I am going to pull all of the Jewel-esque poems written in the comments sections below and post them here. (If you have no idea what I am up to here, and missed yesterday’s madness, scroll down and all will become clear.) These poems need to be shared, out in the open.
The authoresses of these bitchy parodies? Emily. Alex. And myself.
Feel free to add more. As a matter of fact, PLEASE add more.
Here’s one by Alex:
Alone
is a reminder
of how far
your acceptance is from
understanding
exactly how
alone you really are.
Therefore,if you are
Alone
then you cannot
understand
nor accept
your own alone-ness.
Thus
you are reminded
constantly
that you are
Alone.
You alone ass-wipe, loser, muther f*cker you
One by Emily
I have brown hair
I like pie
and grilled cheese sandwiches
with ham
but I don’t like to eat
with
dirty
hands
(I have to admit, that one made me laugh out loud.)
Here’s another one, by Emily
I am tough
and have street credibility
because I
lived in my car
Sure it was at my mom’s house and I had amenities and I was really only doing it because I was at that stupid age where I thought doing stuff like that was cool
but I still know mean streets
when I see them
from
my
limo
And here’s my contribution
I
I have freckles
I have grey eyes
But they are blind.
Nearly.
I’m not pretty
And my nose is goofy in profile
But I love the Wonder Twins
Form of …
An ice-bitch.
I have terrible eyesight
I love to kiss
My room is a cave
The light hurts my terrible blind eyes
But I still have freckles
I still have grey eyes
And I’m a pretentious twat with dirty hands
Consumed by sadness
I eat cheese
and long for laughter
as your shimering
cracker box
mocks me
unbearably
sad
Prime rib is good
but not
with
creamy horseradish
that tastes
like mayonaise
I writhe about
in the crumpled sheets
thinking of you
and your HWC
I have longings
My soul opens up to the moon
It is a night without armor
I’m out of toilet paper
Before
we take
the
picture
…
do I
have
any
food
between
my
teeth?
The world in which I must live
will never accept
never understand
never admit
the love
I suffer
for my
plushie
I am
very
dull.
Which is
ironic,
if
I think
about it.
I finally did
my three things
list
but I’m still not cool.
please read them
but not judging
because are you my
friends?
This one is called “I Love”
I love
stars
I love my soft skin
I love
grass
I love my ear lobes
I love
ocean
I love my cute toes
I love
moonbeams
I love my tiny hands
I love
humanity
Oh.
Except for Bob Dylan.
I hate him.
He doesn’t
love
my cute toes.
He’s a
fag.
Dirty hands
will not be cleansed.
Not with soap
Nor with water.
I like clean hands
especially for holding.
I may not always like hands
clean or otherwise.
If my right hand
Becomes dirty
I shall cut it off.
What shall I do
If my left hand becomes dirty?
I still have hands.
You people are absolutely killing me.
The last time I had this much fun was when Mitchell and I did the whole: Why Julia Roberts Is Famous Game. Now…it’s not about Julia Roberts EXACTLY (although if you’re perplexed by her fame, it can be) it’s really just a fake heading. It’s about anyone who is well known at all, in any way. You have to think of three reasons why they’re famous, and they cannot include:
Talent
Parents
Money
For instance, in Why Julia Roberts Is Famous Game #1: Jewel.
Jewel is famous because:
1. She fell in to the right place at the right time
2. Her face is ordinary and she has a blank and vacant enough expression so as not to scare little boys, and so as not to make little girls want to think.
3. She has nice boobs, and she didn’t buy them. That goes a long way with 12 year old market that she covers in her music career.
Isn’t that fun? Hmmm?
I am
killing
Sheila
softly
with
this
crap
Emily, I feel as if you know me.
You know.
In all my dark despair.
I love Emily.
I love Sheila.
If Jewel loved you both, she would write this:
Sheila
Emily
Girls and chicks
Chicks with faces and breasts
that pout and sigh
they are my friends
We giggle
beause we can
and so
We write
because we are angry
and so
We are here
in the room
of life
just us three
and my dog
and his friend
and my lover Buck
and Sheila
and Emily
I’m not gay, I swear.
Alex —
not
that
there’s
anything
wrong
with
that
Gay women
are
fine
with
me.
‘Cuz they think I’m hot.
Gay men
are
not
fine
with
me.
They notice my snaggle-tooth
and
look
away.
my fans read my poems
and Im embarrassed
at my speling…
I may take up kabala…
get my people
to call esthers people
I must
be true to
my music
my poetry
and most importantly
myself
a small town girl
in blue jeans
unless –
my popularity
my record sales
starting dropping
then I will
dress and act
like a slut.
Shhhh
Can you hear the
children’s
laughter?
Oh.
Wait.
That’s just
Emily
Sheila
and
Alex
making fun of me.
Bitches.
I don’t like
c*nts who
pick on my
art
My art is my pain
the blood in my veins
what I do when on trains
that makes all those stains
and comes from my brains
I feel simple disdain
for those who complain
I think I’ll go snort cocaine
to ease up the pain.
You girls do realize that it’s possible to cause physical pain from excessive laughter?
I couldn’t possibly compete – this stuff is outrageously good. In fact, I can envision a sort of coffee table book of Jewel-isms…
Please
Quit
Before
I Wet
Myself
Soggy
Shoes
I was
sent here
from tonecluster
regarding a post
RE: Lumet
he didn’t
say you
were such a funny host
I feel
your pain
your angst
your total disgust
I hear
her poems
her songs
my brain starts to rust
She should
shut up
just sing
but if she must
Open up
her mouth
small brain
wished I could trust
Don’t talk
about Dylan
she makes
me want to cuss
rancid rapture reaps raunchy rewards
as
devious delusions destroy drunken dreams
for
fanciful frivolity fools frozen fjords
and
mad merry moods mend moonbeams
of
insidious insanity
—
probably not Jewel-esque but then I don’t know what flavor that is…
don’t you people have jobs? :-)
Jim,
That’s almost Shakespearean, as in Bottom’s speech in “Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates;
And Phibbus’ car
Shall shine from far
And make and mar
The foolish Fates.
Grandpa Jim! ! How the hell have you been??
People are cruel
when they curl
a lip
they corner
the eye
they byte
with casualty
never knowing
how tight the band-aid
sticks and tears
my perfect skin
when mama must
rip it off my
dirty finger
. . . ?
See my rusty car
See how tiny my hands are (I know)
See me honking the horn
See me looking forlorn
Forlorn
Forlorn
No, not for you
But forlorn
See
Mee