Game Of Thrones TV Character Critique Haikus

Arya
Edgelord supreme, you
killed many men, but died of
cringy dialogue.

Varys
Veritas varies,
but the truth heard in the flame
meant nothing at all.

Jon Snow
Dead from betrayal
by the inept screenwriters—
remained dead plot-wise.

Daenerys
I thought you would change
to a villain with time, but
also with reason.

Sansa
“The smartest person”
literally no-one says—
entitled yas-queen.

Tyrion
You lost half your nose
in your nosediving plot arc,
and half of your brain.

Bran
The Three-Eyed Raven
saw all, and did not one thing
except bait and switch.

Bronn
Shortchanging others
as the most frequent sellout,
now master of coin.

The Night King
Your hand shatters steel
and downs dragons, yet cannot
pierce Stark plot armor.

Cersei
All season in the
Red Keep—or in the red wine?
Just window dressing.

Jaime
Who would have thought that
the Kingslayer would be killed
by Lord Hightower?

Dothraki
Snuffed out all at once
in the dark, then stoked larger
in ashes later.

Grey Worm
Failing to avenge
his queen in court, he must have
no brains and no balls.

Euron
Having twice the eyes
he has in the books, he still
lacks half the vision.

GOT Story Arcs For Seasons 5-8
The Mummer’s Dragon
lost its stage curtain wings while
Winter came and went.

D&D
Hodor, Hodor, Hold
the door, Hodor, Hodor, Holed
up their own asses.

The Orni-Mentalist

How florid the feathers of his prose
as his quill feverishly flaps a wingstroke
to fluff up the stories he tries to compose,
all hatchlings half-formed in the yolk.

Cumbrous syllables slow every word
and stilted syntax is a roundabout migration
for a storyteller who employs every type of bird
to adorn a flightless imagination.

Nesting in language meant to aggrandize,
he wants his writing to be as the Roc,
yet he cannot fly, shorn and of small size—
neither Eagle nor Wren, Flamingo nor Hawk.

Taping purple peacock feathers to his brow
to distract from the small bird nesting there,
he is a Bantam who impresses others somehow
though too over-feathered to fly anywhere.

Flat Soda Pop

His acclaimed poetry is the
backwash of soda Pop philosophy;
flat, lacking fizz, full to the brim
with high fructose corn syrup
and leaving a nasty taste on the rim,
for it is what is all thrown up
after he has sampled his own swill,
drinking himself until he has had his fill
and gags himself upon his cloying cup.
The Pop is but plop, never to stop
while his fans’ words of praise spill still
all over the world—sticky and in want of a mop.

Kvothe

Plot, character, setting, and action
should all be established in stride,
not each in a conflicted faction
facing off on an opposing side,
and yet this doddering fool plods about,
left and right and questing so aimlessly,
then squatting down to shit it all out
and wallowing in it shamelessly.
He so loves the smell of his own shit,
thinking his discharge a lavender scent
while he rolls round-and-round in it
like a scatophiliac decadent.
And critics praise his every word
as if he is raising anew the sun,
but it is a balled-up bit of turd—
the story which this dung beetle has spun.

Warhol’s Soup Kitschen

Paint, copy, print:
the secret formula makes it easy to create
labels
for Campbell’s soup cans
and to cover the rust belt of your
creativity,
the tepid broth
in each bland bowl
handed out with stale
Catholic wafers
so we may all partake in a kitschy
Communion
alongside mediocrity,
the trend set by you, a
bellwether
so utterly cliche
that the trend is dead
before the sheep are
let out of the gate.
You were the first
Social Media Influencer
and have somehow stretched
15 minutes
to over 50 years
of fame.
You got a lot of mileage out of your
high heels,
but if they lack distinguishing depth
should they not be called
flats?
Yet, there is one thing for which
I am grateful to you:
you showed just how eager
those snobby, hobnobbing
knobgobbers really are in the
Artsy-Fartsy world
to guzzle down a generically
commodified can of
mass-manufactured soup
even though a gourmand’s stew of
talent
was being served in every other direction.
Your soulless, assembly line soup
(modified with a dash of garish color
here and there)
was a taste of things to come
because the soup
kitschen
you served in
fed everyone equally
except for the starving artists
you inspired into the jaded world.
For you were starved for nothing
in your life
except even a spoonful of
talent,
and it still somehow fed your legacy
overfull.

Regarding T.S. Eliot

His work is as
skein and needle,
his muse a Frankenstein butcher
applying with a nib
the stitches whereby
a plagiarist’s poem is composed
with the tattered scraps of other works,
words stolen straight from the tongues
of antiquity’s ghosts
and constructed into a
shambling,
clumsy,
graceless
monster;
his work is a mass grave
of decomposing
corpuses,
once beautiful and alive,
now a smorgasbord buffet
without choice, each leftover
shoveled down the intrepid throat
with a gravedigger’s workaday
carelessness.
Kitsch mish-mash and mush-minded
nonsense,
as wayward as a daughter running away from home
and as indulgent as the pimp letting a
hung jury of 12 men
sentence her to death by bukkake,
those 12 hollow men being
12 APOSTLES
whose magi-moneyshot
attempts catharsis by
ego-masturbation,
each in need of an exorcism
via oni-onanism,
ejaculating a pretentious
binding agent
for the quiltwork “masterpiece”,
the magnum opus
laundered from a sundered sundry of
less schizophrenic minds.
Nor am I merely
a rabid attack dog
shredding his pedantic homework apart
so he can stop showing it to the
misguided English professors
with whom he has engaged
in an unhealthy
brownnosing symbiosis.
How can anyone shred
what is, by its nature, piecemeal plagiarism?
It is like smashing sand.
He sought to concoct a
totemic golem
from a hundred other heads
and brought the misbegotten thing to life
by slipping his own renowned name
into its mouth.
Take one of his chimeric works
and unstitch the borrowed parts:
you will find,
at its naked core,
vacuous space.
“Shantih, shantih, shant…”
No! I shall not make peace
except over his anonymous grave.
Yet, how can I obliterate a tombstone
of hundreds of thousands of hearts?
The poems of this
shrike
have been inscribed voluntarily,
merrily,
by hundreds of thousands of people
with a masochist pen.
And though his works are as idiotic as a
Jub-Jub bird
lost in the arid
wastelands,
they persist
like a meandering lovesong
sung by a deaf goat
fed to surfeit
on a library’s worth of books.
Yet, to me,
his poetry will never be
anything other than
a sprawling, fetid plate of tangled
haggis
with the shit left in.
So dig in,
April fools,
if it makes you feel smarter
with a mouth full of
sheepshit;
to swallow it down with a smile
is nothing short of a
triumph.