Shitty Poetry Month Week Four Winner

The winner of week 4 of CZP's SPoM is...

"A Stark and Wormy Blight" by Mike Bryant! Congratulations, Mike! You will go to the final round of SPoM.

Tune in tonight at 6pm EST for the final linguistic battle between our 4 weekly champions as they compete to win the Shitty Poetry Championship Belt. We will post their poems up one final time and ask you, Gentle Reader, to cast your final vote to determine which poem is the shittiest poem of them all!

Shitty Poetry Week Three Winner!

The winner for week 3 of SPoM is John W Sexton for his poem "Dissimilar Familiars." Congratulations, John!

This week is the last week of SPoM. Head on over to www.chizine.com to view the final shitty poems for week 4 and cast your vote for the worst poem! Next week our weekly champions will go poem-to-poem to battle it out for the Shitty Poetry Championship Belt!

My EMO Starcommander and the Voyages We Never Took

He wooed me like you tow an asteroid
to fling into a planet you don't like.

He promised googly hyperdrives
to farflung planets, but his particle accelerator was always "down."

He boasted about smuggling
jazzonite into the Minotonkan
Convent, but he had no proof
of dancing and nun
saw him leave.

His excuses for why we never left
the solar system were always colourful: "I need to fly under the radar
lest the Hesteride Belt Mafia find us. You wouldn't want that, babe." Then he'd describe what he thought of
as torture, but I was starting to think might just be kink.

"I know, Saturn in the shadow
of three moons would be awesome,
but I hate crowds, and we can buy
the digital wall display for 20 geffes."

It was always more practical not to leave our apartment. His moods wrapped around him like a nebula shroud. It was a no-communication zone.

I wanted to go all comet on him, but he offered me Cheetos and a place on the couch and his warm arm and said, "Babe, we don't need all that running now that we got each other."

And I settled into the couch like that asteroid settles into a planet's surface, all cozy and devastating, wiping out all life around it.

The Lament of the Paranormal Paramour

Vampires don’t sparkle
And werewolves aren’t adorable
So please keep your romance
Away from my paranormal

The real urban fantasy
Is mixing love and horror
I’d only buy my sweetie Twilight
If I wanted to bore her

Everybody knows
The undead and teens don’t mix
So keep your vamp-human love affair
Away from my private dicks

The distance between genres
Can be near or far
Say no to paranormal romance
Long live supernatural noir

Increase Breast Size–Guaranteed!

O dear bulk-mailer, here’s my query;
make them bigger? much, or very?
Will they bulge like two balloons,
or rising suns, or lucent moons?
Will you give me your assurance
the stuff is safe? Do you have insurance?
What if one gets more enormous
than the other? Will you warn us
of potential side effects?
Blisters? Pimples? Auto wrecks?
It must be worth it—lucky me,
you’ve saved me from deficiency!
Bust size is now my only worry,
so send it quick—I’m in a hurry!

A Stark and Wormy Blight

by Mike Bryant

It was a stark and wormy blight
That killed the tree
The Poet Tree!
Poetry
Poe, a tree!
A tree, Poe!
The branches tapping
A-rapping at my chamber pot
Your chamber? Not!
Not? Knot!
Knot a tree
POETRY!
Poet Tray
Poe! It tray!
A tray, a tray, a tray!
Poe!
A tray, poe!
A tray of pie!
The beating of its hideous filling!
Four and twenty blackbirds – RAVENS!
Ravens! Black! Black, Rebecca.
Rebecca Black, so named after the dead roses in her hideous heart
The blackened pie of her soul
Eat it! Eat the pie! Filled with ravens!
Eat it today!
For it is pie day
Pie day, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
My humps.

Some Greeks Walk Into a Poem

Icarus and Orpheus walk
into a poem and Sisyphus
is serving drinks.

"What kind of poem is this?"
asks Orpheus, King of Songs.

"I don't know," said Sisyphus,
who pours another round.

Perseus, Theseus, and Odysseus
are sitting at a table nearby
and can't help overhearing.

"It's a great poem,"
says the one.

"You can tell because of the line
breaks and allusions,"
says the other.

"But mostly it's the Greeks.
Gotta have Greeks,"
says the last.

And I guess he was right?

Dissimilar Familiars

The pigeon in pecks sipped from the runnel
of blood that ran bright from the burst right eye
of the witch’s cat. Cat, by the tunnel
of light that entered through the pigeon’s eye,
was now a blood-mind in the pigeon’s brain.
“Come my pigeon, come my puss,” sang the witch,
and the pigeon rose on applauding wings.

Cat-pigeon came down to the town square, which,
was where all of the witch’s pigeons shat.
The square was now dull with pigeons’ silver,
(that none would guess was the shit of a cat),
and lying there grey as tarnished pewter
the square of the town was the note of love
the witch sent up to her dead cats above.

A Ghost Story

The Aussies, they all sat around,
The campfire and they talked.
On intruders and unwelcome visitors they frowned,
And the sheepdog the camp stalked.
And then one bloke name of Norm
Began to tell a tale.
He said, “My story starts in a storm,
An unholy, awful gale.”
The others gathered 'round him,
And prayed him to continue,
So they turned the light of lantern to dim,
And thought, “What have we got ourselves into?”
Then Norm began his story,
And began it with a laugh.
He said, “I feel full of glory,”
And with his feet he stirred the hearth.
“It was a nasty night,
As I have said before,
And the wild bush brumbies were all upset.
And as it says in the old folk lore,
On this night a ghost I met.”
It was the here the others laughed in scorn,
And the one with the biggest bean*
Said, “Never since the day I was born,
Never a ghost have I seen.”
Norm looked in pity at his mates around him,
And started from where he left off:
“There was so much rain you could practically swim,
Ah, Young Ted, don’t scoff.
For as I walked along old Kent Road alone,
A mist began to form,
It began to cover old Marley’s Stone.
I’m sure it wasn’t the storm.
Cos pretty soon that mist, it rose,
Up above my head.
My brawny legs below me froze
And I was filled with dread.
Because now I saw that there above me,
With leering, awful eyes,
Was the face and form of Old Man Marley,
And I saw it with surprise.
For he was dead, long time ago,
Though his ghost was said to walk
And I had searched for it high and low,
Cos I thought it was just talk (teacher’s comment: Contradictory. I still don’t...

The Termagant’s Rant

Termagant, Termagant
Wandering everywhere
You’re always in a rant
Even if you’re going insane
Even if you’re not wearing pants

Termagant, Termagant
Look beneath your feet and
Follow the ant
Even if you’re feeling low
And even if you say you can’t

Termagant, Termagant
Even when you say you will
Maybe you shan’t
You can’t always get what you want
So says my aunt

Glosa on a Freedom Pole

He hit your flint face and it sparked
And I bellowed and you parked
We reached Marfa
One honest day up on this freedom pole
-Kristen Stewart

What was it about this frozen pole
and your tongue
that drew us to Marfa?
It was Drew, was it not?
He hit your flint face and it sparked

our interest in all things tubular
that could be stuck
to your tongue:
a pole, a note, an accordion,
and I bellowed and you parked.

We saw the Pole
who drove a neon Zamboni
over the pan handle
and somehow we knew when
we reached Marfa,

the city of tongues,
that we were reared
to strafe the sun
and spend a year and
one honest day up on this freedom pole.

Groening

so
I
was
grieving over a
grave in a
grove when
Grendel and
Gargamel and
Gannon sicced a
gros
gross
grosse
gargoyle on my
groove

G, I said
Get thee gone
Go, dog, go, already
I don't like your
green eggs, your
green arrows, your
green lanterns, your
green screen, your
green teeth, your
greedy eyes
gulping
me
in

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