Month: January 2023

The Philosophy Behind Write Bad Poetry

Write Bad Poetry is not just a philosophy for writers, but for everything in life. It will certainly help you learn how to write from a stream of consciousness, which will improve your writing, but more importantly, it will give you a new method to deal with everything that sucks.

We prompted AI with with this and it wrote you a poem:

Write Bad Poetry is not just for writers

It's can be applied to everything in life. 

It's a way to express yourself and let go of strife.

It's a way to be creative and explore what you can do.

It's a way to let go of all the things that you've been through.

It's a way to be free and to let go of the past.

It's a way to express yourself and to make something that will last.

So don't be afraid to write bad poetry, it's a way to be true.

It's a way to find yourself and make something new.

Fowl Language

I'd like to give a flying duck
but the feathering pluck
of flapping wings
i hear the bird sing

and i'd like to give you
a piece of the middle
to buy a brick
to build a house
where you keep the donkey out back
and the duck goes quack quack quack

a flipping flying feather = 
i really don't give one flying feather of a duck

Bingo

buttons now
run the top
are these markers?
potholders?
who's cooking all the slop?

fire, fire, set the alarm
call the forces that reckon
with powers that be

let's try once again
to focus on me

what's wrong
what's right
what'd you do last night?

are you eating?
are you sleeping?
are you circling in circles
and pacing through the halls?

How are you feeling today?
Do you feel okay?

Why don't you reach out to touch me to see–
align all the rows
so perfectly
 - like numbers falling under
in corners and squares
a postage stamp 
  to pretend that you care

what a card, what a hoot,
  hope this makes you feel better?

the best part was
ripping it up
and drawing out lines

i hate that i feel like hating you
i want to be happy.
i want to care. 
i'm pretty sure i'm tired though
and i'm too old to be there

so i'll find myself a table
and wait for you -

I-49.

It’s probably too late

I don't think
i was in time
marching out of place
i think i probably missed the beat
i think i slid through the base

I can't remember why i cared
and i'm sure you barely dared
but i think there's something
that's still running
and i can't forget how we fade

fade to the background
fade out the tv
fade out the ink
that is spinning next to me

i think we forget
i think we remember

but I don't think
  i will ever sync

Sand

Believe it or not, robots were writing poetry long before AI existed. This one came from Rob’s Amazing Poetry Generator. 

Sand, The daytime, and one to one
equals everything.
If this is true,
I may 
not be a 
hole in the world 
which I document.

Can We Save Us From Ourselves?

We break it
We make it
We take it
we can’t shake it
Can we save us from ourselves?

Destruction
Loss of function
Broken dishes on the shelf
   (Can we save us from ourselves?)

Broken records, broken minds
Broken clocks ticking out of time
Loss of function
Destruction

Steel curtain, iron furnace
Can we furnish
These ashes on the ground?

Everybody’s lost something 
Will it ever be found?

Rock bottom 
forgotten 
Can we save us from ourselves ?

The Balloon Man

There’s a helium shortage but people don’t seem to care:
They want their balloons,
for their parties and celebrations.

They want red balloons, black balloons, green balloons.
For every occasion and gathering.

To tie to the mailbox with ribbon.
To have in the room for kids
to bounce to one another.

The balloon man shuffles through his book of balloons
to see which ones are the most popular right now,
which ones he is running low on.

Get well balloons.

Sadness overcomes him as he thinks about
all the people who are sick and how the balloons might cheer them up
or remind them they are still sick.

Then he thinks about balloons
as a choking hazard,
as kids should really never
play with balloons
but they do anyways.

He prays everyday that the parents are supervising their children with every ballon he sells them,
Balloons always pop.

He wonders if he’s depressed.
He’s been sleeping a lot,
unable to find
the motivation to get out of bed in the morning,
he’s falling behind on his bills –
being a balloon man doesn’t really pay off.

He wonders about the stories of his customers.
What will they do with their balloons?
Let them float into the air?
Wait until the helium is gone and store them forever as a memory?

He waits at his booth in the store
where the customers come for balloons
and he puts his head on his hands.

He doesn’t like balloons.

Order Up

This is something I wrote about pancakes and syrup 12 years before AI existed. Can’t remember how or why. 

The dishes are stacked, 
    stuck together like glue
 with pancake syrup and butter. 

Two coffee mugs remain,
   one with bright ruby red lipstick.

The couple had huddled over the coffee and French toast and eggs talking about their latest assignment. 

Young couple. Were they even a couple?

Two college kids, the most annoying kind, 
    fresh with ideas and inspiration 
    on tackling down everything wrong
    with the world. 

The tip, a crisp $5 dollar bill, 
    underneath the sugar dispenser
 waited patiently on the bottom of the table.

 A folded napkin
   with blue ink scribbles and doodles
  fell to the floor.

Once the sticky diner table
  (with a formica top and aluminum sides)
  is clear, it is time to wipe down: 
         a circular motion up and down until 
              the coffee stains are gone 
    and the syrup is not so sticky. 

Walking back to the kitchen 
   I want to get out of here
screams in her head.
   I need a real life.
      Maybe even just a dream, 
    a penny to wish on.

Dishes in the dishwasher clank and crash
  the machine swooshing over with water. 

They come out hot and dripping. 

The grill sizzles with the next order,
   an elderly couple,
  waiting for eggs 
     and bacon and sausage. 

Good, no pancake syrup this time.

Sneaking out back for a smoke break, 
   hands trembling in the cold air. 
She takes two puffs, inhaling hard. 

Her last breath as she waits for the words of the cook
    to echo through the morning:
 order up.

Life in the Aquarium

underneath i walk to the bridge 
walking down
 i reach the sky

with every star that falls,
   a new one rises

break through 
  go down 
beyond
walk until 
   you can see 
     the dawn

rake in the life 
  that wakes you in the morn
call it what you want –
  the open door

time the day and feel the wave
sit and sigh and wonder why
go back through and take your time

wash away your tears of time
    and look at what you find:
    static electricity

in the calm of the universe
the dawn breaks through