Bad Poetry 202

 I wrote “Cigars” about a friend of my brother’s who drown when he was 14. The conversation I had with him within the poem was, to the best of my recollection, true. I held a certain amount of amorphous guilt about his death. I’d seen him a day or so before his death and, for selfish teenage boy reasons, I ushered him away. I had a certain amount of trouble reconciling my feelings partially due to the fact that I had any. In the town where I grew up everyone knew a dead kid.

Cigars

A year ago today

We sat at my table

And talked about the big and the small

A year ago today

We talked first loves

First lusts

The   women we had and

The women we wanted

A year ago today

We stood over a machine

And speculated what was making

It tick and wheeze and sputter so

A year ago we stared at stars

And wondered their purpose

We sat smoking cigars

Their pungent odor

Irritating our eyes

I told you my worries

You said “Everything works out”

You smiled and made it all simple

I don’t smoke cigars anymore

My eyes still water though

Because a year ago tomorrow

I saw them pull you

From the water.

A pretty childish punch at the end there, but hey, at least I was trying to write my feelings, right? Oh, and the “me” in the poem was totally lying. I still smoked cigars.

Bad Poetry 201

Here's more angsty bullshit from so long ago. If only that version of me could hear me screaming, maybe he'd stop.

Prime Time

Hurry up and watch!

Quick sit down to see

open your dead eyes

stare with hypnotic absence

As men smear the blood of infants

across the glass

Old men in dull gray suits

rip the viscera of the living

to entertain that dead

Broadcast Death and Pain

They murder you slowly

Killing with the sights

the sounds and the smells of terror

You can't get enough

there's one in every room

These same gray men

have made a junkie of you

Shoot up for hours on end

Ask that kid of yours

that one you don't understand

Beg them to Call the Corner

Because someone has killed you

You're Dead

Dead of Radiation Sickness

So...I'm better than people who watch television. I think I wrote this in front of the television. The word "hypocrite" seems to good for this version of myself.

Bad Poetry 101

Here's some bad poetry from when I was in high school. Apparently my feelings about women were rather inconsistent. These two gems were right next to each other. Get ready for some of the worst kind of bad poetry. It's Sanctimalicious!

Up and Around

It'll seek you out today
Seep into your room like smoke
Caress the wounds it left
If your mind wasn't numbed by pain
you might realize the irony
Now it cries its liar's tears
and begging with empty words
He would never hurt
it was it
an undefinable thing
whose excuses like a river
pressures of work surging
beyond the banks
the water drown you both
you were both victims
you were physically surrendered
and made to endure
he was made to surrender control
he would never hurt
it was it
an undefinable thing
you'll see this more clearly
when your eye heals
get some sleep you'll need
your strength
it's on its third beer
its tears have all dried up
all you can see in its eyes
is hell

Jesus! I almost want to add a "MUWHAHAHAHA" to the end there.


Love Poem #38C

If I were a painter
you would be my painting
If I were music
I would be a musician
You're the object of my passion
These are all lies
lies some joker tells
to invade your space
it doesn't matter how trite
or hackneyed these expressions become
you'll still succumb because these words
are your excuse for failing to guard your gates
Everytime you into these
atrocities against creativity
another poet dies
If you make my words meaningless
You're a whore not only of body
but spirit as well
You sold my soul and didn't even ask
I'd say you owe me
Oh I see
You need some words
If I were a pedophile
you'd be my prepubescent playmate
So can I get some!


Man, I was just an imperial sized douchebag.