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.

So please allow me the dubious pleasure of presenting my favorite of the Cheese Poet’s oeuvre.

Ode on the Mammoth Cheese

by James MacIntyre

We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze –
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees –
Or as the leaves upon the trees –
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great World’s show at Paris.

Of the youth — beware of these –
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek; then songs or glees
We could not sing o’ Queen of Cheese.

We’rt thou suspended from baloon,
You’d cast a shade, even at noon;
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

And then, sitting in the middle like your drunk uncle telling inappropriate jokes at a state funeral, there’s this British airmen’s song:

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me:

For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,

They’ve got the goods for me.

Oh! Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?

Oh! Grave, thy victory?

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me.

Bonus: there is a never-released Ian McKellan/Gregory Peck film (!) with a screenplay by Roald Dahl (!!) that featured this as a musical number. Thanks, YouTube!

Reptilicus

by Troy Lumber

From the depths of the sea
To protect you and me
A winged and scaled savior shall rise
Five hundred feet long
Yes, indeed, he is strong
He rules both the waves and the skies
High wizard of lizards
Has mystical gizzards
And projects laser beams from his eyes
As he unbrings his wings
Hear his countrymen sing
For this is the day evil dies

Embrace the right in his might
Respect his fight while in flight

Whoa Reptilicus
Watcher of air, land and sea
Whoa Reptilicus

Whoa Reptilicus
Forked tongue of truth protects the free
Whoa Reptilicus

Yes it’s Reptilicus
Mighty Reptilicus
His balls large and hot like the sun
The armies on the field
Already dropped and kneeled
Conceded he’s already won
The shriek that he emits
Give whole kindoms the shits
The carnage and bodies amass
He gnaws the bones of foes
For everybody knows
Reptilicus kicks fucking ass

Respect his fight while in flight
Embrace the right in his might

Whoa Reptilicus
Watcher of air, land and sea
Whoa Reptilicus

Whoa Reptilicus
Forked tongue of truth protects the free
Whoa Reptilicus

{

What’s worse: Amanda Palmer’s terrible poem is not even terrible enough to be fun.

Over the years, I’ve become something of a connoisseur of bad poetry. The kind that will make your eyes twist and try to escape their sockets before you make them read the next line. And there’s an electricity you get from bad poetry that can be almost as refreshing as good poetry — something about bad poetry makes you realize that you’re not doing so bad in your own life after all, no matter what the nighttime voices tell you when you’re trying to sleep. So I’m declaring this week Bad Poetry Week — I’ll post a different terrible poem every day, culminating in some of my own embarrassing productions from diaries past.

Today’s terrible poem — be warned, this is not for the faint of heart.

A Tragedy

by Theophilus Marzials

Death!
Plop.

The barges down in the river flop.

Flop, plop.

Above, beneath.

From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.

Plop, plop.

And scudding by

The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,

And my head shrieks — “Stop,”

And my heart shrieks — “Die.”

*          *          *          *          *
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them — and fled
They all are every one! — and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
Plop.
Dead.

And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
Flop, plop.
*          *          *          *          *
A curse on him.
Ugh! yet I knew — I knew –
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end –

My Devil — My “Friend”

I had trusted the whole of my living to!

Ugh; and I knew!

Ugh!

So what do I care,

And my head is empty as air –

I can do,

I can dare,

(Plop, plop

The barges flop

Drip drop.)

I can dare! I can dare!

And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.

Drop.

Dead.

Plop, flop.

                                              Plop.

{This has been your first installment of Bad Poetry Week with Olivia Waite. If you’d like to sample something in prose for a palate-cleanser, it just so happens I have a new book out, Color Me Bad, which is available from Ellora’s Cave, ARe (where it’s half off!) and the Kindle store.}