So here we have the Leonard Plinth Garnell anthology of bad poetry. (Some will no doubt remember Dan Ackroyd's Leonard from the old Saturday Night Live; he brought us Bad Opera, etc.)
I wish I could find my early opus on boiling water. ("Gazing into that potential/water soon to boil/one can hardly recognize/the sizzling fluid coil...") Oh dear.
Here's an early poem by a Catholic school virgin pretending to be sexy:
The Hungry I
Craving somthing gushy and rare--
like a burger oozing catsup, dripping oil,
is nothing to keep secret on today's day.
It's fall.
Time to gulp in something luscious--
like the leaves
or someone's skin
or even drooling redmeat on a warm bun.
Mud too might be delicious.
Mud and marshmallows,
pillow slips, and
gooey candy apples topped with tongues!
Ah ha, you're laughing!
Does that mean you're ripe?
And just crave to sink your teeth
in warmth and wetness?
There's no surprise: it's me.
And there's nothing warmer, wetter
or as free.
So on this oozy, candy day
consider eating
me.
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This is one contest I could win.
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