Tag Archives: Bad poetry

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





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.





I was only



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






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


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.














Bits and Pieces


I have lots of little bits and pieces floating around. Not quite good enough, or not quite enough substance, for a whole post. But they’re interesting, and they’re clogging up my archives, and I want to stop tripping over them every time I go through my stuff to choose what to post, so here you go.



Today I suffer

From reverse Midas touch

Where everything my skin so much as grazes

Turns to shit.

I’m not giving out hugs today.



I have four little plants in my window box

They are growing

Happy and young and turgid

I do love me a turgid turgid plant.



Everything is a failure

Everything I touch

But every failure I touch is a little better than the last failure

A little less fail in each one



Charles Bukowski

What a nut

So why is it I understand

Everything he says

And everything he is…



The internet is down
And we have nothing to do
But work outside
Watch movies
Pet the cats.
Oh please Mr Internet Man,
Come save us!



I think I will
And if I choose to do so
How many forms of me
Must I maintain?



I hurt.

I rage.

Everything is uncomfortable.

Everyone pisses me off.

I foam

I age

I stabbed something to death today

But when I try to remember what

All I see is red.















The Thing in my Throat


I want this thing in my throat

To grow legs and crawl out of me

I want it to wander the world

And learn wisdom

I want it to ponder the mysteries of the universe

I want it to talk with sages

About God and the meaning of life.

I want it to meet lots of other things with legs.

I want it to go on a shonen training arc.

I want it to come home to me

Wiser, stronger

Fierce brave and bold

I want to see its journeys in its demeanor

I want to be proud of it

Right down to my bones

And I can call it my son

And it will know I am its mother

And then

I can wrap it in a tissue

And flush it down the toilet

But only

After it’s lived a full, full life.

I hope one day

To raise the thing that will best me.

But until that day

This stupid shit will keep happening.














Bison Woman

I don’t usually post on Saturday but I don’t want to leave that mopey shit up all weekend.

Here is something I wrote long before the blog was born. It’s the weirdest thing, I still love it.




No Martha

Don’t you tell me what to do

I have enough problems already.

Go to bed

And give me your dentures

‘Cause last night you bit me

And it’s bad to sleep with them in.


Take me to another world

A dream

Where everything smells better

And I can jump

Like a gazelle

Do gazelles jump?

They bound

I could bound like one

I could bound through a grassy savanna

Away from the tigers

Away from the bison

Away from you

You disgusting bison woman

Give me your teeth goddamnit

Why are you fighting me on this

It’s like you want to bite me.


I don’t know.

This isn’t how I’d imagined marriage

Maybe next life

I’ll come back

As something asexual

A self pollinator or cloner would be nice


Is not worth

This battle.


Bison woman

I think I love you

But I wanna know for sure

Come on and hold me tight…


…YES I got the teeth!

Sweet victory!

Sweet, sweet victory

Sweet dreams

I don’t know

Her teeth

Even when in my hand

Are so strong and square and darkly toned

They intimidate me

Ruminant teeth

Why would the dentist

Choose such a color

I guess he knew what matched her best

It’s more an art than a science

Like much of life

Like marriage

Sometimes brown is as close to white

As you can accept

And that’s not very close to white at all.













Reverse Midas Touch


Never good enough

Never good enough

Try a little harder


Self castigate

Mortify the flesh

Is this good yet?

Is this?

Am I still

A disappointment?


I wrote all evening

And nothing good happened.

The reverse Midas touch, I wrote.

Everything I do turns to shit.

But it wasn’t good enough either.

When will I be good enough.

When will I be satisfied.

What am I looking for?


When I write, I write what I felt that day.

So I didn’t feel anything today?

No. I felt inadequacy. That was sharp.

I need to write what is wrong

I need to write for me

I need to write for therapy

I need less judge.

I read a really bad story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m an incredible talent.

I read a really good story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m a half-wit.

What can I do

Why do I try so hard

Why do I try

Why do I care

Why can’t I just be happy

Writing stories and poems should be fun.

When I was a kid

Even then

I was a harsh critic.

I must have been eight

I remember judging my little kid poetry

For rhyming wife with wife. What a cop out, I thought.

I remember being displeased by my corny poem conclusion:


“What is the way to be happy?

There is only one thing

And that is, to sing!

Oh, what a good way to be happy!”


It felt wrong. Of course that wasn’t the best way to be happy.

My parents thought it was adorable

But I knew better.

I always know better.

I never trust praise.

I know my flaws.

They burn my eyes

They scald my soul

They cannot be extricated

They cannot be exorcised

They can only be


Every day.

Practice will patch the holes

Acceptance will allow for flexibility

Some days are hard

Some days are easy.

I will never meet my own expectations

So I must not allow expectations.

Oh, what a good way to be happy!













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