billy blew
his brains out
and no one noticed
billy blew
his brains out
and no one cared
billy blew
his brains out
and you ask
who the hell
is billy anyway?
well, what if
billy
were you
(D. James)
Category Archives: bad poetry
talk about the weather
The sunlight blinds
but you look anyway
reflecting
off the tabletops
creating an illusion
the gentlest
of winter afternoons
the violent dying light
pierces your eye
as a reminder
of summer
yet no matter
how hard you stare
you cannot make
the season change
nor the sun
shine less
(D. James)
Do we expect too much from our heroes or have they just let us down
The writer
that doesn’t write
The poet
that doesn’t poe
The savior
that doesn’t save
On a road
that goes nowhere
leads to nothing
and ends when it’s over
[queue music]
(D. James)
poetry for the masses
there are
two kinds
of drivel
a poet
writes
the kind
that gets
published
and the kind
that doesn’t
(D. James)
keep to the path
black
of night
yellow
of heart
red
of soul
white
of the coming dawn
(D. James)
the dog at the end of the tunnel
yellow toothed dog
stares through
blood-shot eyes
in my nightmare
drooling
I know he
wants me
for his last meal
I’ve run from him
for hours now
maybe even days
in the end
he’ll have his way
because that dog
keeps me honest
because that dog
is me
his hot breath
rank with death
the only escape
is to wake
but either I can’t
or I already have
I’ll know in a minute
as he approaches
and I am too weak
to move
One way or the other
it ends here
(D. James)
undecided
I saw you standing
on the edge of a shadow
in the space where
sunlight and darkness meet
in the endless battle
of night and day
waiting
for something
in yourself
to appear
but the struggle
was too great
and you remain
undecided
(D. James)
contrition
What is the sound
of nothing falling
in the city?
(D. James)
nightrider
The half-moon laughs
as we tear up the road
screaming at the night
With nothing but chrome
and black gloss
we ride ’til dawn
Our piece of heaven
forged in hell
hanging with the
fallen angels
And when the sun rises
we’ll put another night
to rest
(D. James)
Red
The heart is pink
lips are blue
revolutions are lost
red is a liar
EL SEBBO
White
White is the easiest metaphor
EL SEBBO
Umbrella
If writing poetry
is like pissing against the wind
remember that the wind
often changes direction
EL SEBBO
The poet’s consolation
A beautiful car
is nothing
compared to
a good conversation
EL SEBBO
Red
if my words were colored
like heads and then hands
then sometimes they could be
red machine or red lips
but mostly red silence
EL SEBBO
Sphinx
What we could say
is hidden
behind our words
EL SEBBO
dreaming of silence
Talk talk talk …
words without meaning
phrases that go nowhere
What does any
of this accomplish?
I’d discuss it
but that only
leads us back
to the beginning
(D. James)
Perfection
sun goes down moon comes up
I hold one in each hand
EL SEBBO
Double lines
the apple-tree is blossoming
the songs of the birds again have meaning
EL SEBBO
Periphery
I am writing a poem in my garden
the sun at the periphery of my thoughts
EL SEBBO
Fall
When things fall
objects happen
EL SEBBO
The limit of poetry
rain
depression
poetry
more rain
100 degrees
Everything thickens
feels sluggish
No interest in food
or motion
Scents not
smelled before
emanate from somewhere
behind something in the kitchen
It’s as if the sun
never goes down
never goes down
never goes down
Still it’s better
than being cold
(D. James)
North
No
matter
where
you
are
Poetry
is
always
at
the
center
of
the
horizon
EL SEBBO
Overweight champions
Their feet shake the ground
and the teeth in our skulls
Their gigantic arms
send dried leaves
whirling around us
Their laughter
booms enigmatic
like deep thunder
Who are they?
Who were they?
Nobody knows
and nobody
really cares
because the first
buds are blooming
and birds are a-singing
and the overweight champions
just become mountains
on the horizon line
very blue
very far away
EL SEBBO
The illusion of Socialism
A government ruled
by well-meaning bourgeois
is still a government
and it is still
ruled
by
bourgeois
EL SEBBO
