friends then you get sent away

teachers are like people that hate those annoying kids

that sit and laugh at them till the homework comes

then we sit and pay attention as if nothing happend while they were away

they give dt's like flyers at a show wondering how many can I give in a row

glad to leave but to only come back again to this dreaded prison to be locked up and confined for another day of chaos

tests are like a scare that makes ya think what the hell

teachers revenge is what that is

just like the scilence of death till you go sweet its summer

Sisyphus Among the Philistines

X. P. Callahan — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 00:52:08 GMT

And he rolls, rolls, rolls that big rock up that mountain
and lets it drop
along with names like Ulysses and Aphrodite
and Apollo and Artemis and Zeus
as well as the name on the white plastic tag
pinned on that red-polyester-jacketed velvet-eyed
curly-haired
little divinity skimming the oil slick
from the surface of the avgolemono
in the stainless-steel soup pot at the Terra Linda
Safeway salad bar.

We must imagine Sisyphus happy, said Camus.

Rolling, rolling, rolling, Sisyphus keeps rolling,
no dipping for him of tootsies into the Lethe,
however that river is pronounced,
pushing and pushing and letting that big rock roll
right back down again and again.

When all of a sudden Sisyphus is plucked
from his eternal task and plunged
into the cold cold blue blue of the Aegean,
and not a soul in the workshop has a freaking clue why.

Silverware is Neat

brian_palmer — Sun, 19 Aug 2007 21:20:36 GMT

Silverware is Neat

by Brian Palmer

Silverware isn't cool;
it isn't tidy;
it's just a tool.
We use it to eat - our meat,
and keep our fingers clean.

Soup spoons get hot;
don't leak;
hold a lot.
With them we slurp - then burp,
the various gases in out stomaches.

What men use to take life;
is not called;
a dull knife.
Instead, it's a sharp one - no gun,
is needed in this situation.

A fork is for holding;
not tearing;
not molding.
A fork has sharp ends - and sends,
pain to you brain if you poke yourself.

Oh yes, silverware is neat, is neat, is neat.
Oh yes, silverware is neat, ain't it?

Ode to my favorite bus driver

acupunctee — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 00:19:23 GMT

Whene'er I climb upon the bus
My hapless loins a-throb with lust
to see him there, astride a steed
of steel and wheels: the man I need
to drive me to my work and then
out of my mind! Then home again.
Alas, alas, alas, alas!
I'll never get to see his ass.

Bad Poetry Contest

Regeneration

The Suicide Suite at the Checkers Hotel

He said, with a grin (as he wiped off his chin)

Please Stop Wearing Underpants On Your Head

Well Wickersby, time to pack up your knives and head south

"FPO"

TED BURKE - WINNUH, WINNUH, WINNUH!

Beached Longings

********ELVIS********

Twilight

love gone wrong

my entry

Your Tiny Silk Underpants (Or "A dozen cream-filled at the parlor")

Ode to Mothra

To my lover (or "chinese symbols tattooed to buttocks")

My sore spot

bad poet

The edge of the universe

Thinking of Auden

If only...

Hacker Haiku

Rhyme

Sisyphus Among the Philistines

Silverware is Neat

Ode to my favorite bus driver

ELVIS