We've suffered for our art, now it's your turn...

Here at Darkvale, we endeavor to create high quality work.  Occasionally, this means we must purge the creative valves and turn out something truly wretched.  Perhaps it is best that we subject you now with no further warning to one of the worst poems we could string together without actually injuring ourselves.  Our apologies.


My soul is an overstuffed burrito

Bursting with the refried beans of angry virtue. 

I wield my chainsaw of righteousness

Against the rabid otters of ineptitude

And wrangle the thrashing electric eels of retarded fury

With the rubber gloves of wisdom. 

The windswept mountaintop of greatness beckons me

Like some great beckoning thing. 

After long fruitless years of searching  

Thru the dusty bulk food bins of my soul

At long last my hunt has been rewarded

With the tasty milk dud of oneness. 

Now, having exploded my soul burrito

In Nirvana's white hot microwave

I collapse, exhausted. 

For that was a hell of a thing.


Again, our apologies for this unwelcome splash of literary sewage.  We find that these cathartic exercises help us to clear the path for fine quality creative endeavors.  Thank you for riding out this bit of procedural ugliness with us, and we hope to turn out much more pleasant works in the weeks ahead.  Namaste.