# there seems to be a trend of writeing shitty poetry...i want in



## whaleofashrimp (Jan 16, 2012)

*Do u remember drinking cooking wine under the american legion hall ?with the taste of salt in m mouth and the rain i imagined us as waward pilgrams lost at sea.silloute against the flodd lights of the railyard,my heart pounds like the highline.swampgas lighting ur darkeyes we made love in a hammock for 30 mins spent 3hrs trying to untangle ourselves to power chords of crickets n frogs. Did u exist.do u exist. Will u exist? Eiven if u didint dont wont id have need to invent u*


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## wrkrsunite (Jan 16, 2012)

Bukowski said the first way to tell a poet is shitty is if his poems rhyme. So far so good.


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## porky (Jan 16, 2012)

Blowing tops off bottles and whistling in the shade, take acceptance for a ride, forget to be afraid, too long in the circle playing other peoples games... analyze and look again..... and find your still the same


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## wrkrsunite (Jan 16, 2012)

Roses are red, violets are blue. Either kick me down some change or fuck you.


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## porky (Jan 16, 2012)

As I wallow around, snorting and farting in my muddy puddle and look up to the stars I wonder at the complexity of it all... why was I put on this earth, what is my reason, what is my future, what have I ever done of value in the past.. I think about my situation and realise that all I do and am is for farmer.​​He really is not a bad chap, he brings me scraps each day, he even gives me a scratch behind the ear every know and then just to reassure. He also takes me on outings, but most times its just another farm, but even then I have to perform with the sows as a thank you for the time away from the pen. ​​Then the day of the local fair.. I hate the fairs! I know when is coming up because the day before he will take me inside the barn for the night, were I have to sleep in one of the nags stables, with no mud or puddle, just clean dry grass all over the floor.. but it gets worse, before the night sets in he gets out the bucket, broom and the liquid that smells of flowers. Ohh it is horrible, he ties me up then throws water all over (that's not to bad), then the dreaded liquid, he squirts this smelly stuff all over then attacks me with the broom, scratching and scubbing every inch of my poor skin till I am bright pink and smelling of roses, then throws lots more water all over before he locks me in the stall for a fit full night with all the barn animals, they waite till farmers gone then the laughter begins, it is so degrading.​​In the morning he puts me into a halter and loads me into the trailer and off we go to the fair ground. On arrival I get put into a clean and dry stall with that horrid dry grass again. Then all day I get people leaning over shouting and laughing at me, some other farmers come into the stall with long white jackets on and start to prod, poke and touch me all over, sometimes they leave me with a ribbon tied to my harness and farmer is well pleased, but at others when they leave with out a ribbon farmer kicks and shoves me back onto the trailer and then back to the pen with no scraps.​​There are times when I see all the young piglets being loaded onto the big truck to be taken away from the farm, they are so lucky to escape and they must really enjoy where they go because they never choose to return, at times I wish I was young again so I could join them.​


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## Kim Chee (Jan 16, 2012)

clickety clack, clickety clack
steadily shaking down the track
the iron snake snarls and stops
cracks and pops
and starts down that twisted track
clickety clack


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## Milque Toast (Jan 21, 2012)

*Flip and dodge it spillin whip its out the closet.
Stealin tonic out the market. Dip into the apartment.
Vomit all over the carpet, even though it nonalcoholic.
Phsychotropics fallin out my pockets, they call me diabolic.*
Capin' the capable caperin', stanking cyclical defasement.
Vanadalism by a vagrant on the walls of the basement.
On some conspirapist, lamest shit like david icke.
Lizard people on the greatest hits of faceless kids.
*My mindstate is far from a clean rhyme slate.
Lightweights can catch both my eyes as they dilate.
Wonderin 'bout my fate, as I lean and then vibrate.*

-Pause-

-KICK-

"Whoa, dude. I knew I told you!"

*Snicker-doodle snack-foods.**Picture youthful bad dudes*.
*Fixup brutal scrap wounds.
Elixer one hitter rat tombs.
Swirl tornadoes into black vacuums.
Fat plooms gather in backrooms.
In the classroom slash bathroom.
This is the real, this the ordeal.
Mass appeal hacking up bastard veal.*
*Yo, you know the secrets to the universe?*
Let me in on 'em. It's a bit too *soon for hearse.*


Shitty? Eh, I try.


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## panik (Jan 21, 2012)

whew drinking cooking wine sucks but you can buy it on foodstamps (ooops) and it's better than vanilla extract!


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## trash diver (Jan 21, 2012)

There is no good or bad in art or poetry,self expression is a statement in and of itself.


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## outskirts (Feb 9, 2012)

trash diver said:


> There is no good or bad in art or poetry,self expression is a statement in and of itself.


Yeah, just bad handling, such as poetry slams.

Slam... bottles into pavement, headboards against walls, angry car doors.
Poems are best stammered from drunken lips in the glow of fire... because
someone broke the radio, and everyone is tired of hearing the same shit
from some asshole's guitar.
It sounded so profound in my head when I wrote it, damn fucking weed!
Wait, give a moment...
I'll twist the cap of my memory and try and spill it to you.


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## KatAttack (Feb 9, 2012)

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad you're not a banana?

*ba doom sheesh*


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## dolittle (Feb 9, 2012)

Shity poetry, I've read a few. Walking around Central Park, stepping in poo. They sounded rather rank, actually, they stank! Damm dogs, I think I shall sue!!


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## shiftingGEARS (Feb 12, 2012)

sitting by the tracks
with an ass full of stones
underneath a shooting star
a belly full of whisky

went to her house 
that is where
i lost my virginity


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