Bad Poetry

I use to write a ton of bad poetry. Today, I offer you the first in a series of my bad poetry. Here is a little gem that I wrote back in the summer of 1995.

Beware of the “Tool” / Summer 1995

It appeared to be a random event
his teasing me with his wooden drill,
the one that slivered, poked,

and stretched my skin as I
laid there frozen on the granite floor.
He would lay camouflaged in shadows,

waiting for the precise moment to creep
up behind me so he could grab me
by the shoulders. Spinning me around

he would direct my attention to him
and the rusty badge he wore on his chest
with the phrase “Friend to the Environment”

scratched upon it. In his pre=adolescent voice,
he would holler “Always wear clean
shoes” in to my already tender ears, tender

from his incessant nibbling and biting.
To show me his version of love,
he would lick his black-capped chickadee

then press it to my lips as to let
at peck at my already shredded lips.
He would rub his greasy palm up

and down my thigh whispering random
things such as how he loved to wake up
to the putrefied scent of rotting blackberry

muffins aged to perfection, with just
the right amount of mold. There were times
when I believed myself to be asfe from

his sleazy, oily grasp, like the time I hid
from him in the women’s restroom, but
he found me. I heard his squeaky penny loafers

scuff across the tiled floor. From underneath
the stall door, peered his zit-scared face.
Snot oozed down from the cavernous nostrils,

the size of plum pits. He gurgled before
he spoke a phrase I have yet to forget.
He said, “You can never hid from the Tool.”


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