Rain Fall

is water falling
oh the water falling
mother the sky is crying
mother the sky is hoping
I will look up at it
and smile a rainbow

are not made of water
and sometimes they are double or triple
or even complete circles
which is cool
lo the rainbows
made from the skin of infants

Cannibal rainbows!
They hunt in the shadows
cast by the souls of unicorns
mother the sky is running away
from the rainbow teeth

I saw a rainbow yesterday
and I knew
it did not mean particularly well
despite its pretty colours

Brain Elves

The elves inside my brain
are ten feet tall and bent on destruction
the kind of destruction
you only get in fast-food restaurants
and karaoke bars

they sit together in the noir light slanting
through the window blinds of desire
and make snide comments about my use
of the Oxford comma
and my problematic hair

slay the elves of mixology
defeat the elves of good credit ratings
punch the elves of musical disharmony
slap the elves of timber wolves
gently chastise the elves of elves

the heat death of the universe
will come and go
without really affecting
the elves
inside my brain

Send the Package

Why do you not just send the package?
The package
is metaphor
and I scream in the vacuum of its Gaze.

Tiny cantaloupe footsteps
tap their way across
my inner post office
which longs for the package
you have not sent
the package
you have not sent
the package
you have not

Where is the package?
Where is my heart?
Is it in the package?
Is it the tape you used to seal the package shut?
Is it the brown paper in which you wrapped the package?
Is it the stamp?
Is there a stamp?
A lot of people don’t use stamps any more.
What if my heart is the stamp
and there is no stamp on the package?

is a package
with no stamp on it
that is never sent
probably because postal fees
are far too high these days.


is not greenness
though it can sometimes
be similar to purpleness
if purpleness
is redness
with blueness added
which is not really the same thing as pinkness
now that I think of it
but pinkness
is nothing like blueness
or so claims the Voice of Hegemony
and buy yourself a pony.

Shattered Dreaming

The iguana in my wardrobe is angry
so angry
so filled with the stark warble of
desiccated anthropomorphism

I must pulverise
the culture hero of his wrathful breathing
and take back the broomstick
the broomstick
the broomstick
of meaning

my knuckles bleed with
oh how I long to melt
into the rash succor
of the wardrobe iguana’s eyes

in the end
there is just this:
and a cup of metaphor
imbued with deep significance

Mission Statement

Dear Internet:

Many poets aspire to write good poetry. I used to be one of them. However, I quickly realised that while I was very bad at writing good poetry, I was very good indeed at writing bad poetry. I was so good at it, in fact, that it flowed out of me like foetid waters dredged from the nightmares of disappointed squirrels. That last sentence is a good demonstration of how bad my poetry can be and how little I am able to control it. I produce bad poetry the way other people produce YouTube comments, and to very similar effect.

I have decided that I cannot deprive the world of my gift. We all deserve poetry so bad that it would shock and horrify the Vogons. Life is drabber, albeit ever so slightly less painful, without it.

Every day, I shall write a terrible poem and post it here. I have two already because I’m just that awful. Please assume crash positions, and try not to weep.

Yours sincerely,

Cecily Q. Cauliflower