Like watching a kid you don’t like fall down a set of stairs, all good things must come to an end. And we here at your Bad Poetry Contest Headquarters are facing the end of the line — our time for sharing deep thoughts and showing off our sensitive side is ending. We can now go back to being arrogant, know-it-all agent jerks. With that ending, we must select one wiener from the bunch (er… “winner”) and proclaim him or her the Bad Poetry King or Queen (or, if like so many people in North Carolina, they don’t know their gender, we’ll name them “the Bad Poetry Quing” — since we want everyone to feel comfortable).
The poems have been posted, the wisdom shared, the emotions emoted. There were some wonderful entrants this year. We had Stephanie Yuhas (who in real life works for “Mystery Science Theater”) mulling her old keys. Marie Prys, a wonderful editor, pondering the deep mysteries of a dog park. And Jim Gullo, sniffing feet while ruminating on the smell of “Earth Mother Bisquick.” Who can forget Lydia revealing she is “100% certified lonesome and there is no remedy; my weepful-juices are sloshing off my cheeks.” That’s right. Weepful-juices. Brilliant. And Tricia, who noted that she could “smell the inside of her head,” then gazed into the bleary eyes of her lover, only to find them “blue. Blue as toilet bowl cleaner.” That brilliant image sticks with me, like the tissue that just won’t go away no matter how many times you flush.
Those are all truly Bad Poems, offered with grace and, frequently, the use of heavy medication. I believe all of these entrants deserve you to look them in the eye and say, “Yes. You’re sensitive artists. Now go away or I’ll call the police.”
But, of course, we wouldn’t have been able to bring you our Bad Poetry Contest for ten years (TEN YEARS, for goodness sake — don’t you have something better to do?!) if we didn’t carefully work through the poems, evaluate each one carefully, and select a winner. And this year’s winner receives a life-changing gift: a genuine, autographed copy of The Y2K Family Survival Guide, — the book that saved western civilization, kept us from sliding into the abyss, and made sure we’d all be able to embrace the freedom that allows us to waste time writing Bad Poetry and voting for Donald Trump. (It might also have sold more copies than anything else I ever wrote… my mom must be proud, don’t you think? Her son, getting to play on people’s useless fears in order to make a fast buck? H.L. Mencken was right!)
All right, so here we go… and the wiener is… the 2016 BAD POET OF THE YEAR is…
POLICEARTIST! For his/her fabulously Bad Poem, Ode to Love
Ode to Love
my love for you is like a pair of rabbit ears, the ones you used to put on the television so you could watch “Perry Mason” on Sunday nights.”
Spotty reception and with rerun-.
s. But in my bubble-bath daydream thoughts of you, I scratch at mosquito bites,
because I didn’t have Off! or Skin-so Soft, so this line is done.
I must get over this love like malignant animal magnetism, as the Christian Scientists would call it, and then give it last rites.
If they were Catholic, which they aren’t, and I’m not poking fun.
I’m getting my love self-poetry published on Createspace because my mom thinks I deserve acolytes.
(The poem came with this notation: “This is dedicated to Harvey B. Twit, my college hamster, who was eaten by Shasta, mom’s dog. I found the body.” Doesn’t that make you want to share weepful juices?)
Congratulations, Policeartist! You are Truly Bad! Send me your address, and we’ll get your book in the mail. Feel free to insert an acceptance speech…