Every lazy-ass fibre of my being rebels
against writing a poem today, so
here is an anti-poem.
Here are clichés, roses red and violets blue.
Here is my love, a blue river rushing
into a sea of overused metaphors.
Here is blatant prose chopped up
into stanzas: an undercover essay.
Here are all the ingredients in the recipe
for bad-poem soup.
Here’s a trite little ditty about Jesus
we can stamp onto tacky, plastic wall-hangings
and sell with all the other mass-produced
trinkets some people call art.
Lucy in the Field with Flowers
from the Museum of Bad Art
Do you believe there's such a thing as bad art? What distinguishes it from good art?