Submissions to the Philolexian Alfred Joyce Kilmer Annual Memorial Bad Poetry Contest
Every year the Philolexian
Society has its annual bad poetry content, in honor of Alfred
Joyce Kilmer, the infamous author of "Trees", and also a Philo. These
are some of my entries from the past few years. Some of them have won
second place.
Some pictures from Kilmer 2000 can be found here.
(Poet's Note: The chronology of these is all fucked up. I'll
get around to putting them in the right order someday. Until then, I
suggest you read them all, then try to sort it out.)
2000
Mellifluous Flowing Smoothly Dark and Sweet (A Peanut Butter Paean)
< Hold up Caramel Twix >
You there, burnt sugar bar.
Standing there so smug.
What's that you say?
You're tasty this way?
Your days are numbered, burnt sugar bar.
And...
Zero is a number.
< Toss Caramel Twix. Replace with Peanut Butter Twix. >
Alas! Alack! Alay! How I have waited for this day.
The universe has provided, my vain bounty has arrived!
My dual crunchy lover, how I have missed thee!
Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
The crunch and crickle and crackle and chew,
I've looked forward to eating all of you.
I've waited quite calmly, I've paced and I've passed
the time until this time, the end of my fast.
Words fail me, I cannot express.
The searing wait I've waited for this day!
Hurrah, hurray!
I'll eat one and swallow, and with it I'll follow...
My better pick, the second stick, a mighty brick, not just a lick...
of Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
Mmmmmm.
Sweet, but not too sweet.
Salty, but not too salty.
Crunchy, but not too crunchy.
Mmmmmm.
The gentle delicate balance of a virgin forest spring...
of Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
Mmmmmm.
I thought that I would never see
again the time for me to be
towards the wind or towards the lee,
None For You, But Two For Me.
I hate everyone, except for you.
That guy slammed the door on my foot.
It >really< hurt.
He didn't even care.
You brought me ice cream.
With sprinkles.
Rainbow.
Your eyes glint of rainbows, sometimes, first thing in the morning.
I hate everyone.
Except for you.
Hey! She stole my cab, left me standing in the cold.
piercing.
acid.
rain.
I got wet. I caught cold.
You gave me a chocolate bunny rabbit.
A ~solid~ one.
Milk.
Your skin flows like milk, sometimes, last thing in the evening.
I hate everyone.
Except for you.
Someone flicked a cigarette at my head. I don't even know who.
But it doesn't really matter.
I know it wasn't you.
You smiled at me, your lips were like honey,
your teeth like pearls in honey.
I hate everyone.
Except for you.
Ten Cheeses Mayur Doesn't Like.
1.
Creamy Swishy Brie
Tougher on the outside, though
Mayur Doesn't Like
2.
Camembert, like Brie
Too tough rind, creamy inside
Mayur Doesn't Like
3.
Holy Swiss, Batman!
Full of hot air, unique holes
Mayur Doesn't Like
4.
Emmanthaler, I
Still don't know what you are, but
Mayur Doesn't Like
5.
Roquefort, stinky cheese
Made from a sheep's milk, but yet
Mayur Doesn't Like
6.
Crumble-y Stilton
Just like the English - Veiny
Mayur Doesn't Like
7.
Back to Swiss, Gruyere
While I delect in fondue,
Mayur Doesn't Like
8.
Sounds like me, Edam
One of the few rare Dutch treats
Mayur Doesn't Like
9.
Except for Gouda
Covered in small red wax balls
Mayur Doesn't Like
10.
Muenster you sound like
A monster, no small wonder
Mayur Doesn't Like
1999
The subway people have no mail.
The subway people have no mail.
Neither rain nor snow stays these couriers
yet simple turnstile fails the hand
of yon noble postman.
No Sharper Image Catalog, mole people.
No Victoria's Secret Christmas Collection, mole people.
No million dollars for you, CHUDs.
No ten CDs for a penny for you, CHUDs.
No.
No.
For lack of a token, nee metro... card,
they're swiftly sever'd
from their just rewards. Just think.
The subway people, have --no-- mail.
The subway people have no mail.
The bridge trolls have no cable.
No J. Peterman, mole people.
No LL Bean, mole people.
No Land's End, CHUDs.
No J. Crew, CHUDs.
No.
No.
No birthday cards from grandma.
But... alas, yet, however, mayhaps... no phone bills.
No Easton Leatherbound Book club, mole people.
No Science Fiction Book club, mole people.
No Great 20th Century Authors Book club, mole people.
No book club at all, mole people.
No Fruit of the Month, CHUDs.
No Flower of the Month, CHUDs.
No Underwear of the Month, CHUDs.
No of the Month at all, CHUDs.
No.
No.
The subway people have no mail.
The bridge trolls have no cable.
Jump the turnstile,
you mighty mailman.
Test your mighty might against the night.
But no, you won't, you don't care
how they huddle in the dark without
...
any stamps.
O Fiskars! my Fiskars!
O Fiskars! my Fiskars! our tearful snip is done,
The rip has feathered every plaque, the prize we sought is fun,
The cut is near, the gash I hear, the people all excising,
While follow eyes the steady wheel, the slicer trim and paring;
But O sharp! sharp! sharp!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the desk my Fiskars lies,
fallen dull and bent.
O Fiskars! my Fiskars! rise up and hear the gash;
Rise up -- for you the paper folds--for you the notepad sticks,
For you pressed flowers and ribbons cleave--for you the stores acrowding,
For you they call, the buying mass, their eager cards acharging;
Here Fiskars! dear scissor!
This loop beneath your blade!
It is some dream that on the desk
You've fallen dull and bent.
My Fiskars does not answer, his clips are pale and still,
My scissor does not feel my thumb, he has no dice or trim,
The paper's anchored safe and sound, its piercage over and done,
From tearful snip the sunder slit comes in with object cut;
Excise O slashes, and rip O gash!
But I with pinking shears,
Walk the desk my Fiskars lies,
Fallen, dull, and bent.
1998
Speaks for itself
Roses are Paisley,
Violets are Plaid.
Boy, am I tripping.
The abbreviated life of my bathroom rug.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow.
Ow, I'm dizzy and wet.
Ow, I'm dizzy and hot.
But at least I'm dry again.
Ow.
Repeat as necessary.
Updated Ogden
Candy may be dandy,
and liquor is definitely quicker,
but pot's a good shot,
and hash makes quite a bash.
10,000 things I can do with my new hand, suckers
Awww yeah, got me a new hand.
Transplanted on the sly in the land
of wine and cheese and bread,
I fooled 'em all, the blue, the white, the red.
Soon I'll do all new things with my hand.
Hand hand hand.
I will mix and match and flip and flop!
I will slip and slide and handle a mop!
I will scratch my...
Legs.
I will beat my...
Eggs.
I will put round...
pegs.
Into square holes.
I could cheat and lie and finagle before,
but that's nothing - soon I can steal right from the store!
My life is starting to look quite grand,
Minnesota may have the Body, but I've got a new hand!
They tested on bunnies, put them through pains,
prior to giving me my ill-gotten veins.
but now I'm off, hand, tooth and bone,
to do some animal testing of my own.
Awww yeah, got me a new hand.
Soon I'll do all new things with my hand.
Hand hand hand.
Suckers.
pre-1998
Five Haiku Describing My Thanksgiving Weekend Not In Amsterdam
Thursday was turkey.
Stuffing, sauce, and cranberry.
And Aliens burst.
Friday was smoother.
Brownies were green, cider wet.
High, high, higher. Drunk.
Saturday slept late.
Headache. Torment. Advil. Ahhhh.
The pigeons cry out.
Sunday, um, uh yeah.
I don't remember at all.
Not even a little.
Monday back to work.
My head goes here upside down.
No more smoke for me.
Die, Di, Die!
Who's that behind us?
Oh no! Watch out for that wall!
Whumpety Whump Whump.
Turgid Wrecking Balls Glow Fiercely Unto The Night
(Ode to a Peanut Butter Twix)
I miss the cookie crunch,
The Peanut Buttery Crispety Crunchety,
oh wait That's Butter-Finger
Crispety-Crunchety Crunchety-Crispety
Cookie Crunch. Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
Was that so bad?
Why, oh why, oh why did they have to take it away?
Was it wrong? Was it rude? Did it flay?
Did it corrupt children on the Internet? NO!
Did it solicit campaign funds illegitimately? NO!
Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
Was that so bad?
Fain fair imposter Crunchy Peanut Butter Cup.
I don't even want to eat you up.
You taste like a block of salt, you Judas treat.
If you can't stand the kitchen, get out of the heat.
The Aero bar survived. Caramello made it past ten.
Why, even Payday hits the jackpot now and then.
Hershey squirts and Nestle tries.
As Cadbury seeks the prize.
Chocolate. Peanut Butter. Cookie.
Was that so bad?
I Think That I Shall Never See
A Twix Bar that Can Ever Be
As Good As My Peanut Butter Glee.
None For You, But Two For Me.
UNTITLED
White toast sits like a wet blanket
Over my soul as I butter the bread
of my conciousness with the whipped topping
of delight. The jam of existence spreads
smoothly, filling all the nooks and crannies.
Life.
Life.
Life.
Don't ask me about life.
Life is just one non-sequitur after a fishtank.
Life is like a bowl of similies.
Life is a metaphor for greater things.
Life's a contraction.
Life thinks and walks and talks like a personification.
Life has six syllables.
Life sounds very silly if you say it over and over again.
Life sounds very silly if you say it over and over again.
Life is ... pardon me, are those bugle boy jeans you're wearing?
Life is the lingerie of forgiveness on the woman of your dreams.
Life isn't a proof by contradiction.
Life is walking into a bar, then turning into a corner.
Life ... is crantastic.
Life is never having to say you're a pink polka-dotted velvet
orangutan with a
drinking problem.
Life will have been the future pluperfect tense.
Life is all of these things, everything you ever wanted in a beer, and
less.
Just one thing.
Just don't ask me about life.
I'm too busy eating my toast.
Spoon!
Comedy is a glowing, boiling simplicity.
It begins as the world explodes
The world explodes
Into little green army men and
shards of Mr. Potato-head.
Although the world explodes,
I can still dodge the high-fructose
partially gelatinated "shakes".
I can still believe that life
is just one non-sequitur after a fishbowl.
I can still say"Got milk?"
Who killed Alexander Hamilton?
You did!
You cannot help me, for
I live in a color-coded castle
and you are a dog.
But I do not need your help, for
My castle has a guardian.
Mithril Adamantium X-metal claws,
Make the sharpest of razors look merely paws.
A cleverness to test the gentle Puck and crafty Loki.
It makes the wittest among you look downright hokey.
A slyness and slickness and overall coolness.
A Loch-ness and lake-ness and left-right one-two-ness.
All these things he possesses and more,
but I fear my story is starting to bore.
I leave, gentle listeners, with these words of wisdom
Mulder is cool, but don't fuck with Scully.
Work In Progress...
Four.
Microsoft Anti-Trust Haiku submitted to salonmagazine.com's contest
(the first got an honorable mention)
http://www.salonmagazine.com/21st/chal/1999/02/12chal.html
Bundling discouraged,
Industry leverage weighed,
Will MS be Bell'd?
Microsoft was wrong
Java must remain as pure
as a virgin stream
Yet persecuted
unjustly for I-E-vils,
OS may browse away.
Bad poetry by other Philos:
Andrew Shiner
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