Archive | bad poetry RSS feed for this section

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

21 Jul

The Restless Houseguest

We each of us invite change into our lives;
that restless, gentle houseguest
in the kitchen
brewing coffee
like he arrived ages ago

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

30 Jun

IMG_0758Last weekend, I took a trip back home to Indiana for a wedding.  I hadn’t been to Bloomington in the summertime for several years, and it really took me back – the smells, the heat, the leaves, the bugs and the breeze, the way the streets are quiet when the students are away. I thought I’d share some (frankly, terrible) lyrics I wrote several years back about the Hoosier State.


this is a place
a place pretty large
where the limestone is king
and the klan was in charge

where twenty three cents
can about pay your rent
and cornhusks and soybeans
are common as cars

I gotta locate
my biannual roots
dust off my flannel
my shit kickin’ boots

I shouldn’t bother
it’s one or the other
make up my mind
before I go gray

it’s as good as it gets
with my cigarette set
if I could think I would
really go blue

Oh, India-na
you’re the crossroads of my life, it’s true
I can’t get the best of you

you’re the crossroads of our lives, it’s true
We can’t get the best of you


Bad Poetry For Tuesday

9 Jun

i’m surrounded by artists!
there’s one to each side
and a handful in front,
several more are behind

the room where i’m standing
has not before seen
such a varied cross-section
of the creative scene

painters in the kitchen
prepare us some chips
as the cellist beside me
finishes the dip

so the choir director
gives us his say-so
to finally dig in
to his chili con queso

over at the table
theater mavens are mixing;
the tech wizard relaxes
since nothing needs fixing

and this fine photographer
brought really good beer
so the guitarist and I
toast a really good year

the taiko drum player
has made us a feast
and as you’d expect,
it involves groovy beets

so we cram round the table
to share wine and kebabs

and opinions diverse
as our disparate jobs.

i’m surrounded by artists,
so it’s easy to see
why i’m proud to be part
of this arts faculty.


Bad Poetry for Tuesday

5 May

rain, rain, go away
come again some other day
maybe, like, next wednesday

this week isn’t great, you see
first I play in redwood city;
then friday’s booked as booked can be
and i’d prefer the sky sunny.

and i beg you, don’t just stay,
lingering through saturday,
misted windows

bum us out ’till we can’t weekend get-away.

sunday, monday, feel quite near
let’s start next week with skies quite clear
and stay that way
through tu-es-day’s
penultimate Idol of the year.

i know the soil needs hydration
to prevent summer conflagrations;
next wednesday should be okay,
but ’till then, rain, please go away.


Bad Poetry For Tuesday

28 Apr

A Fond Farewell

back when i brought you home with me
there was no way to know
as i unpacked and plugged you in,
the places we would go!

you took me first to cyrodiil
where trolls and bandits wander still
and peeled out for high-speed chases
through the state of san andreas

war-torn countries and ravaged lands
from “the middle east” to stalingrad
to africa
malaria made the peaceful sunsets no less grand

the city of rapture, the labs of aperture
the bridge of the normandy,
and zombie-ridden malls
in willamette and in D.C.

but those places weren’t as real
as the time you seemed to steal
and your travel cost was steep
playing games these days ain’t cheap!

(i mean seriously – for real?
sixty bucks to just sit still?)

and so i boxed and listed you
and insisted, too
they take fifteen percent of you
when they sold you away

i put you back inside your box
(and that box in another box)
so it was a boxed-up xbox box
I mailed off that day.

i don’t think that i’ll miss your
three red lights and noisy fan
but i do predict nostalgia
for our trips to foreign lands.


This was for the best; besides, I still have my DS.

Bad Poetry for Tuesday (David Brent Edition)

14 Apr

This past weekend, I re-watched some episodes of the British Office at Nervo’s house, and oh my sweet Lord, I had forgotten how amazingly hilarious/unbearably horrible to watch that show is.  Holy pants.

Most Tuesdays, I share some bad poetry here, but after seeing episode one of the second series, I couldn’t get my mind off of David Brent’s spectacular Excalibur.  So, I thought I’d reprint it here.

Half of the poem is in the delivery (and in Dawn’s reaction thereto), but it stands up okay as a read, too. Behold:


by David Brent

i froze your tears and made a dagger
and stabbed it in my cock
it stays there like excalibur
are you my Arthur?
say you are

take this cool dark steeled blade
steal it, sheath it
in your lake

i drown with you to be together
must you breathe?
‘coz I need heaven

Bad Poetry for Tuesday

31 Mar

i may be getting on in years
but i’m no grandpa yet;
though all the same i’m shocked by all
the things that i forget

i forget my watch, forget my keys
forget my wallet with worrying ease
and anything else related to
my day-to-day activities

i forget to turn the light off,
i forget to dim my screen
i forget to kill the power;
it ain’t easy being green

i forget to check nextmuni
when i take the 6 parnassus
and so I wait, and when it comes
i forgot all my fast passes

i forget to double-knot my shoes,
and when they come unlaced,
i just hope that i forget to trip
and fall flat on my face

i forget to tune my horn up
i forget to wet my reed
i forget to check the roadmap
i forget to check the key

the actor with the claim to fame,
the star athlete
who won the game;
to my distress,
they’re all the same -
they slip, they slide, they won’t remain
within my fast-collapsing brain.

and though we were just introduced,
it seems that i’ve forgot your name.


Bad Poetry for Tuesday (Battlestar Edition)

24 Feb

there’s a six in the basement
and a four on the roof
and two’s in the attic;
he’s looking for proof

that the five he believes in
were really the first,
as opposed to the final;
the best, not the worst

with three in a box
under strict key and lock,
and the fives, still alive?
still cajoling the flock?

the six stays beneath us,
her heart all aglow;
her love needs to Tie
to another to grow

and the eight in the pantry
is quashing the rumor
that she’s some greek goddess;
she’s just a late Bloomer.

so a Pyramid forms
from the questions they face,
Chief among them
can unity Foster in space?

and let’s cut to the chase;
Daniel’s last name was “Thrace.”

So what of the one?
Ellen’s hateful first son,
that oedipal, prodigal

he’ll be back for the sixes,
the eights and the five,
and it seems safe to say
that they won’t all survive

with the six in the basement
and the rest on the roof
in four more short hours
we’ll all know the truth

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

10 Feb

beans, beans,
the musical fruit;
the more you eat,
the more you toot

games, games,
the musical fruit;
the more you attend,
the more you root

vodka, vodka,
the musical fruit;
the more you drink,
the more you boot

mopeds, mopeds,
the musical fruit;
the more you ride,
the more you scoot

guns, guns,
the musical fruit;
the more you load,
the more you shoot

riots, riots,
the musical fruit;
the more you start,
the more you loot

logical conclusions,
the musical fruit;
the fewer you have,
the more it’s moot

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

27 Jan

some rooms are big
some rooms are small
some rooms are wider

than they’re tall

some rooms are barely
rooms at all.

some rooms are made for running in
some rooms are just for standing
some rooms are best when sitting down
some rooms are so low to the ground

that all you do
is lie around.

and some rooms,
they have well-stocked bars
and painted stars
and absinthe jars

the stage is dark
the night is ours.

but this room,
long as it was bright;
it didn’t help
combat stage-fright

’twas quite well-lit
that Sunday night.

and from the stage
we both could see
the audience,

was watching Dan,
was watching me.

Some rooms are cold
some rooms are hot
but most I know
are worth a shot -

they’re easy to play;
this room was not.

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

6 Jan

when weekend days
are over and the
work-week on its way

that’s when the men
come to your home
to take your trash away

you haul the carts
out to the curb
there’s no reason to horde it;

and follow their
three simple rules-
take your refuse and sort it!

there’s big and brown,
that’s mostly down to
gooey, gunky trash;

there’s mid-sized blue,
plastic, cans too;
it fills up pretty fast

then little green
completes the team
and can get rather smelly

but not so bad
considering that
he holds composted jelly

so next week when
the trash day comes
and leaves your house quite clean

do say a little
thank-you for
your waste-removal team

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

30 Dec

The man attacks
your stacked-up tracks
and gives them all a squeeze

he’ll equalize
your lyric lines
and max out your DBs

he flicks his wrist
and just like this
improves six months of mixing

the lows and highs
were in
slight need of fixing

this alchemist of audio,
voodoo doc of compression

he’ll tease and tweak
some shiny sounds
out of your pro tools session

and what is it we call this man
whose touch averts disaster?

The mastering engineer, of course;
and yes, he is the master.

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

16 Dec

What instrument
sounds different
though tunes to letter C?

It plays in steps,
or pentatonics,
each gig requiring three?

While feeding back
goes through an amp
and overdrives the thing;

not just for blues,
all sorts of tunes,
without a single string?

O steel, reed bright and dark;

The Devil’s angel’s harp!

Bad Poetry for Tuesday

9 Dec

It’s early
and the house is waking
though its senses struggle to
keep pace

the sounds are barely stirring,
the clock clicks, but there’s no whirring, yet,
as it counts the seconds closer to the dawn

the smells are shrouded,
still resting,
hiding their heads beneath the covers
and the stairs

the eyes don’t yet have much to see,
the lights are low by the windows;
it is easier
to see in than to see out

cereal and milk
taste somewhat familiar,
chew half-noticed;
oats with a touch of Crest

skin is chilled and cautious
as it renegotiates with the air,
and the warming tap water,
and the cup

The coffee maker grumbles
and steams
but renders not a scent

because it’s early
and the house has not quite fully woken yet

Bad Poetry For Tuesday

2 Dec

The voice it swells
the things it tells
the swelling, telling voice; it yells!

From in the back
the mind can’t track
this boorish man on the attack!

The sound, it grates,
Ire elevates
the details he must share can’t wait!

His power bill
he yells it still
to parties quite invisible;

The state of rent!
Where Monday went!
No detail not relayed, not sent!

Though as we must,
We share this bus,
It’s like he does not notice us!

A stifled groan,
I’m almost home,
away from his blasted mobile phone.

Bad Poetry for Tuesday

25 Nov

the lyric began in my brain
about a year ago
and landed in her diaphragm
(the first of two today)

from there she pushed it up and out
through her larynx
and into the air

the note, afloat,
would have been lost
had it not been for
diaphragm number two

this one somewhat smaller,
and located in a microphone

from major to diminished
we hit them all before we finished

but after all was sung and done
the tracks were hollow
and sounded kind of crappy
like they were phased or something

i can no longer recommend using
a Rode tube microphone

Bad Poetry for Tuesday

18 Nov

you came into our home;
and we told you about the neighborhood
and marveled a bit over the weather.

you assured us that you’ve a mind for cleaning
and said you work in marketing
and that outdoor activities
were the sort of thing you enjoy

and out of what seemed more like politeness
than anything else,

you reshaped your portrait a little
to fit to our frame

we also assured you that street parking
was rarely a problem
and you agreed
because you don’t have a car

but in the end
although you seemed nice
we all knew
you weren’t for us.

everyone seems nice when they want something.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 41 other followers

%d bloggers like this: