You are currently browsing posts tagged with Bad Poetry

An Ode to Kimora’s Offspring

June 3rd, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

There once was a lady, Kimora
Who was neither a fauna, nor flora
She modeled a tad,
Did a Benetton ad,
And wed a guy she did adore-a.

Her hubby was mega-ton rich
And he didn’t mind she was a bitch
He said, “You mogul too!”
“I’m just older than you!”
And she built her own brand, stitch-by-stitch.

Now this is where things move off course
Because one day,the two would divorce
But before these guys did
they had two hapa kids!
And lived fabulously with no remorse.

But years as a fabulous wife
Had K used to spectacular life
Diamonds everywhere
Evian for her hair
And a penchant for causing much strife.

But without the old man at her side
She started to feel empty, and cried
Found hot Mr. Honsou
(More delish than ponzu)
And said, “I’ll take green diamonds in stride!”

Djimon liked this big, spicy lady
And helped her to make a new baby
It popped out of her womb,
Just before it was June,
And it didn’t cry once! Or, well, maybe.

Finally, it was time for a name
And it couldn’t be like all the same
They donned it lil’ Kenzo
With a car seat in the Benzo
Fit for life filled with fashion and fame!

[UPI: Kimora and Djimon Name Son Kenzo]

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Thanks, Jasmine!

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And Speaking of Appetite Suppressants…

March 26th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

My friend Chris, a brilliant comfort food chef (he once served a magnificent nine dinner courses of bacon–a life-changing, so-worth-it event that my arteries may never forgive me for) told me about a very special bread chef from Thailand this morning.

I was so intrigued by the gastronomic innovasian that I wrote a poem to describe my reaction:

This Thailand Bread
Looks like people so dead
Mostly cabezas
,
A treat that does faze us

Is that a heart?
Baker says that it’s art

But I’d rather see canvas

Than floured forearms and bare ass

It’s awfully gruesome
Like
friendship with Gavin Newsom,
Like chlamydia prick

The scene makes me sick

Still, the baker, he sifts
Making these unique gifts

So that folks that bring bread

Can give wonderful head.

Here’s what I’m talkin’ about, Willis:


Uh, yuck. I’m so un-hungry now I could be an aspiring model. Jesus.

[via Inventor Spot]

Thank you x2, Chris!!

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Trucky In Love

January 7th, 2009 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

Star Magazine has reported that Jennifer Aniston recently scribbled down a love poem for her main douche man, John Mayer. And wouldn’t you know it, he went around and turned it into a beautiful Mayer ballad, a surprise unleashed upon her over the holidays while the two vacationed in Mexico.

Oh, my! Could we soon witness the release of the next great Mayer oeuvre? What could possibly top “Your Body Is A Wonderland?”

Let’s take a peek at Aniston’s lyrics:

Lucky in love, lucky in love
Didn’t forget me when I asked you to leave me.
Didn’t forget me
Now you’re alongside me
You’ve brought luck to love
I’ve been hit by a truck in love.

Um. Wow.

Looks like somebody’s been taking classes at the Tila Tequila school of Poetry, though they might be better served by sticking to a healthy regimen of Pilates, beach lounging, shopping for clothing basics, and taking on the occasional romantic comedy role.

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Who Is "The F*ck God"?

July 3rd, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Jen

I have to admit, poetry has always confused the hell out of me. Once I ventured outside of the AB AB rhyme scheme, I was pretty much effed. From a very young age, I kept diaries, I wrote stories, and I had imaginary pen pals (one of whom was named after the regional burger chain Whataburger), but I never fancied myself a poet. Even when I attended a graduate writing program, I avoided poetry. Poets, too, because they’re a whole different breed from fiction writers–infinitely cooler, yes, but irritatingly difficult to hold a conversation with. I attribute that to their constant need to distill everything down to its essence.

I’ve never been much of a reader of poetry, either. I usually get stuck on one image–T.S. Eliot’s rolled trousers, William Carlos Williams’ plum. I experienced that same confusion when I read the following poem, penned by Tila Tequila after she got dissed at the pink-and-blue disco-altar during the Shot at Love 2 finale:

Thunderfuck my mouth is shut. Been a while, feel like a cunt.
Can’t wait for this drama to pass.
Oh the joy…..fuck you. My ass.
Live a lie.
Tell my mind.
Over soon. I can’t deny.
You will all soon see, the truth in my eyes.

Smile on my face, the loving embrace….but instead I’ll punch you in the face.
For a long time coming….I let you touch me….now that it’s over bitch….You better start running.
Pent up inside….telling these lies….this has gone too far…..the world will soon die.

Only 1 more day. To feel this way. Tomorrow I smile….brings another day!

Back to myself. Nobody else. Fuck all this bullshit. I’m back to myself. Yes. Thank the fuck God.

Sure, she was going through unimaginable pain. Yes, she had been dumped AGAIN. And on TV, no less. But, reading her poem (the only entry tagged “Tila Tequila poetry” on her website), I was drawn to one thing, and one thing only.

WHO IS “THE FUCK GOD”???

I allowed myself to imagine that, if I could only figure out who “The Fuck God” was, the universe would fling open its sacred doors for me. All kinds of mysteries would be revealed. I would get rich! I would get famous! I would have mind-altering sex every day, possibly several times a day! I would finally understand phenomena that have confounded me for years, like the popularity of red shoes and Red Bull! The Grateful Dead and Coldplay! Dancing with the Stars and The Hills! Shorts-with-heels and short pants! Oprah and Rachael Ray! Why hot dogs are always so damned delicious!

This, I believed, was going to be bigger than The Secret.

After scouring the internet for answers, I think I found Him.


Hmm.

Weird.

I don’t feel more enlightened.

Huh.

Well, like I said, poetry confuses the hell out of me.

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Thanks, Adriel and DJ Phatrick!

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