This is the third revision of a poem I wrote back on December 5, 2009 for my creative writing class. For fun, my Professor asked us to write the “World’s worst poem” I was disappointed I didn’t win-but I guess that was a good thing.
A fragrant, windowless room, filled with spume.
Bowl fresh and hand soap.
An ill attempt to mask the sounds of grunts and,
Lumbering respired gasps.
My feet still, yet bordering on the edge of this uncomfortable.
The painted turtle’s head clutches to the thinnest of skin.
Deeply embracing, grazing the upcoming departure.
My cheeks flushed.
Amidst the sound of hair dryers,
A Grandmotherly gossip.
Beneath it all neatly
Perfectly positioned ankle socks, hose and jeans
A fallen woman comes buckling by.
Smelling like Lady Stetson and Aqua net.
The bolt declines my presence.
Peaking like an upside down rodent.
Silent passages and ink blots banged out in red.
A teenager’s bathroom bible,
For a good time call,
In addition to Molly is a whore,
Next to my dirty, Charmin reflection.
Pressing down forcefully,
Like a mother making an easy meat loaf dinner.
A large plastic bowl left with tiny bits of crackers.
Stuck neatly to its edges.