Tag Archives: Bad poetry

A Quick Breakfast

 

I was really tired when I wrote these!

 


 

I want an egg sandwich.
These things make themselves
If you’ve lost enough sleep
You can watch them
Make themselves
Life is easier when your breakfast is sentient
And ambulatory
As long as its attitude toward being eaten
Is positive.
A positive attitude
Can really make or break
A good breakfast.
Don’t break my breakfast
By giving it existential dread
Don’t let it start enjoying the real world
Or fearing death
Because soon
I must eat it
And I hate having to catch my own breakfast.
Swifter than a deer
So does the yolk in my egg sandwich run.

 

 


A second attempt:


 

Every morning
I must catch my own breakfast
The eggs are runny
The bacon is cooking fast
And these quickbreads won’t get away from me anytime soon.
But they’re going to have to get up earlier than that in the morning!

 

img_20190108_084730267

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Bits and Pieces 2

 

Below the blathering is another collection of little poems which didn’t make the cut as standalones, but which I liked too much to delete entirely.

I haven’t been the most reliable at posting this week! Without work as an anchor, my whole routine is thrown. I’m probably going to be sporadic for the rest of the month until all my vacation time is spent. I am doing my best to learn how to be reliable even when not working. So far this week I’m doing better than I did over my last vacation, when I just gave up on posting entirely. I consider this week’s three posts to be progress!

 


 

I wish

I wish

I wish I knew

What it is the good girls do.

 

 


 

I may not be much
But whatever I have
I have a lot of.

 

 


 

To find happiness

To find creativity

To fulfill my purpose

To work towards a goal

To improve

To relax

To be still

To accept

To deny

To take

To give

To have time for everyone

To use time efficiently

To be human

Push and pull

To be two

 

 


 

Hellscape

I’m just not feeling very dark today.

I hear a cricket

I see the pond at night

I feel the cool autumn air

I can breathe.

 

 


 

I want a lit cigarette

To take a drag

In drag

To bat my long false eyelashes

At some poor stud

And confuse the hell out of him

Until he doesn’t know

Which way his dick should be pointing.

 

 


 

I like the look of death

I want to lick death’s cheek.

But I’d miss

Because he has no cheeks.

 

 


 

Marble veined skin

Veins of marble

Skin of veins

Don’t kiss me

You

Are

Disgusting.

 

 

 


 

I am a planet

I drift

I follow the pull of gravity

I watch the worlds dance

I watch myself dance with them

Somehow we always miss each other

We never collide

Neither do we touch

 

 


 

My nose is clogged, my tonsils swole, and then

You tell me I should get back up again

I want to rest, my bed is safe and warm

But no one has the patience for my smarm

Get back to work, get up, get out, go on!

I hear you and I wish you weren’t born.

 

 


 

My only regret is,

If I take care of my health,

I may never have a prosthetic

With which to scare small children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Not in This One

 

This is a lot of nonsense. I didn’t write anything very good, and I didn’t want to separate it into different poems because it all fit together so well into the whole “I can’t think or write today” theme. So this is my free association. Consider it a deep insight into the magical creative process, dissect it, and discover great wonders. Or consider it somebody’s brain vomit, and know that you deserve better.

 


 

 

These thumbs

These fingers

These hands

These arms

These shoulders

This torso

These thighs

Knees

Shins

Feet

Toes.

All are mine.

All work well.

All are obedient

I keep them clean.

I exercise them

But today I still feel gross.

Whatta belly.

What an ass.

What thighs.

Nobody will want to look at me

If my belly sticks out this far.

It doesn’t matter

How bright my smile

(My teeth are rotting anyway)

Or how loving my eyes

(Bad vision, asymmetry, burgeoning body tag on eyelid)

Even my glorious red hair

(Knotty, rough, frizzy, not forever)

And my white nails

(Thin, prone to tearing)

Although my hands give me the ability to write, draw, cook,

I am all thumbs today.

 

 

 

I hate myself.

No I don’t.

 

I love myself.

Eh, mostly.

I do my damnedest either way.

 

 

 

Neutral

I was only

Neutral

Today.

I lived in beige.

An open door

Through which everything passed.

Nothing but net.

I fed the cats.

I worked.

I cooked oatmeal.

I fed the cats.

I washed dishes.

I worked.

I cooked soup.

I washed dishes.

I worked.

I cooked pudding.

I fed the cats.

We ate soup.

I washed dishes.

I napped.

I watched TV.

I tried to read

But nothing got to me.

We ate pudding.

I tried to read.

I ate scraps.

I fed the cats.

I showered.

I went to bed.

I was able to do everything I was supposed to do

Because I just

Wasn’t

There.

 

 

 

Hey, it’s Harold’s herald!

Behold! Harold cometh!

Harold! We knew you were coming. Your herald was here.

Where did my herald go?

He probably went to the next place you plan to go.

I’d like to meet him myself, but that guy’s always one step ahead of me.

Wish I had a herald.

I need a house crier.

What’s that?

Like a town crier, but just for house stuff. He’ll get through to my deaf husband.

Take him to the monastery, he can be a friar crier.

If the monks decide to market homemade onion rings, he can be the friar’s fryer crier.

And if a friar dyes the fryer, the crier can tell everyone who did it, and be a friar fryer dyer crier.

 
Boy am I on point tonight.

 

 

 

The deer

Tall

Antlers like icicles

Legs like drumsticks

Eyes like bocce balls

Wings like no one else

Flies lightly

Into the sky

On his skateboard.

Don’t get hit by his eggs.

 

 

 

How much is a face hugger worth?

A partillion?

A zoodlequad perhaps? Maybe even twoodlequads?

I’ll buy a facehugger one day. I will, wait and see. I’ll keep it in a cage and feed it faces every six thousand years, and I’ll love it and squeeze it and call it George.

 

 

 

I am utterly blank inside.

My brain is a vacuum

My eyes are marbles.

My skin is pale, insipid, dull

I smell like strawberry shampoo

I look like a wad.

I feel like…

Like an emptiness.

Nothing matters.

I don’t mind.

Maybe if I go to WordPress

I’ll read something beautiful

Have a feeling

Get a sense of human connection.

It won’t load.

The page too

Is blank.

Well fuck me.

 

 

 

 

Come along darling.

We’ll be late for the nothing.

Don’t dawdle.

When we get there we’ll have ice chips

And mothballs.

We can dance the tarantella

The quiet unmoving one.

And then we’ll hold hands

And wait to see

Who breathes first.

 

 

 

It’s not here.

It’s not anywhere.

It’s not in the soup.

It’s not in the couch.

The blankets are too hot.

The cats are too obedient.

It might be in the licorice pudding

I’ll look…. no, nope, not there

The pudding was flavorful

But too thick.

It’s not in the malted milk

It’s not in the boyfriend for sure

I got him sick and he’s down for the count.

It’s not in the shower

It’s not in the bed

And it’s sure as hell not

In this poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

« Older Entries