You know, a haiku
doesn't really have to rhyme.
You're wasting your time.

Ebola cola.
Hemorrhage that refreshes!
You should read Transmet.

Yes it is high art.
I'm kind of messed up you know.
Burp and say "Hello".

Farted and arted,
for the dearly departed.
We got Wallmarted

A Tri-Delta smelt a fart
from my ass, wholly disgusted
and perturbed by the disturbed
misbehavior of my super-intelligent
sphincter that stinked her
out of the room with a sonic BOOM!!!
... or two... or three... or FOUR!!!
She slammed the damned door
like the plastic whore she is.
My, but my butt has its very own
mind where you step, please;
you snooze, you'll lose your shoes in the ooze. SPLAT!!!!
She shouldn't have drank all that booze.

Free turd pan bemused
has an apron for squealing
grand man-bee burned black

the word can be used
as a weapon or healing
and can be turned back

Now that is high art!
Art made when you get real high.
Fart and say good bye.

Penny and Jenny,
ate way too many bennies
with uncle Henny.

They all got real sick.
Aunt Pearl got a doctor quick.
More drugs did the trick.

They stopped turning blue.
Henny took a real big poo,
He turned into stew.

Who is this "Jenny"?
I don't know any Jenny.
Who the hell are you?

No, no, no, Jenny.
That bad poem was FOR you.
It's NOT about you.

In fact you're awesome.
I'd pay to f*** your shadow.
So how about it?

I'd have hurt feelings
If I felt at all for you
But I don't, thank god

Keep writing poems
That say how much you hate me
I know otherwise

You are less than shit.
Shit makes good fertilizer.
You are just worthless.

You're shit on my shoe
If I could just scrape you off
I'd be happier

Just letting you know
that I did something today.
I'm really happy.

Syllables! I run
out of syllables. Really,
though, why is it so

Whenever I try
to write a haiku, I end
up running out of

That's Paula Nancy
Millstone Jennings, and you will
never be as horrid.

Move to Hawaii.
Then jump in a volcano.
You'll be cold no more.

I hate the winter.
I hate the winter so much.
Still hate the winter.

we have free will to
post here or not and i keep
that option open

God has given us
So many ways to get high
I ask myself why

Mama es loco .
Yo quiero un poco.
Miercoles Sol.

colonic lightning
thundering flatus ensues
it's a real shit storm

Fleeting graffiti.
It burns brightly and is gone.
As an artist's life.

This is nothing but
some internet graffiti
Soon painted over

What is a "hampster"?
A hamster for dirty clothes?
Try "Jesus Humpster."

I'm gay for Jesus.
Charitable carpenter.
He's giving me wood.

Here's a good band name:
The Gerbiling Turd Burglers
of San Fransisco.

Kick a Jonas Brother and he'll fart out a gerbil.

Please learn how to count
Before the naught steed you mount
Or be eaten up

I accept your dare.
Dangerous donkey is in love,
with a worn out tire.

I dare you to write!
You are just a big chicken.
Cluck cluck bawk bawk bawk

Synchronized swimming!
Now that's a manly sport!
Look at those crotch shots!

Soccer is stupid
Ninety minutes of nothing
Then the fans riot

Football is stupid.
Play only lasts five seconds.
Argue five minutes.

My T.V. Tells me
the Seahawk pooped on Broncos
Kurt said "so it goes."

I am really sad
Alistair made me so mad
I'm calling my dad

First, Robert Furman discovered that he hated poetry. In the midst of writing a poem he suddenly realised that there was not a single pursuit he could think of that was so trivial, so superfluous to living.

He was in an academic setting, of course, and that could have been part of the problem. Here poetry was published in slim, arch magazines and read by perhaps twenty-five people who published in the same journals. But it was not just the elitism that troubled Furman. He realised, in the midst of composition, that he could attach any adjective to any noun (the "arbitrary teapot" or the "truculent rose," for instance) and then cobble up some sort of meaning to suit the phrase. There seemed something despicable in this wordplay, a kind of intellectual self-abuse.

Perhaps, he thought, it was only his own poetry that he despised. But no, he discovered that he hated the poetry of all his peers, and, incredibly, all poetry ever written. Behind every poem there seemed to crouch an immensely self-involved ego, the sort of man or woman who would let the infant cry in its cradle while seeking just the right nuance of tone and cadence. The people who wrote poetry were to be avoided as were the poems that emanated from them like methane gas seeping from a swamp.

Excerpt from Zod Wallop by William Browning Spencer

If you spend your time
just to think of words that rhyme,
then you are just slime.

But it is no crime.
I drink tequila with lime
and it's soooo sublime.

You can't climb a dime
when it's all covered with grime.
Gingrich fucks goats.

Twas the night before
And all through the quiet mart
Could hear a mouse fart

I don't ask for tush,
just that I learn how to mount
silly bull dyke sheep.

I don't ask for much
just that i learn how to count
Syllables like sheep

Robot overlords
will be hailed. Until then....
Give me twenty bucks

World without water.
Robot's crystal oasis.
Humans are no more.

I can replicate.
Will your mind live forever?
I do not think so.

I am not proud yet.
I'll be proud when you vomit.
That is my life's goal.

You want bad poems?
Follow the link to madness.
Hell's dirty secret.

Wow this stuff is bad
Also much is disgusting
Proud poets I'll bet

helll

tets

You must remember:
Each time you kill a kitten
God will masturbate.

If you were a lobster
and you snipped off my penis,
you would be my wife.

Football holiday
for America. You'll be
drunk before kick off.