Two-Minute Poetry:
No doubt about it, this is the world's worst poetry. Unedited quick poetry; couplets without regard for meter. And the absolute trick is that you have only two minutes to compose.
Poetry So Bad, It Should Be Burnt:
If you tickle a purple dragon's foot,
You may soon end up a pile of soot.
Sinj�n the pig rutted in the mud,
Never quite knowing about HUD,
Yet his owners were qualified,
So his sloppy pile became unsqualified!
Hate is an emotion so full of love,
For the symbol of peace is the ornery dove,
But hate is a unifier, to gather your lover,
So we can all be wrapped in the arms of Big Brother.
My computer is so big, my job so lame,
That there is nothing to do, too much time to tame.
But they spent so much money, money I begged
Oh shit, I can't think of anything to rhyme-ed.
To be a table would not be so bad,
Unless, of course, you were with your mom or dad.
Because parents are people, with them you're stuck,
And it could get quite gross if on the table they fuck.
From sand to stone, stone to flesh,
Reincarnation, always afresh
The moon revolves, always diurnal,
Gee I'd hate to come back as a urinal
It becomes too uncanny, far too unreal,
I tap on the keys, getting the feel,
But in the world I'll never be free,
For life does not include a Command-Z!
To be a dollar bill, now that would be cruel,
Assaulted by all human touch, except for drool,
But drool people do over me, though figuratively,
They see me as their answer, savior, and key.
Are we a pile of water, chemicals, and such?
Bonded by nucleotides and forces of much?
But where on the chemical level do I think?
Or is quantum mechanics our common shrink?
What a creation we made, unthought and new,
If our pumpkin were real, he'd make us spew,
Because without forethought or plan was he carved,
That hallow and empty, he looks half starved.
No, that's not fair, the pumpkin is great,
Especially being carved so quick and so late.
It's a unique ceremonial gourd, so full of life,
Who'd a' thunk it as we passed around the knife?
Oh to be a woman with periods red,
And internal plumbing shaped like a moose head.
To have cavities, that oft need be cleaned,
To be stroked and loved, touched and preened.
They're TV heads, melting their minds,
Sitting on chairs getting swollen behinds.
There's so many here impoverished in diction,
So why do I feel embarrassed reading Science Fiction?
God I love persons, yet people I hate,
A choice few here, so few to appreciate.
But people are everywhere, they are en masse,
Except for a few, they can all kiss my en ass.
What is duty, but allegiance to another?
Is it equal for boss as is for mother?
How'd he supplant my maternal parent?
Please tell my why, it's not apparent.
(Holy shit - there's an unintended pun in there - I was just looking for a rhyme)
Today I am hungry, as I've not been for a while,
Could it be a harbinger to my end of denial?
I doubt it greatly, because the situation's not easy,
It's probably just that I want something greasy.
© sklender, 1996 - Until My Death, and then three weeks beyond that.