Amanda Palmer, 'Poem for Dzhokhar' - Worse Than TED Talk, Kickstarter, Twitter and Her Armpits Combined

Editor's Note: None of these are any better than what follows them...

And once again, sure as the rain, Amanda Palmer is being assailed for her A-R-T. This time, it's for her dreadful blog verse, "A Poem for Dzhokhar."

Posted Sunday, just two days after the capture of Boston Marathon bombing suspect Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, Palmer's timing proves nearly as bad as her poetry.

To wit, Gawker called "A Poem for Dzhokhar" the "worst poem of all time." Likewise, Complex deemed it "the absolute worst poem ever."

Seriously, it makes Brad Paisley's "Accidental Racist" read like Neil Gaiman. What is it about National Poetry Month that brings out the weirdos?

Responding to her many, many critics, Palmer stated (via Twitter, of course) that "A Poem for Dzhokhar" was about more than the Boston bombings suspect--though she declined to give any deeper exegesis on her feed.

"Now that everybody's panties are in a twist, i'd like to say: the poem is actually about more than you think it is. read it again," Palmer tweeted.

Soon after Palmer's attempted clarification, Gawker wrote further that "A Poem for Dzhokhar" was not for Tsarnaev at all, but instead "for Palmer, a deluded and opportunistic narcissist who sells rhetorical snake oil to people too full of unearned self-regard to join an actual cult."

Burn, indeed.

Here's Amanda Palmer's "A Poem for Dzhokhar" re-posted in all its awful entirety...

"A POEM FOR DZHOKHAR"

warning: hateful commenters trying to hack the blog by mimicking regular benevloent users' names. please proceed with caution and respect.

given the amount of controversy surrounding this blog, i wrote about the act of writing of the poem HERE if you'd like to read it.

you don't know how it felt to be in the womb but it must have been at least a little warmer than this.

you don't know how intimately they're recording your every move on closed-circuit cameras until you see your face reflected back at you through through the pulp.

you don't know how to stop picking at your fingers.

you don't know how little you've been paying attention until you look down at your legs again.

you don't know how many times you can say you're coming until they just stop believing you.

you don't know how orgasmic the act of taking in a lungful of oxygen is until they hold your head under the water.

you don't know how many vietnamese soft rolls to order.

you don't know how convinced your parents were that having children would be, absolutely, without question, the correct thing to do.

you don't know how precious your iphone battery time was until you're hiding in the bottom of the boat.

you don't know how to get away from your fucking parents.

you don't know how it's possible to feel total compassion in one moment and total disconnection in the next moment.

you don't know how things could change so incredibly fast.

you don't know how to make something, but the instructions are on the internet.

you don't know how to make sense of this massive parade.

you don't know how to believe anyone anymore.

you don't know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that you've been peeking at her dissertation draft and there's a grammatical typo in the actual file name.

you don't know how to explain yourself.

you don't want two percent but it's all they have.

you don't know how claustrophobic your house is until you can't leave it.

you don't know why you let that guy go without shooting him dead and stuffing him in some bushes between cambridge and watertown.

you don't know where your friends went.

you don't know how to dance but you give it a shot anyway.

you don't know how your life managed to move twenty six miles forward and twenty eight miles back.

you don't know how to pay your debts.

you don't know how to separate from this partnership to escape and finally breathe.

you don't know how come people run their goddamn knees into the ground anyway.

you don't know how to measure the value of the twenty dollar bill clutched in your hurting hand.

you don't know how you walked into this trap so obliviously.

you don't know how to adjust the rearview mirror.

you don't know how to mourn your dead brother.

you don't know how to drive this car.

you don't know the way to new york.

you don't know the way to new york.

you don't know the way to new york.

you don't know the way to new york.