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New Open Arts Press Anthology: Your Poetry Sucks

Jay Dougherty

Jay Dougherty

Mangling Member
Editor
As discussed in this thread, I'd like to put together an Open Arts Press anthology of work under the theme "Your Poetry Sucks." The idea is light-hearted in nature and would feature poetry that comments in a humorous way on other poets or the poetry "biz" in general.

If you have anything that would work and would like me to consider including it, please submit it here. Thanks. :)
 
Me and my zine

Submissions are open for The Swaying Drunkard’s Moose, and I’m so excited to start reading your poems! Unless they’re about your cat. Your cat or Jesus. We don’t wanna read those. PLEASE DON’T SEND SUBMISSIONS TO OUR OLD,TALLYHO site OR THEY WILL NOT BE READ!!! (Tallyho died in June of 2015 to become the lovely The Swaying Drunkard’s Moose we’re so eternally proud of now. Wild applause. Glory. Female orgasm? Maybe.) Well, the last thing I’m gonna say about The Swaying Drunkard’s Moose is we are so STOKED y’all to have Godfrey Blurst as our new fiction editor for spring! So if you’re submitting prose it’s Godfrey’s pants you’re going to be pulling down and munching on while you wait for a response. Which incidentally, is usually 2-3 months after we have received your reading fee. Hey people, I work at a community college and cafeteria lunches are expensive, plus I have a wife and kid and a family of my own. Well, you get the idea. Now, onto other matters. As many of you know, I own a small independent and used bookstore in downtown Milwaukee called Vagina Jaw and to coincide with the release of our annual all poetry anthology Vagina Heart, we had a gathering, a soiree, a who’s who, back in March. Well, I just want to say thank you to the members of The Calvary Covenant First Baptist Church for protesting the cover of the 2016 edition of Vagina Heart (a Christmas tree screwing an easter bunny) because if it wasn’t for you I don’t think we would have made the Arts and Leisure section of the weekend Milwaukee Sun. Big thanks also, to Jerry Tilldore our art director for all The Swaying Drunkard’s Moose and Vagina Heart editions going all the way back toTallyho and before that to The Muse’s Brunch.) Nuff sed. In other happenings, to much to my delight, amusement, and shock, guess what I saw on ebay going for a cool $267? That’s right, KITTYHAWK, the inaugural and only release (of course on vinyl, is there anything else listeners???) from the founding members of my 80’s new wave, punk noveau band The Royal Grout. You may have seen pictures of me from the old days on my facebook, twitter, Pintrest, LinkiedIn, and Google+ accounts. I think I may have some up there anyway. Like Rory Vern, our bassist used to say-“let ’em know you’re jaded!” By the way, BIG congrats to Rory for playing acoustic guitar for the surviving members of Jackbiscuit on their recent tour. So, have you ever had a literary meltdown? I was reading the proofs yesterday on some things and I couldn’t think for like 2 minutes. I swear on Trump’s Gold. The words sounded like mooshy oatmeal. It didn’t help of course that some people were there giving me the business because I didn’t offer them much for their box of VC Andrews books. Like I said people, I have a family too. Which reminds me I gotta get to it.

Pigeon Shit,
Dexter Frump
 
Mike Casetta said:
Open Mic


He articulated so acutely
it hurt my fucking ears

His facial expressions
had me making fucking fists

His poetry would have stood
well written on its own

without the look-at-me
the fucking women seemed to enjoy.

I was next to read
& before I began

I said, It must be my good karma
to follow that fucking act.
Click to expand...
That’s great!
 
Barking For Fish

The poet stood defiantly on the tiny stage
reading his dirty poems out loud.
He projected a confrontational, libidinous enthusiasm
as he undulated and swayed strangely in his baggy clothing,
running his fingers suggestively through his long brown hair.

The audience whooped and hollered, egging him on,
and when the poems became less sexually explicit
the audience gradually quieted down and lost interest
but the poet didn’t notice.
He read on and on, swaying to his own charisma,
staring out at the audience between glances at his sheets of paper,
smiling leeringly while reading the more lascivious passages.

The audience waited for him to finish and eventually he finished.
He beamed with pride as they applauded. He stood there,
milking every last available clap out of them.
Then he gathered his papers and magazines and chapbooks
and climbed down from the stage and walked over to a table
where three of his friends sat. They were loud and triumphant
as they exchanged high and low fives and the poet was handed
a bottle of Mexican beer, which he sucked at enthusiastically.

Then he adjusted his glasses and smiled
as he sat down and surveyed the crowd.
 
Douglas Goodwin said:
Barking For Fish

The poet stood defiantly on the tiny stage
reading his dirty poems out loud.
He projected a confrontational, libidinous enthusiasm
as he undulated and swayed strangely in his baggy clothing,
running his fingers suggestively through his long brown hair.

The audience whooped and hollered, egging him on,
and when the poems became less sexually explicit
the audience gradually quieted down and lost interest
but the poet didn’t notice.
He read on and on, swaying to his own charisma,
staring out at the audience between glances at his sheets of paper,
smiling leeringly while reading the more lascivious passages.

The audience waited for him to finish and eventually he finished.
He beamed with pride as they applauded. He stood there,
milking every last available clap out of them.
Then he gathered his papers and magazines and chapbooks
And climbed down from the stage and walked over to a table
where three of his friends sat. They were loud and triumphant
as they exchanged high and low fives and the poet was handed
a bottle of Mexican beer, which he sucked at enthusiastically.

Then he adjusted his glasses and smiled
as he sat down and surveyed the crowd.
Click to expand...
Enjoyed.
 
Let me tell you how I got those

I went to this poetry reading
and sat in the front row
so everybody could see
me

I made little sounds
as he read: hmph, ha ha,
tsssss, ooohhh, oooooo,
always at the wrong
time.

I coughed or farted
real loud whenever things got
quiet
like in-between
stanzas

and when it was over
I clapped, CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP

I could tell I had gotten to him
so I went up and introduced myself
as a terrible poet
too

I told him that his poetry really
ate shit
and that I'd like to publish some
in my little magazine
Bad Taste Review

he got this look on his face of
utter
disgust
and turned to talk to his
groupies

I looked around and at his
stack of poems, and
grabbed a few
off the top
 
Jay Dougherty said:
We're going to need some cover art, too. @Jenn Zed @Thomas Riesner , @Michael Vignola , @Marcel Herms come to mind as perhaps having something?
Click to expand...

Hey, Jay :)

I'm taking a bit of a break from pretty much everything, just fiddling about and doing fuck all generally, but there's the link to my Deviantart page in my signature, you can download full resolution copies of anything I've posted there.

Saying that, one of the others you mention might be a better choice!
 
My poetry should be great because my job sucks and I’m there all the time all day now lol I suppose I’m taking a small break as well, but I am going to draw today. I just got new paper and I’m not using it. Boohoo blah blah.
 
The Forum.

I wrote a few poems
And stuck them online.
I write simple poems
That mostly all rhyme.
I'm now in this forum
Trying my best.
Patiently waiting
To be judged by the rest.
An alert with a like
Or a comment or two.
Sad I know
But what can you do?
I know I'll never make the front page
But thats ok
Considering my age.
I think if I'd pursued it
As a career.
I'd probably still
Have ended up here!
So all my poems that are stuck in my head
I'm writing them down before I am dead.
 
Last edited:
Sarah Jane Hull said:
The Forum.

I wrote a few poems
And stuck them online.
I write simple poems
That mostly all rhyme.
I'm now in this forum
Trying my best.
Patiently waiting
To be judged by the rest.
An alert with a like
Or a comment or two.
Sad I know
But what can you do?
I know I'll never make the front page
But thats ok
Considering my age.
I think if I'd pursed it
As a career.
I'd probably still
Have ended up here!
So all my poems that are stuck in my head
I'm writing them down before I am dead.
Click to expand...
I enjoy your poems - keep posting them, and thanks!
 
The Naive Poet.

Someone called my writing style naive.
I took it as a compliment.
I know its technically rubbish
I'm not here to decieve.
But the thoughts just keep on
Popping in.
I think
I write them down
To drown out the din.
I'll keep on tapping
In the notebook
On my phone.
Sometimes
I re read them
When I'm mostly
Home alone.
I send them out
Here and there
To forums
I've found online.
I even get a comment
Or a like from
Time to time.
What I find encouraging
Or maybe they're just kind?
They say they like
My writing
Which simply blows my mind!
 
Last edited:
Circular

That poem belongs in the trash
circular file, as my father called it
from lame first line to the end,
shall I say nauseating, putrid

four day old turkey, already turned
I’d like to turn it over, yup -
to the blank side of this paper,
it would be more interesting than this

obvious title, meandering too long
downward, swirls the garbage disposal
into dark abyss [where it belongs]
to the last line - repeating title!

as if readers couldn’t guess where
this trash was going, did I mention
above circular file, can I recover three
precious moments wasted on this rant?


Julie A. Dickson
 
Rejection Letter


Dear poetry editor;

After re-reading your journal
I hereby inform you of this rejection.

Not only was I unwise to submit, yes
I fully admit my desire for print
clouded my vision to blindness, then
received a denial lacking all kindness.

Your decision to decline my poem
demonstrates an extreme lack of taste,
after all, my poems are acceptable
to most journals; I will no longer waste
your time, but mostly mine – I hope
you take this rejection well.



Julie A. Dickson
 
Julie A. Dickson said:
Rejection Letter


Dear poetry editor;

After re-reading your journal
I hereby inform you of this rejection.

Not only was I unwise to submit, yes
I fully admit my desire for print
clouded my vision to blindness, then
received a denial lacking all kindness.

Your decision to decline my poem
demonstrates an extreme lack of taste,
after all, my poems are acceptable
to most journals; I will no longer waste
your time, but mostly mine – I hope
you take this rejection well.



Julie A. Dickson
Click to expand...
I love this! Why didn't I think of it?
 
Pussy Poetry

every time she takes over the stage
she disparately finds some rhymes
amongst her scattered pages
about her cat, "Missy"
and reads as if nothing's happened
in the world from the Big Bang to the cold war
unless Missy has been the axis of all

last time, a gentleman in his 80s
yelled, "this pussy sucks"
and whispered into my ear,
"she's read these nonsense
since Reagan was in the office!"
 
The Invisible Woman.

No one really notices her
She's become one of those women
Who now write poetry.
Its a secret pastime
Jotting down lines.
Writing about things
From earlier times.
No one understands
Or bothers to read.
She's not trying to get published
Or even succeed.
It's just this is something
That she now really needs.
She's sent a few out
To magazines
Charity websites
That she sometimes reads
A few have been printed
And seemed well recieved.
The only thing is
It's become an obsession
Checking her phone
For a notification.
And now what happens
When alone in her bed
A voice of doubt
Creeps into her head.
"Every fucker has read
What you've said!"
It really has become
An internal battle
But she can't stop now
So she continues to rattle !
 
An Agent of Change


How cold it is
today - like every day
she looks, as lost
out the window
at the trees and grass
for frost.

Then retreating to her desk
she writes like lightning
her thoughts and dreams,
believing they will be read
in a book someday
like that sweet man said

The days and weeks pass
and every morning
she returns to gaze
always hoping for some glaze
on this very window showing
how cold it is.

She waits alone
with her poems wanting
a place to be seen,
appreciated by others
with her name on front
and a beautiful cover.

It can’t be long now
I feel it getting colder
they’ve been ready for years
and I’ve grown so much older.
He said he would publish if I’d be his lover
but if not, then when hell freezes over.
 
Her Compass-shdw-75.png
 
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