Bad Poetry rules. One day those weenies who run the Pulitzer Prizes will wake up, realize they’ve been wasting their time with serious poets who want to write about stuff like “meaning” and “loneliness” and “reconciliation,” and instead they’ll realize there are a BUNCH of bad poets out there. People with no discernible skill. People with the depth of a potato chip. People who want to write bad poetry about squelching a slug with salt, or washing the dishes at mom’s house, or shooting zombies. In other words, my kind of people.
So this year I’m not quite able to convey a Pulitzer to the winner… but I do have a copy of Hiroyuki Nishigaki’s celebrated self-published book, How to Good-bye Depression: If you constrict anus 100 time everyday. Malarky? or Effective way? (Look it up. That’s the correct title and subtitle, complete with errors.) Many people in publishing believe it may be the worst self-pubbed title ever sold on Amazon. One chapter is titled “Erase your badf stickiness and multiply various good feeling.” Another has this surefire title: “Stare, shoot out immaterial fiber, ucceed in concentrating, behave with abandon-largess-humor and beckon the spirit.” (A favorite chapter of mine. Complete with the word “ucceed.”) Anyway, this year’s lucky winner will receive their own fabulous copy. Try not to be jealous. (oh… the photo. That is a sandwich grilling machine that embeds the face of Christ into your sandwich. It’s called the “Grilled Cheez-ez.” It has nothing to do with the Bad Poetry Contest, but seemed somehow appropriate.)
In third place is this bit of deepfulness from Christ Eleiott, how much pizza, which he notes is to be read in a breathy tone, with annoying peaks and valleys:
Children walk on the moon.
Why will we never see Jonathan?
Why does grandma eat cake for breakfast?
Pino key can unlock the mysteries of our hearts.
How much pizza?
I know — Chris is doubtless off his meds again, and we’re all thankful for it. The faux depth, the reflective tone, the stupid questions marks. It all points to True Badness. I loved it.
In second place (and this is important, because if our champion is unable to meet all of the obligations that come with being a True Bad Poet, this person will be forced, possibly at gunpoint, to read Nnishigaki’s book) is Deanna Fugett’s ode to Bad Cows:
The crinkly sheets wiggle in the waves of nothingness.
The cow of serendipity waltzes past the barn of conformity.
I said moo.
Bad cow. Terribly bad cow.
Terrible. Bad cow.
Kill the cow.
Wait, no, stop. Don’t kill the cow.
Just do it.
Cry. Tears of bloody bloodiness.
Terribly dead cow now.
Bad, bad cow.
Terribly bad! Putrid! Loved it! And now, timed nicely to occur the same week as the finals on American Idol, comes our Grand Prize Weiner, Lydia for her poem about death and crying and not being appreciated as a Truly Bad Poet:
the Pain of Love
Is like death
The Pain above
is like Death
A tear trickling Slowly down one cheek
like a river Of misery sliding Down my face
A waterfall Just East of my nostrils so bleak
Everyone Loses The Race
death, Death, death
It’s like when people Die
I Now Will Not Now Fly
No one Is Metaphysically free
No One appreciates me
How true! No one appreciates a Bad Poet until… um… well, actually, no one really appreciates a Bad Poet, period. But that won’t stop us from trying! Thanks to all who participated — I loved reading about rapid I movements and how to goodbye depression and all the other stoo-pid stuff you came up with. You’re all wonderfully bad. (Lydia, be in touch and I’ll send you a copy of the book.) Until next year, keep faking the depth, people. Nobody appreciates your soulfulness and pain, because you’re completely unique… just like everybody else.