Welcome, O Reader, to the final entry in this spontaneous Bad Poetry Week Celebration. Spurred by Amanda Palmer‘s example at the start of the week, we’ve since gawked at horrifying lizard-themed word-butchery by Troy Lumber, a cringeworthy WWI song, and and ode by the Cheese Poet.
But lest we start to feel superior, in comparison to these truly eye-bleedingly bad examples, I grit my teeth, quashed my cowardice, and brought out my own notebook of half-assed college poetry. And folks — it’s awful. The only good thing I can say about my poetical attempts is that there are mercifully few of them. And the sonnet explaining how to write a sonnet is okay.
So, in the spirit of camaraderie that is the very essence of Bad Poetry Week, I present you the reason why I should never be allowed to write free-associative verse ever again. Warning: the following poem contains levels of ham-handed allusion and overly serious pretension that, if they were turned into food, would pretty much eliminate world hunger for at least a week.
Draft #2
by Olivia Waite
The hand of the Almighty Dog
two springs connected
in oscillating ecstasy
like jellied eels in springtime
snickering apoplectically
and the ever-loving nation falls to pieces.
Where will all the insanity end?
When will the myriad voices cease
their merciless whinging clamor
a ululate gaggle of aching throats
gone hoarse screaming in lecherous agony:
“come on up to my room
and I’ll work you over.”
It’s enough to make you want
to spit on the electric fence.
And the reading accumulates
and accumulates
and accumulates and accumulates
and … well you get the idea …
and then the mind begins
its wobbly revolution:
This is the way the poem ends
this is the way the poem ends
this is the way the poem ends
as Johnny comes marching home again
hurrah
hurrah.
