Fanfiction poetry, it’s a thing. I’m not surprised by anything in writing anymore, anything. This blog has been like looking the devil in the eyes and realizing you’re going to hell, no matter what you do. Life becomes bleak and hopeless, also known as the month of April. What do I have to live for at this point? Booze, Fallout, sleeping, and rock, maybe girls. But yeah, where was I?
Fanfiction poetry. Let’s start with John Cena poetry from 2010s. This is the shit that inspired me to make this blog, actually, after writing a nice hermit crab essay I wrote last year.
Ode to John Cena is what happens when a ten year old with a potato salad fetish learns how to rhyme.
“Your time is now/you’re on the prowl” always evokes an audible groan from me,
“fans cheer you when you’re talking smack/they boo you when you’re acting whack,” spittin’ mad bars yo, that shit’s fire, lit fam (am I cool with the kids yet?)
“Not many people know that you’re Italian/But to me you’ll always be my prince, my stallion,” Whoa that took a weird turn, a very, very weird turn. You also broke the weird rhythm you’ve had going on, it was 4/4, 8/8, but then 12/13. Boo, weirdo, boo. The next four lines go from AA, BB, CC rhyme pattern to do DEDE, and it throws me off.
“Standing up to hypocrites by mouthing off “U Can’t See Me.” Oh no, the hypocrites will surely run in fear from this outdated meme. Wait, this was 2010, it was pre-meme, this shit is vintage.
“Ad honoring the men and woman in uniform/Who protect our country and hang theirl lves up in the air.” You heard it hear, folks, there’s a single woman in the military. No, being pedantic aside, what the hell did this have to do with shit? I don’t follow the WWE.
This poem, like everything else I’ve read this month was crap, but this was a special kind of crap.
Allpoetry.com has a fanfiction poetry article, so let’s take a look there. The Purpose of Irony is a poem about Sherlock, and it says the word so many fucking times that I want to vomit
It repeats that every few lines. It’s horrible, and it’s written through the perspective of Watson. After bearing through it, you hit this weird bit,
“Isn’t it ironic,
that after all this time I still go red,?
And I have to say,
‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,
he was my flatmate,’
Repeat those threw horrid lines
“all I ever wanted,
was to call you mine.”
How do you sit down and come up with this shit? Just how, how do you sit down, think of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as characters from stories that are over a century old, and write poem where one has gay feelings for the other? It’s surreal when you think about it, taking someone else’s intellectual property and bastardizing it to meet your weird sexual fantasies. And then to do it so shittily, you get filled with the word Sherlock like Watson wants to be filled by Sherlock to the point where you’re sick of it.
So this is the last one I’ll be reading, because I’m mixing the two things I hate the most. Shitty poetry and fanfiction. And what better way to end it than a rhyming poem about Doctor Who!? Much better ways, but at least there’s no sex in this one. It’s just detailing a shitty Doctor Who plot (and I mean shittier than the show already is.)
“A pulsing whir began to echo.
On this sunny planet.
When the TARDIS came into view,
Amy Pond stepped out and began to fan it.”
Perfect, not even Stephen Moffet could do it better. I mean, echo and view? What words could rhyme even better!?
“It was hot, hot, hot there on the abandoned place.
And abnormal amounts of sunflowers grew.”
Really, it was hot3? Damn, that’s really fucking hot.
Did your parents drop you on your head as a baby? Is this figurative language to you? Is this descriptive to you? Skipping this horrid middle bit, let’s get to my favorite part.
“‘Gulp.’ The noise was ominous as Amy stared.
Gone was the screwdriver.
The Doctor couldn’t use paper clips and hammers!
He wasn’t MacGyver!”
The rhyming fails miserably, there’s no rhythm, and these lines are so fucking absurd. Those last two lines come out of nowhere. This is just a shit show on every front, I don’t know what else to say, besides “go to the corner and think about what you’ve done.”
Maybe I’ll try and find furry poetry next week, and then swallow a pill cocktail and hope I don’t wake up.