Updated: Mar 16, 2020
by A Bard Flying Blind
“This monstrosity was a Frankenstein’s monster made out of every clichéd troupe and personality in poetry that I’ve come across. And like Dr. Frankenstein playing God with his undead Adam, this poem and all its influences truly disgust me. It was written for a contest in a workshop to see who could write the worst poem. Despite upsetting everyone in the room, it did not win, which perhaps makes it worse (or better, depending on how you look at it)."
~ Sincerely, A Bard Flying Blind
i think of the citizens of utah,
and the hillbillies of arkansas,
how can they live in a place so blah?
they must taste like coleslaw,
from the fats and starch shoved into their maws;
yesterday i wrote an ode to the tampon,
stayed up till dawn,
praising the phenomenon,
and the menses of times bygone,
before we were all filled with poisoned cotton;
i welcomed home my grandpa,
returning from his villa in panama,
all night we hemmed and hawed,
about Kerouac and Dada,
i just stared at his chiseled jaw;
i’ve told my sisters at delta epsilon,
of his fox-grey brawn,
and his faint aroma of whiskey and parmesan,
at the thought of his eyes, syrupy pecans,
i feel a sweltering dew in my thong’s nylon;
why do i want to break these unwritten laws
against paternal past and intimacy raw?
i blush at my tragic flaw,
squeal out like a chihuahua!
on my cherry lips i begin to gnaw;
am i like the black swan,
tchaikovsky’s temptress in scanty chiffon?
no, I am more like catherine of aragon,
abandoned in a faraway tower whereupon,
my wanton king to other whores is drawn;
i feel punished by martial law,
as fate slashes with a chainsaw,
my maidenhood in pieces like jigsaw,
tightening in my throat and areola,
but i am only a victim of my blood bourgeois;
cursed am i to love royal spawn,
and crave their seed like brunch bear claws,
so that i may make purity like white crayons,
i lay in satin duvet as i stroke my velvet pompon,
and dream that we’d run to a chateau on the yukon;
instead i must have suitors like outlaws,
who leave my desires declawed,
maybe they’ll fuck me till my soul is thawed,
to the simple ways of young pions,
common like child urine on a seesaw;
i wish i could trade with ancient women in the parthenon,
when society would just yawn,
for such acts were also done by the worshipped pantheon,
but antiquity is lost in our lexicon,
and i will be soiled, like my lungs in a hair salon.
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