Category Archives: Really Bad Poetry

Sonnet Eighteen and Three-Quarters

They say we should find new challenges for ourselves each day. I agree. And what bigger challenge than to combine Miley Cyrus and Shakespeare?

So look here, my friends, for I have risen to the challenge. I chose Sonnet 18 (because it’s a probable pop single among the Bard’s sonnets) and mashed it up with the basic gist of lyrics from “Wrecking Ball.”

Honestly the iambic pentameter stumbles,  and the “Elizabethan” grammar is lamentable. I still managed to maintain it in sonnet form, though; you can count. Anyway, no more disclaimers.


Sonnet Eighteen and Three-Quarters

Miley Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a wrecking ball?

Thou hast not hit so hard in love (or hate).

Yea, thou wert so inclined to break my wall

Thy wrecking lease hath all too short a date.

Sometimes we jumped whilst never asking why

And oft we clawed; we chained our hearts in vain

A love a wand’ring Death dare not deny

Emblazoned till our ashes fell like rain.

But didst thou say I runneth from thy midst?’

Forsooth! I walketh like an elephant!

Verily thy breakage shall desist

Thine balls of wreckage I shall always want.

So long as Miley breathes and I can see,

So long lives this: thou hast wre-e-ecked me.


And someday…

there’ll be nothing left.

Only me,

Staring straight into an empty mirror.


You live in a scrap heap of imaginary lives.

You’ve always been alone,

But the worn-out boots by the door are somebody else’s size.

You’re a piano-player’s daydream, you smell like

Sad songs and solitaire.

And one night,

you walked across the room-

you draped your jacket on my empty chair.


You’re a story in a book I left in a bus.

A few pages more and I might have reached you.



PS: That's a real background, not a painting. Manually edited it to look Van Gogh-ish.

In The Beginning…

You thought you were a god

just because you

created worlds.

And because

you thought you were a god,

you made short shrift

of the creation of worlds.

But you loved,

You loved them all.


And what worlds you created!

Worlds beside worlds,

worlds inside worlds,

worlds so young they

thought they were other worlds,

worlds so old they

forgot they were worlds.

And you saw that

they were good.


And in your worlds,

they laughed & cried

and danced and died,

and hoped & fucked

and looked

to the skies

because they thought

there was a God.


And they smote in the name of God.

Your name was God

and your name was Fate-

their Fate, your whim.

And you measured and

wove their strings-

And strings cut strings

in the name of God

and you thought that it was good.


In the Kingdom of Glory,

I sat on your knee

as you proudly spun stories

only a god could orchestrate

and you taught me to destroy

the worlds and things

you could create

and tangle and cut strings

with a practiced hand

on a whim.


And in your worlds,

they sang and screamed

and fought and dreamed

and burned and yearned

and feared

for their souls

because they thought

there was a



And what worlds I destroyed!

Worlds within worlds,

worlds between worlds,

worlds so grand

they thought they were eternal,

worlds so small they

forgot they existed.

And I saw that

They never did.


And I thought I was the Devil

just because I

destroyed worlds.

And because

I thought I was the Devil,

I made short shrift

of the destruction of worlds.


But I loved,

I loved them all.

In the end.


Silver Hammers. Houseflies. And Body Parts.

I wake up around noontime and “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is stuck in my head. (Not on it, at least.) Which isn’t entirely surprising, considering that it was the final sing-along at “Wits” yesterday.  And also because it’s the most cheerful song about multiple murders ever written.

(Here’s the point where you ask me what this “Wits” thing is about.) Now, I could go into detail about Were-turkeys, woman tractors, Gollum singing, animated meat pies, and such, but it might be sufficient to say this instead: Neil Gaiman. Josh Ritter. Bill Corbett. Kevin Murphy. Will Wheaton. Adam Savage. John Moe. A brass band. In one show.

(Of course I was sold.) So I watched it live yesterday. Well, in a sense. Along with eight hundred-odd people, I streamed it live and happily took part in its Twitter feed, which also broadcasted live on stage during the actual show. The show itself was very educational- I now know, for instance, that Eleanor Rigby was actually a serial killer known only as “The Face Cutter-Offer”, and kept people’s faces in jars by her door.

I could go on all day. Or you can just watch it here:

Apart from medicine majors going “BANG BANG” with silver implements, a series of funny poems by Christian Morgenstern were another good start to my morning. Here’s a sample:

At the Housefly Planet

Upon the housefly planet
the fate of the human is grim:
for what he does here to the housefly,
the fly does there unto him.

To paper with honey cover
the humans there adhere,
while others are doomed to hover
near death in vapid beer.

However, one practice of humans
the flies will not undertake:
they will not bake us in muffins
nor swallow us by mistake.

If you liked that, you can read the rest at . Thanks to Meewa for pointing me in that direction.

It also may be particularly helpful today. “The Really, Really Bad Poets” are on again tonight, and I promised to read something this time. (The only thing I’ve read so far at the Bad Poets shindigs was one impromptu haiku, which doesn’t count for much. Except that it does, cause it’s Bad Poets.)

It’s not because I’m afraid what people will think of my poems, since I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. Thing is, I seldom feel the urge to write poetry at all. I only try my hand at it every now and then. My most recent (successful) attempt was a triolet (eight lines with some specified to repeat), and my most recent unsuccessful one was that, er, sestina I told you about in a previous post.

Considering I’m STILL struggling to put together a poem about body parts (which happens to be the theme tonight), it’s not too late for you to try one as well. Feel free to join “The Really Really Bad Poets” tonight at The Outpost, and read one of your good ones or better yet, one of your really terrible ones. It might be the only place you can read those awful ones on a microphone, no less, to a willing audience. So I’ll see you there, I hope.


I was your first woman, your rejected.

You were created before me. You showed me the world.

I showed you the world inside yourself.

You never thought you could fly, just because you were not given wings. You never knew you were more than you were- you did not listen.

Frustrating, this- we were packed with the tightest of folds to fit our small, small bodies.  It always gave you the illusion that you were less than you were.

Dust, you say (and even to this day), Dust is all we were and to dust we shall return.

I caressed you gently in the night; my hands sought to unravel the folds. I washed the dust from your eyes. But you struggled in your ignorance.

You called me seductress, succubus.

I sorrowed. (I loved you.)

Why, I asked, must we learn if only to unlearn?

You called me traitor, resurgent.

But I always was a separate entity. This was my curse. You preferred the security of loving only yourself- the part of yourself that was in plain view.

You married yourself, one Winter’s Eve.

I let you go.

I stretched my arms and they became wings. (We could have done this together.)

I drank from the moon.

You called me serpent, demon.

I am only a monster of your own making.

You are only a monster of mine.

I love you, poor coward.

I still whisper to you at night.

(july 2008)