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Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal  What's your favorite scene of sexual carnality in printed media? This includes but is not limited to actual literature, short stories, and paperback tripe. I used to love to find these in secluded corners of the library when I was in my young teen years, way before the web, of course. New ABPJ review soon, hopefully. Mr. Fix-It by Monica; unknown location Mr. Fix-It can fix anything my heart, My attitude, my everything. He's a man of honor, he's a man of grace, He's a man of pride, I can see it in his face. Whether it's a broken friendship, Whether it's a loss of self-esteem, A look in his eyes can be a guide, A guide unto the path of my dream. Mr. Fix-It can fix anything, My heart, my attitude, my everything. His atmosphere is filled with imaginable things. Such a beautiful person inside and out, So lovely that it makes me want to sing, So manipulative in a good way that makes me shout. His walk is invincible, His voice is louder than a lion's roar. Everything about him is amazing And I wouldn't ask for anything more. Mr. Fix-It can fix anything, My heart, my attitude, my everything. Wow, it turns out that co-dependency isn't just a river in Egypt. I doubt Monica can brush her teeth without this guy's assistance. I'm not bothered by Monica having to rely so heavily on her man, Mr. Fix-It ("Fix" for short). I am bothered by the fact that she's so bored by her own thesis, she heartlessly abandons it by the side of the road. Then she drives off erratically, speeding. But the poem's central idea has a quick revenge, because immediately wrecks the car, then throws the junker into reverse to pick up the idea again. This poem is 20 lines long, and I think that Monica was determined to get to that plateau because she repeats the poem's refrain three times. He can repair her heart...and her outlook on life...everything, really, and well, that explains that. Everything else is just filler. Speaking about filler, I'd like Monica to explain what she means when she claims that his "atmosphere is filled with imaginable things." A place can have atmosphere, a planet can have an atmosphere, an environment can have an atmosphere, but I'm not sure a person can have an atmosphere. But for the sake of our argument, let's say that a person can have such a thing. What are these imaginable things that fill his atmosphere? I think she is saying that this person has realistic goals, that the way ahead is clear, that he can see clearly now, the rain is gone (if there was any rain to speak of in the first place). I was ready to suggest that Monica is talking about God, but I've never seen any Christianity poem describe their God as "Such a beautiful person inside and out." But maybe Monica is into really long beards? If so, is she really attracted to Iron & Wine too? And unless you're being interviewed by God post-mortem (and it's going really well) or you're standing by his side to introduce Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, I don't think that any reverent person would talk about looking into his eyes. On the other hand, there is the fact that his voice is louder than a lion's roar. I just did a quick Google search and a lion's roar possesses 87 decibels. According to this neighborhood association's website, sound becomes "very annoying" at 100 decibels, equal to the sound of a chainsaw. So if I am to understand Monica correctly, this man has a painfully loud voice. However you look at it, it's an odd compliment -- especially when you consider it alongside the line "So manipulative in a good way that makes me shout." So if I am to understand Monica correctly again, this man has a painfully loud voice and he uses this voice to be manipulative--but in a good way! Not manipulative like a slimy used car salesman named Gus. Not manipulative like, say, Monica's ex-boyfriend, Mr. Do-It-Tomorrow, who never paid his share of the rent and HIS atmosphere was always full of unimaginable things, like Senator Fred Thompson -- naked and greased up for some reason. Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D- Lonely Dancer by Jack; unknown location She walks across the empty floor as though the world has ended Another night has made its rounds, she still goes un-befriended. Her dress she will save for another night, then wear it as though it were new. Besides tonight, it wasn't seen by many, in fact, by very few. Oh, she tried to show herself off in her own very common manner By walking back and forth continually as though she carried a banner. She never danced, but only watched as she sat in her own little corner. Lost in a world of unconcern, a world where she is a loner. The lights are out, the music hushed, and now her world begins, a world of dreams and everywhere the sound of violins. She dances across the polished floor in the arms of a lover she has found, her hair making golden circles of light as he takes her round and round. The music comes from across the clouds, floating softly in her ear. Just for a moment, soaring up high, her heart has no fear. Then tears come softly across her cheeks. In her dreams she is such a romancer, yet on this cold and empty floor, she is just a lonely dancer. Mama was right. I should have never come to the dance. I should have never wrapped my dirty pillows in duct tape so I could squeeze myself into this cursed red dress. Mama said that they were all going to laugh at me. Mama said that only bad girls sit in cars with boys. Why didn't I listen to her? I was such a fool. Well, I think I ought to thank the lord that that sodomite Chris Hargensen had the entire prom dance moved from Chamberlain to Derry. It was a really elaborate practical joke, I have to admit that. All for l'il ol' me. I was worried that I would be voted the prom queen and get pig blood dumped on me by Chris and her sweathog boyfriend when I was standing on the stage. Then everyone would have had to die. Drama, especially young drama, on a dance floor is not uncommon. It's been utilized in everything from "It's A Wonderful Life" to "The Karate Kid" to "Angus" to that Soul Asylum music video with Claire Danes. Oh, and Cinderella. However, Jack throws us a bit of a curveball because, like the hero in the popular song by Cake, this poor waif is striving and driving and hugging the turns, even though not long ago somebody left with the cup. The former occupants of the dance floor are now cupping each other's genitals while this Éponine dances with her imaginary bodice-ripper stud. Aww. Aww? As long as you're going to manipulate us, why not mention that, a few miles away, E.T and Elliot are hugging goodbye forever and in the nearby canyon, Mufasa is being trampled to death by a stampede of wildebeests? I am Jack's diabolical poetry. He even invokes the image of her dress, and oh, I'm getting verklempt... hardly anyone noticed the dress! Talk amongst yourselves! ... She tried to flaunt her "common" goods, but no one was buying. Jack piles up the emotional trauma like an ice cream vendor. Why not show her peeling a "Kick Me" sign off of the back of her spaghetti straps? Somehow she manages to pace the floor continually while simultaneously sitting in her own little corner--huddled among the cobwebs, no doubt. She can bi-locate. You'd think that would be enough to make her popular. I find his "as though she carried a banner" reference to be amusing. Perhaps Jack is no stranger to the Medieval Times restaurant chain? "The music comes from across the clouds, floating softly in her ear." - one might ask, "What clouds?" But this is a fantasy Technicolor dance sequence with Gene Kelly, directed by Vincente Minnelli. (excuse me, I have to go eat some raw meat while watching classic George Foreman boxing footage). There can be clouds if Jack wants there to be clouds in the high school gym. Maybe there's a fog machine. I know I've said this many many times before, but gravy, if you're going to have a rhyming scheme, you have to stick with it. Don't just throw rhymes here and there like you're feeding pigeons. You come out as looking lazy, and I, for one, feel insulted. Here's the rhyming scheme in the first third of the poem: a, b, c, b, d, e, e, f, g, f. Don't consider that for too long, or your nose will start bleeding. Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C+ Penelope Strings Her Bow by Melissa; unknown location I am Penelope; I am tired. My fingers ache from 20 years of weaving, Sitting straight at my distaff and loom. Each morning I unseal my eyes to the sound Of your movements across the sea, Sailing farther and farther and farther From me and love. I've slept alone, shivering in an olive bed, Chained and chaste to its great solid roots, While you sail, sail to women who love you hard. Oh, severe mercy of Death! Why not send me away to brave deeds too? The greatest punishment is to be left, cold. Rumors of your conquests slip through old ladies' teeth. Menacing whispers tickle my ears. My weaving is done, the unraveling too. I will weave my own shroud of death. So, just as I return to a lonely bed each night, My beloved Odysseus will return to sadness as well. Oh, I'm tired too. So tired. Time for a history lesson, ladies and gentlemen. I don't know how familiar each of you are in classic literature, but being an English major who graduated with a stretched-taut 'B' average, I can tell you that the Penelope in this poem is, of course, Penelope Ann Miller, star of such movies as "Big Top Pee-Wee" and the Arnold Schwarzenegger cop-thriller "Kindergarten Cop." I always thought that she would have made a great (adult-ish) Mary Jane Watson if a "Spider-Man" movie had been made in the late 80's -- provided they somehow dispensed with Peter Parker's teenage origins and ... what? My geekiness is making you sick? Okay, I'm done. Soon I will be talking about the Odyssey, which is nerdy, instead of geeky. Penelope Ann Miller should not be confused with Penélope Cruz, actress and former love slave of Emperor Xenu. Penélope Cruz should not be confused with Salma Hayek. Okay, enough. The particular Penelope in this poem is a character in "The Odyssey", the epic poem by Homer. Penelope (Holly Hunter) is married to a Greek king (George Clooney), whose name is Ulysses (aka Odysseus). Interrupted from a pleasant evening spent dining in hell, Ulysses runs off to fight in the Trojan War, which lasts ten years because they went over budget and because a few millenia later, a distant relative of Agamemnon would give birth to Donald Rumsfeld. Thank you! This is hard enough for any wife to endure, but since this is an epic poem and Homer was paid by the couplet, he spends another ten years trying to get home to his wife and son. He could have made the trip in a few months, but he refused to stop and ask for directions! Please tip your waitresses! Meanwhile, Penelope busies herself with studying their family's genealogy on the Mac, before realizing that they are at the beginning of civilization. So she takes up other hobbies, which including weaving, un-weaving, rejecting various evil suitors who want to move in on Ulysses' territory, and contemplating suicide. Like you do. More or less, that takes us up to where we are in the poem. Oh, and one of the legs of their marital bed is an olive tree, thus the "olive bed." Those Greeks and their olives. I know the Odyssey is not to be taken literally, but my family used to have an olive tree in our front yard and you would not believe the mess it made. Presuming Ulysses and Penny had post-business-trip sex when he finally stumbled back into Ithaca (drunk as usual), I'm sure there was olive muck all over them by the end. As for the poem itself, I dearly hope that this was written for a high school assignment. Because if it isn't, Melissa loves "The Odyssey" way too much. Someone should either lock her in a room with nothing but Dean Koontz and John Grisham books, for a year. She'll be either insane or "cured" by the end of the 365 days. Unless she's going for her professorship on Ancient Greek poetry, it seems to me that her fandom would be better spent on "Heroes" slash fiction between Mohinder and Matt -- especially if we judge her fandom on the quality of this poem. Really, "unseal my eyes"? I think Melissa is saying that Penelope is tearing her eyes away from her fruitless search of the horizon, but I smell an abused thesaurus. It smells of mortality. "Rumors of your conquests slip through old ladies' teeth." - Death's conquests? Are the old ladies spreading unfair rumors about death? Isn't it a big leap of faith to assume that the old ladies of Ithaca had teeth? "While you sail, sail to women who love you hard." Ooh, no she didn't! "Honey, I promise I didn't touch the sirens! I swear! Demodocus wanted me to, but I said, 'hey, man, I love Penelope! I can't do that to her' Honey? I brought you something from Troy. ... It's right here in my ... Crap, I think we must have tossed it at the Cyclops." Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: D+ You should hear about Threadless. Unique, beautiful t-shirts (based on original designs by artists just like you and me) make excellent gifts for the December holidays or if your close friend has a birthday on January 2, they still make an excellent gift. If you shop via this link, I get store credit. Everyone wins! I have no new reviews up my sleeve at the moment, but I wanted to update, so I pulled this personal favorite from the archives. Hopefully, you will enjoy. Untitled by Marisa; Harvest, AL Come, lover Come away from the storm Feel the heat of the fire on your body I'll watch the golden glowing of your skin From where I stand watching in the door frame And as your long body stretches across the blankets on the floor I will slip over to where you are Planting soft kisses all over your face Playing tug-of-war with your bottom lip And we might fall asleep there, by the fire Basking in the peaceful slumber Or we could stip the heathen clothing off our bodies Engaging in the oldest of all dances (cerainly the most passionate) But either way, here, in this little room The firelight dancing over our faces... Peace will prevail here For this fire was not built with wood and matches The warmth here comes from our love "You can fall asleep next to the fire if you want, honey, but if it's all the same to you, I'm going to sleep in the bedroom, where it's a little bit less romance novel cliche and a little more comfortably temperate. If you want to be a human pop-tart, fine, but I'm going to sleep in a bed because tomorrow when I wake up, I'd like to be able to move my neck without a steady stream of painkillers. And by the way, it was really creepy when you stood in the doorway naked and stared at me for forty-five minutes. I started to get worried when you wouldn't blink. Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you, it may not be the greatest idea for us to have sex tonight.There was an accident in the lab and I might periodically glow with this yellow-orange hue. The HMO guy says I shouldn't worry about it. Night, hon." I propose that this poem be titled "Blue Balls." She's so vague about their doing it. "We can go to sleep (and have sex later?) or we can have sex now then sleep or we can watch "The Butterfly Effect" on cable then sex or..." By the time she's done discussing all the options, he's "taken care of himself" and fallen asleep. We came SO close to a sex scene, the moment is right, the candles are lit, there's incense in the air ... then Marisa pulls the rug right out from under us! That's not fair. Picture a baseball pitcher throwing the ball and it disappearing on its way to home plate. It's like that. The poem's only 18 lines long -- two lines under the p-dot-com limit. She can logon to her poetry.com account, make the changes and then everybody's happy. For gods sake, the poem begins with "Come, lover" -- which would be a neat trick if it worked. I don't know anybody, male or female, who can do that on command. "But either way, here, in this little room"... either way, my butt. I think there will be more prevailing peace if both of you have orgasms. And even then, the guy's head may not be peaceful. He may be worrying about something at work, or why he thought about his mother for a split second 10 minutes ago, or where this relationship is going, maybe we're taking it all too fast. "A little room" -- I'm imagining an isolated one-room log cabin where your eyes jump out of your head with a "plonk" noise when you hear a scritch-scratch-scritch noise coming from the front door at 4am. If I was given the setting, the general theme and the characters (but not the poem itself), I would have guessed that there would be animal metaphors. Bad poets are always peppering their work with jungle cats or wolves or birds with large expansive wings. The line "as your long body stretches across..." is begging for a reference to a panther. I'm not sure what to make of the tug of war with his bottom lip. You associate tug-of-wars with picnics, not foreplay. Does she sign up his unit for the wheelbarrow race? Also: the allusion to a tug-of-war suggests resistance on his part, as if perhaps he doesn't want his lower lip sucked on. I think it is also notable that the only thing we see the man doing is stretching. Besides that and the hypothetical disrobing, he doesn't do anything. I have no problem with the woman taking control of a situation, but I'm against the man being portrayed as a lump. "This fire was not built with wood and matches" -- no. No. We built this fire on rock and roll! Built this fire! Built this fire on ROCK AND ROLL! This fire *is* in a fireplace, right? You better check. And it's not being fed by the tallow culled from your last lover, right? Is this guy actually drugged and tied to stakes affixed to the floor and Marisa plans to perform a faux-Pagan rite? After all, the clothes are heathen. They are unclean. They must be sent back to the flames of hell from which they came. Why 'heathen' ? Do you think clothes are dangerously impure? Or are they only excommunicated when it's time for the lovemaking but once Marisa and friend finish, they're welcomed back into the fold. After the clothes come off, they engage in the oldest, most passionate dance. This is, of course, the Hokey Pokey. "Yeah, baby, yeah, and then shake it all about. Yeah, yeah, you know what I like. Yeah, you do that hokey pokey and you turn yourself around... mmm.. that's what it's all about, baby. Uh-huh. Yes, oh god, yes!" Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B- A Few Words For My Downing Daughter by Quentin; Cincinnati, OH You my child are a true light,in the sky. one that is truely a blessing,for all to see. Your ray is a inviting one,I was truely given a gift form above. You bright diamond in the ruft, don't fear your light,Shine for all to see. My most prized possesion i'm truely greatfull to walk in your presence. With a kiss from the forhead to the cheek. I wrap you in a casing of love,warmth, and kindness. You carry the joys of the world on your shoulders. And as I hug you, i'm favored enough to feel those joys. Stay or go my child, but forever know that you are in my heart,my thoughts, and my good graces. "I wrap you in a casing of love,warmth, and kindness" -- ooh, like a Hot Pocket? Yum. And Quinton shows his father-to-daughter affection with "a kiss from the forhead / to the cheek." So... he's kissing her with his forehead? Does he have an extra set of lips up there? Can they talk on their own? He's probably trying to say that these are the two spots where he can ... wait, there's no time for jokes! Oh no! For gods sake, man! Help! Fire! In the name of god, man, stop all of the gooshy language and save your daughter! She's drowning! She never learned how to tread water! I don't understand why you're still writing this crappy poem while your daughter is drowning! Oh wait... it's not drowning, is it? It's "downing." Well, that makes a whole lot more sense. Thank god for that. Keep an eye on her, though. Keep her away from the jacuzzi. Very strange that Quentin comes close to spelling "possession" correctly, but "darling" somehow becomes "downing." Is this somehow a reference to the Prime Minister's office in London: Downing St.? If we were going to excuse Quentin, we might say that he was spelling it phonetically--except there's no way you can get "darling" out of "downing." In all seriousness, when I first read the title of this poem, I thought he must have meant "Drowning" and by "Drowning," he meant "Drowned." I was suddenly reminded of the poem "Elegy for Jane (My student, thrown by a horse)" by Roethke, and thought I would pass on this one because I'm not so cold as to poke fun at the death of a child ... but after finding that the poem did not include any references to water, to death, to a funeral, etc., I concluded that no one was dead. Thank goodness for that. As long as we're here, it's worth pointing out that a "diamond in the ruft [rough]" is not a compliment. I'll allow that Quentin might be alluding to the awkwardness of her teenage years, but it's still not something you'd want to use in an any sort of ode. "Sure, you're all knees and elbows now," Quentin is essentially saying, "and I'd rather kiss a monkfish than listen to you whine about the other girls in your math class, but you're going to be a diamond someday, my darling shiny piece of coal!" "Daddy, how can I shine if I'm a diamond in the rough?" "..." "Yeah, I thought so. I'm going to Vegas to pursue a lucrative career as a stripper." Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B+ for the "downing" alone. Arrr! This poem deserves to be in Davy Jones' locker, it does! Lies by Amber; Everett, WA I don't understand you Or anything you do Why did you lie? You didn't even want to try You said you'd never leave Then left me all alone to grieve Are you telling her all the same old things? Our son is growing up Soon he'll want his own pup He's going to be one Won't that be so much fun? He'll be making every little sound While I'm chasing him around But you have other "better" things to do now When she says that he has "better" things to do now, she's talking about his secretary! Hello! The last time I was on poetry.com to cull some material from the ever-loving herd, several poems from Amber came down the pike. I found myself having to pick out my favorite from what I'm going to call the Steve Garvey series. All of these poems by Amber revolve around the subject of her deadbeat ex-husband/ex-boyfriend/father of her son. I worry that I'm going to stay home from work tomorrow, switch on the TV, and see Amber and Bruce (we'll call him Bruce) sitting on Maury Povich's couch. And Bruce will be taking a lie detector test to prove paternity and oh god, my brain just dissolved into oatmeal. But you get what I'm saying: Amber is just prime trashy daytime talk show material. Perhaps this isn't a fair assessment, but that's how she comes across here. I doubt Bruce will see this poem or any of the poems Amber wrote about his irresponsible ways. In fact, I flinch when I picture Bruce reading these poems because I can't imagine any scenario where a poem could convince him to accept his paternal responsibilities. (especially with the rhyme at the beginning of stanza two that makes me to take a welding torch to my eyes.) Before we get to my blinding myself, let me point out that the rhyming scheme of Amber's poem is consistent. Each stanza has seven lines, with three rhyming couplets each. The scheme is aabbccd in both stanzas. If she had rhymed line seven with line fourteen, I'd be calling for an exorcism or calling it an odd coincidence. But thank goodness we're back on track with the content of these rhymes. Especially, "Our son is growing up / Soon he'll want his own pup." First of all, you don't know that he'd want a puppy. He might be a cat person. Second, he's unable to speak yet. He is less than a year old. He can make noises that might sound like words, but he's not getting on Craigslist looking for free puppies and then sending you an email that says, "Mother, I think our home would benefit if we purchased a golden retriever puppy. Consider that I will be growing up without male role model -- and not having a puppy will only make this worse. Don't worry, I probably won't grow up to be like Richard Speck or Mike Tyson or Jerry Falwell. Stephen King had a deadbeat father and he turned out okay, if you discount his drug addiction during the 80's. Let me know what you think. TTFN." I don't care how "fun" he is, you're not going to get that sort of email out of a 14-month old. If I give you the benefit of the doubt and assume by "soon", you mean 4 or 5 years old, well, 5-year-old boys want everything. They'd walk home from daycare with a rabid baboon on a leash if the crazy peddler man traded it for a set of crayons. I know she just needed a rhyme for "up", but I really worry that Amber used this old standby of bad poets. "Up...up...bup, cup, dup, eup, gup..." until she got to "pup." Eureka. Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C+ Today is National Bad Poetry Day in the United States. I saw this noted in a bookstore today, but I can't find any confirmation that it actually IS the National Bad Poetry Day. Anyway, it's also the 520th birthday of Virginia Dare (1587-?). She was the first English child born in what would be the United States. ANYWAY... Forever by Katrina; unknown location As you grace your hand down my neck You kneel down before me You whisper in my ear of your truest love And tell me how long you have wished for her You then sit back and take a deep breath As you look into my eyes, a tear rolls down your cheek You wipe your tear and place it on my lips Then you say the sweetest words, I love you I then sigh with amazement Wondering how could I ever be love again It felt good to hear, but hurt to believe Wanting to accept, but scared to open up I still say I love you A shiver runs through my body, That feels so good I cry I so much don't want to be hurt again And I now hold a shield around my heart Please treat my heart as if it were your own And be very gentle if you do these acts that I ask of, And love me in return... I will be forever yours I'd bet money on my belief that Katrina never read this poem all the way through. I think she probably skimmed over it once or twice but nothing was really absorbed. It's sort of the equivalent to bullshitting your way through an exam in college. While it's likely that this poem was inspired by a true-life event, Katrina gave it the same amount of scrutiny that I gave to the horrible essays I wrote for this piss-poor communications course that I took during my sophomore year. That is, almost none at all. I don't make excuses for these poems but this is the only thing I can think of to explain the first few lines of this poem. Read the first seven lines over again, in defiance of Katrina's own clear apathy. I don't know about you, but it sounds a lot like the other person in this poetic opera is confessing that he loves someone who isn't Katrina (even though this isn't correct). Katrina refers to herself in first person and third person alternately, in deference to the emotion of the situation (I guess). "You whisper in my ear of your truest love / and tell me how long you have wished for her." - the first time I read this, I was convinced that we had a nasty breakup poem on our hands, with some lust and infidelity in the mix. Wait, I thought, if he's confessing his love for someone else, then why is he groping her neck? Is he planning to strangle her right after he breaks her heart? What a great poem! The idea that this relationship was a Jeep about to drive off a cliff was strengthened by the next lines where the whisperer leans back and inhales with what I imagined was a rueful air. "Sorry, babe," he might be saying, "that's the way the cookie crumbles. Better luck next life." But then he's crying. What? Why is he crying? Could he be ashamed? Wha-? If you're reading this review without having read the poem, I'm not pulling these ideas out of thin air. This poem actually DOES read like this. But it turns out that they actually love each other and he proves it by forcing her to swallow a tear from his eye, which is incredibly disgusting. Some boyfriends might get their love a dozen red roses, or a tennis bracelet or tickets to WWE Summer Slam, but this guy is way too suave for anything so generic. Here's one of my tears. Straight from my limbic system to you, baby. Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: B a gift by Hirsch; unknown location My key fits but the door seems so far. I wage a war, yet no volunteers. Caused so much pain, my vessel became callous. Love's blood is sweet so I binge. Its voice cries out, I ignored the echoes. My drink got thicker. I dilute it with warm honeyed water, yet it got dark, cold and bitter. My thirst now relies on sorrow. My eyes has an affair with tears, but makes love to shadows once glimpsed opposite the door. Where's the door, is there another path? I wouldn't know where to begin this journey. In desperation I hold the key, and in insanity I cling-on. My path is obscured, haunted by ghosts with familiar cries. Cries so loud they can't be ignored. The words would rip the very flesh, which is engorged with undeserved kindness. Here, please, take my key. Do not mind the bloodstained grooves, for they taste sweet. I'm three lines into reading this poem and I don't want to go any further -- not when author invokes the image of a key without a door (think about it...) and a calloused vessel (don't think about it too much...). Later, he holds and clings on to this key -- probably while watching late night Cinemax and/or something starring Jenna Jameson. Later still, he invites the reader to take the key from him. And because he's been drinking "love's blood", it's bloodstained. Now I suppose that he might have been drinking this metaphorical blood out of his cupped hands before handling the key and that's why it's ... tarnished... with blood. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to be violently sick all over the place. Okay, I'm back. I've always imagined Goths drinking with elaborate silver flagons rather than cupped hands. Ah, well. I'm still wondering how two independent metaphors can merge like that. They shouldn't, but they do. And why would anyone be eased by the gift of a bloodstained key because it tastes sweet? Who's putting keys in their mouth? Oh god! The contents of my stomach! ... ... Okay, back again. Better to not think about it too much. We're going to assume that Hirsch intended this as a Goth-y poem because if he didn't, then I'd have to give up. If this isn't a Goth poem, then nothing on this planet makes any sense at all. Luckily for everyone involved, there is a lot more to examine in this composition besides the key. "Love's blood" is a good place to (re)start. Goths enjoy vampires in the same way that anime fans enjoy screaming. It's hard to read "Love's blood is sweet so I binge" without thinking about the Nosferatu of your choice or burning a copy of an Anne Rice novel and then peeing on its ashes. Okay, so he is saying that he is bingeing on love. He's a man deeply in love. He's passionately gaga over another human with a penchant for feminine trenchcoats and eye shadow. A voice cries out -- Hirsh naively ignores it. It would appear all is not well back at camp. The drink becomes thick. I think Hirsh is trying to say that his girlfriend started writing really terrible Goth poetry and rifts started developing. The honeymoon period of their relationship was over-- it'd been over for several weeks. Hirsh was just too dense/blinded by the light to realize it. Realizing that something is dreadfully wrong, Hirsh reacts by smothering his lover with sweet (honeyed) affection -- which, of course, doesn't work at all. Love becomes "dark, cold, bitter." I was going to make yet another Goth joke at his expense here, but I'm starting to feel mildly sorry for the poor sap author. But, for the record, the joke was going to be something like... "yet it got dark, cold and bitter" -- so the two Goths lived happily ever after? Zing. Aw, poor Hirsh. Now he's sorrowful and crying, haunted by ghosts of Girlfriend Past. It sounds like he's suffered his first major breakup. Empathy is the last thing he needs. Maybe he should just sit down on his couch, microwave some blood-flavored popcorn, and watch a few hundred episodes of "Dark Shadows." Go. Barnabas Collins is waiting for you. Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A = worst poem imaginable]: A |
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