Al Gore wrote a very earnest poem, which is the #1 thing you can do to not get made fun of, in any context. Apparently for whatever reason the publisher of his new book would not let him write in prose about the effects of our planet destroying itself and thought that this, the poem, was a better call. The cliches are SUPPOSED to melt into each other. It’s a formal allusion! Like in big kid poetry.
One thin September soon
A floating continent disappears
In midnight sun
Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea
Neptune’s bones dissolve
Snow glides from the mountain
Ice fathers floods for a season
A hard rain comes quickly
Then dirt is parched
Kindling is placed in the forest
For the lightning’s celebration
Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups
Passion seeks heroes and friends
The bell of the city
On the hill is rung
The shepherd cries
The hour of choosing has arrived
Here are your tools
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The hour of choosing is long past. But maybe the gopers will buy into the brilliant idea of pumping billions of tons of sulphuric acid into the stratosphere. An idea thought up by some junior faculty economist somewhere.
-1 for not rhyming.
fap fap fap fap fap fap…
Hmm, wha? Oh, sry. Got bored.
Needs more rhyming.
That last stanza about the shepherd sounds more like the start of a Wonkette post on the latest Republican sex scandal.
Is it just me, or is that poem sentimental, pretentious crap?
He’s an “environmentalist” living in a 14000 sq foot home – we didn’t need more proof of how stupid he is.
TLDR
Al should pose nude like those PETA women to get attention for global warming. His poetry blows.
When you’re a famous millionaire, you get to write the poetry you want to write, free of punctuation and rhyming and really making any goddam sense at all. You could say the same for painting and sculpting.
Now all we’re stuck with are the errs of loitering Republican voters.
Nam Sarah Palin quidem Alaskis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σάρα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: άποθανεΐν θελω.
For John McCain, il miglior politico.
[re=473857]proudgrampa[/re]: Well, good. I’m glad it’s not just me…
If one of my students turned that in, I’d be fairly impressed. But they are 13 year olds reading and writing about three years below grade level.
From an adult, it makes me wave my hand about my nose and whisper “who farted?”
(And I like Gore and have a weird hot old man thing for him.)
Here’s a fun trick. While reading, sing it to yourself in a Bob Dylan voice. Then punch Al Gore in the face.
Hopey and Gore been workin’ on a duet too. Michelle and Tipper will play the bongos and string bass.
November is the cruellest month, beating
Mavericks all over the land, mixing
Codger and she-rogue, stirring
Frothers like Glenn Beck.
Robot hair sit-eth
On a Nobel-prized visage
Jewel ghost-wrote this.
Well, they don’t give Nobel prizes for nothing.
Oh, wait…
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three crappy poets.
Green balloons!
[re=473854]slavojzizek[/re]: The shepherd cries – WOLF!!!!9!!!1!1
[/wingnut poet]
Meh. Gore should’ve simply skinked Eliot’s line, “Hurry up please, it’s time,” and been done.
[re=473862]Larry McAwful[/re]: *Lindsay clap*
What is the sound of
not ringing? No bell.
Eat it English majors.
A sad panda
blinks at the undying sun
coughs and is gone
boredom seeks fun and laughs
the senator’s son
vapid vapors exudes
Poop is placed on paper
cloying cliches march
warming is global
The hangman readies his noose
for the reader who prefers
death to Gore’s poetry
Poor Al, all that earnest effort for nothing. Doesn’t he know Sarah P. just announced that this whole climate change thing is “bogus”? And she knows everything.
O freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plured gabbleblochits on a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurlecruncheon, see if I don’t.
Needs more Vogon.
[re=473881]queeraselvis v 2.0[/re]: I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the “Lindsay clap” idiom.
[re=473886]Crazybroad[/re]: That’s Dr. Snowbilly to you.
THOSE ARE HANGING CHADS THAT WERE HIS EYES
[re=473887]Gun-toting Progressive[/re]:
Are you trying to say that there is something inadequate about Tipper’s vogon?
Roses are dead
The Sun black as ink
Reading Gore’s poem
Is like accidentally putting it in the stink
big-faced boob, made of boredom
your wife won’t let me
play my LL Cool J records
’cause of the swears
You guys, be nice. It’s really hard to write good poetry when you’re a robot from the future. Or, you know, anyone else….
Al needs a ghost poet.
Burma Shave.
Somebody needs to tell Al not to quit his day job.
What is his day job again?
Needs more stopping in woods on snowy evenings. Maybe he could talk about how sad it will be when it stops snowing forever on account of all the planes, cars, and beef cattle farting. Or make the next ones sexy. There are those sexy ones about naked swimmers by Walt Whitman. Those totally rock.
Hot heat melts the floes
Flooding inappropriate skyscrapers
Their lobbies rank with mildew.
The final efforts of a failed civilization
Bandaids too small to cover the bleeding continents
Stretch, snap into pieces, and hit me in the eye.
Polar bears, broken hearted
Attempt to defecate but only farted
Dust.
A POEM?
Well, we already knew Al Gore was a . . . well . . . how to put this politely? . . . hmmm . . . oh, okay . . . FAG!:
One September soon Tipper —
A floating continent appears –
In cellulite sun
Vapors rise as
Fever settles above my knees
Neptune’s boner dissolves
Know why I hide from her mountains?
Fathers flee wives for a reason:
A hard-on fades quickly
When thirst is parched
Kin start to look fecund
For daughters can be a “celebration”
Know such creatures
Take their leaves, mounted
I’m a horseman ready their stirrups
Passion seeks heroes and fiends
The bell tolls for mine
On their hills it is rung
The shepherd cries
The hour his sheep has arrived
My hand holds my tool.
[Gesh. I feel dirty.]
[re=473921]Neilist[/re]: Our resident asshole poet. (Yours was more fun to read.)
I liked it.
Here are your tools
Congress?
Gore’s horrific visions, translated – now with improved Rhymes™
Once upon a thin September
When at midnight I saw the sun
I saw a land I once remembered
Sink the the depths of the ocean
Vapors rose into the air
And acids seeped into the water
The snows melt into floods that scared
And everything drowned except the otter
The dirt is dry and wood burns hot
Lighting causes forest fires
Spooky creatures haunt me a lot
Like thoughts of saddlebacking Miley Cyrus
The bell has rung, calling for heroes
To come and save the eco day
But shepherds cry cause their herd is zero
And they lost their guns to the gays
[re=473922]RoscoePColtraine[/re]: So I didn’t win the title, huh? Well, can I just be our resident asshole, then?
“All bad poetry is sincere.” – Oscar Wilde.
Lachrymose naysayers
and Denialist saboteurs
Breed dead fumes
In the test tube sunset
Cry! Belief of Angels
And Hope’s Trumpet shall thrill the world!
Triton’s bone hardens
A most inconvenient wang
[re=473921]Neilist[/re]: You should feel dirty. But thanks for the refreshing anodyne.
[re=473928]Larry McAwful[/re]: Sorry, Lare. The ‘poet’ was an addendum to a previously held title. We can put you down for ‘Jagoff’ if you’d like.
Al Gore writes environmental porn? . . . Oh, okay.
“Here are your tools” indeed. Can’t wait till Shatner works his magic on these poetastery pearls.
[re=473942]Snarkalicious[/re]: Well, if that’s all that’s available, I’ll take it. I don’t want to be an asshole about it. Well, I do, really, but that title’s been taken.
I couldn’t tell. Was this about the environment or the McCain/Pail campaign? Especially the last line.
Some states are red
Some states are blue
I would’ve been president
Were it not for the Jews
[re=473882]Come here a minute[/re]: An in-koan-venient truth, indeed.
*one hand golf clapping*
1:
So much depends
upon
A Red veep
fellow
Crazed with brain
water
Beside the blank
verses
2:
This is Just to Say
I have melted
the glaciers
that were at
the ice cap
And which
you were probably
saving
for penguins.
Forgive me
They were delicious
so inconvenient
and truthy.
Needs more cowbell.
There was a young girl from Nantucket.. . .
Oh, never mind.
Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea
Neptune’s bones dissolve
He must’ve been sitting in the same section of FedEx field as I was on Sunday. Somebody was letting some silent-but-deadly’s go, big time. The guys were drunker than a Tennessee Comptroller, I can tell you. Made my eyes water, it stunk so bad.
And I’m not even talking about what was happening on the field.
[re=474016]Extemporanus[/re]: Did you just say Golf?
OMG I actually think it’s good. I mean, after “A hard rain comes quickly” what more can you say about WARMING! Because, HOT!
“Here are your tools” as the last line improves anything. Forget ‘in bed’ to perk up your fortune cookies; it’s all about “Here are your tools”.
I didn’t want to find out how much our beloved ex-vice had in common with a 13-year-old girl.
In addition, the rhythm he used was obviously skewed using a data trick! What would the ‘uncorrected’ last stanza have been???
I am a Poet, and a Teacher of Poetry, and I can say, definitively, that not every line is terrible.
[re=473862]Larry McAwful[/re]: I love you, for obvious reasons.
If my ear was a cunt I would fuck it.
This guy so needs to be laid.
[re=473862]Larry McAwful[/re]: respondebat illa: άποθανεΐν θελω.
oh god, if only, right
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