There once was a man who went out on a limb but he forgot, one week before he had his tree trimmed. To earthen ground he doth came with a mighty splat, oh what a shame. If anything is to be learned it's make sure you have a limb to go out on. LOL, I crack myself up on this dribble.
Serious or jokin'. Are these words in earnest, or just a lovely token? Layered and neat. Words... Rhythm and beat. Mad and whirlin' Fear... A brain child, twirlin' A gambit tossed, all meaning... Scattered and lost.
Poet and cleaver... with a tongue twice as sharp, and a pen, deadlier still. Poet and cleaver. Justified slaughter...by a hack poet.
There once was a mouse who lived in a dollhouse He put up wallpaper that the owner hated She put out mouse traps that were generously baited.
10/10 would try to imagine sound 1/10 realized the atmosphere would have evaporated locally and there's no sound in space
A mad, mad dance on the way to church... Gritty bright pop, a lost bit of faith. Black and blue and purple and grey. Insanity and beauty in the chaos. The measure of the bad and derth of the good. It makes no sense...the mad, mad dance of a mind turned loose, a mystery tangled. Muses all, if one takes time to search...
Nobody's my facebook friend Nobody's perfect Nobody tapped my left shoulder when I was not looking and sat to my right
Somebody to Nobody Somebody said to Nobody Nobody is a Somebody. Nobody to the Somebody. Merely silence speaking. Nobody knew... Somebody could be Anybody. Nobody knew...
What properties does a black hole have? Any at all? It's a grave and grief revolves around it as a last barrier forming a succulent shell Aren't these washing winds around a knot of suspended laws of nature forming a radiant cloud, poisonous vapor a mirror's edge that's not part of it's host but it's host absorbs the nuclear energy as physics eradicates itself A sponge that attracts but cannot inflate it deflects what it consumes force fed, it force defecates leaving one to say One day time will come where fractals end and do not transcend a diffraction where it all sits The ''all the way down'' turtle The chicken hatch particle What's up with time itself A single iteration revolves all around... It's not space but a rush of particles I realize as I lay Inanimate in my room, quietly as the now decays And I don't know who I will be but I hear many names. I hear a voice say Aquarius Don't fear death because you fear life don't fear life because it's salvation is death, Let the days pass by. Your conscious is made of death's mirror What property does matter have that life does not have? Certainty of being submitted to physics. Life superimposes free will over matter it possesses The body, the habitat. It is guided by a force of fate and destination synonymous with what we all know That's a common universal law. Life can sense conscious and cage it into essence All I will remember at this happiness is the thought I am forgotten and once was.
This is supposed to be the BAD poetry thread! Too many people are writing too well here! Come on, people! Do worse!
Dragon flies to the kitchen sink and I eat rainbows in the rinkiedink You once said I could never Grow guitar strings in the heart of the moon while Star Wars was all the rage in 1979. I remember saying to you I wanted to kill the sun for having swore a vendetta against Pluto (or - Plato?) but to hell with people who pull that string in case they ever see again the marvelous luscious qualities of a Mamma character on the ass of the far side of Ted Turner's braces. lol I did it again. I pulled myself from one of the seven stirrings of mars You said I couldn't, and I did it. To hell with wardrobes. And your lies.
Skydiving Into The Blue Heroin runs in my veins ruins are in vain my manes flee Mate, I'm safe at least, sane Surface Please. water I run drain drink... Instilling wait for it My mind has fingers snapping twice No time, deny demented I break fresh percussion I'd not be mental, not retarded, the skeleton were kept refreshed skin isolates preserves late death mummified a-live and well best thing to a forest, second life I'd be the next in the abyss with sunken Lego realms -we know, misplaced frozen items scattered across the plane and the tropical climate granted all it's time it had No changes where we dwell I'd protect them doin' it and have them feast on me, silent fish, and boats are forest fire dragons In my legendary deep sea odyssey fixed fifty million miles underneath the sky of fifty million submerged years long I would not see Turtles are fine as hell though Even man knows I'd be immortal If I was coral, baby.
The Small, the Tall, and the Ball You're too small-- for that damned yoga ball. It is only for the tall-- Small-- Practice. Patience. Balance. Ball-- Flexing. Giving. Teaching. Tall-- Hell...Not at all. Ball-- Balanced Small... now standing tall.
Toxic singin' of Dope Machines. ADHD, mind and body, chronic and whirlin' motion. A spring overwound. A spirit pinned down. Focus fractured, Silence, the only sound. Rhyme and prattle. Madness... Or a playful, bright rattle?
@Darkkin, I'm afraid you don't know what bad poetry is. None of your work qualifies for this thread. You, unfortunately, have talent. If you want to post in this thread, I suggest following these steps: 1. Get stinking drunk. 2. Hit yourself in the head with a ball-peen hammer sixteen times, or until your IQ descends below 75. 3. Detune your guitar strings until cats and dogs and small children can't stand the sound of the chords you play. 4. Sit in an overly-used outhouse and inhale the vapors for an hour. 5. Tie your shoes together so you can't walk without falling over. 6. Spend a couple of hours in a life-insurance seminar. 6. Eat lutefisk, haggis, and stinky tofu until you need to call an ambulance. 7. Write the first thing that comes into your head. I'm sure that what you produce will qualify. Hey, if you're not willing to make the effort, you can't expect to reap the rewards, right?
Said the Hammer to the Head... Why so sad? Why today? Replied the Head to the Hammer... My work apparently is not bad... In conjunction, an IQ needing to be reduced by 103 to stay...
Poetry...with Adjectives Horrendous mess-- A morass seething, heaving in its utter wretchedness. Beyond the reach of prayer or the slaying power of the pen. Where is the Amen-- for this poor, hulking wreck? Bad is done and buried, out there beside the church in a grave, unmarked. But these verses linger here, a phantom, haunting-- Sad words, taunting. Poetry, they kilt it dead. By verb and adjective, so the story said. Poetry, victim of a dark deed. Murdered and interred, care of a verb's bad seed.
Darn it, @Darkkin, you have ignored my advice and once again posted a non-bad poem! Come on, we know you can do worse!
It's true that the Czechs are very quirky @Darkkin - your second attempt wasn't bad at all! And by that, I meant it's not bad enough to be called bad poetry. You fail at bad poetry! Congrats!
The Food of the Gods or Am I Hungry, or What? Apollo’s quiver is full of asparagus Cauliflower adorns his noble head Lame Hephaestus forged his breastplate From johnnycakes of cornmeal and flour In a microwave oven – even pizza dough Is too porous, feeble, and cheese-stuffed For a god’s armor. Bacon-wrapped war-sausage Ares Scorching a little under the broiler Infatuated with the fat you ated Teases three-headed Cerberus with His growing smell. The dog of Hades Arfs, arfs, arfs, Mildly begging for table scraps, but not Of the aromatic war-sausage. He’d rather The bones of mighty Hercules, or at least Fucking Agamemnon, that sword-wielding Ronald McDonald Colonel Sanders Wendy Of a chicken a la king. Bloody good thing he’s dead, Homer wrote. Or maybe not. It might have been Mickey Spillane Or Gordon Ramsay, slicing elephant garlic With stubby foul fingers and the Knife of Athena Adding to the stew, offending the Oracle At Delphi, who breathes culinary Apollo’s Philly Cheese steak breath, his tequila exhalations And exhortations to any greasy bean-stuffed Warrior-Burrito willing to fling The Potatoes of Rottenness into the face Of brave, lime-and-soy-marinated Achilles.
The Tale of Hynerpeton Bob Hynerpeton Bob, egad, what slob! His penchant for mess was quite rare. His end of the river would give you a shiver, were you to visit, were you to dare. To the rest of the colony he was quite the anomaly, his sty a most sordid affair. Amphibians, you see, are fastidious to a T. No reptile or fish can compare. The presence of Bob, the notorious slob, gave the "vapors", yes they did declare. Those smoothest of skin, the hynerpeton kin, are delicate and quite debonair. So they ousted poor Bob, with disdain and pure snob, to live far away and beware. He must live all alone, his rank piquant tone, the thing that no one would bear.
A Rant of Heartbeats and Barefeet It's frail... ---the future uncertain... Nobody pissed at the world, --defiant and seething... Be still, go carefully, --Furious energy, pressing down. Nobody restless, reckless, --waiting for the sleepless hours. Darkness descends... --the kitchen light goes on. Bubblegum pop turned up, --linolium softly glowing. Barefeet, monkey toes, --gripping into gleaming wax. Clarkson pounding out, --Heartbeat goin' up... Nobody marking, launching... --a dance of reckless pain. Nobody whirling, fighting, gripping, --tinsel strength tossing her high. A heartbeat goin' up, up... --Nobody whirlin' barefoot around the kitchen floor.
