Cats in the Colosseum

John Joseph Hughes

There are three kinds of bad books. There is the mediocre book, which is at a level of badness that puts it in with the general mass of crap (think of the music of any of the overproduced pop-vocal bands in the past fifty years that's indistinguishable from anything around it as a cross-media example). There is the bad book, which is so poorly written, badly plotted, etc., that it ranks below the morass and becomes notable for its badness (think A Taste of Honey or Tony Orlando and Dawn). And then there is the third type, the true bottom of the barrel, the book so thoroughly hideous that it achieves a kind of cult following, a book that reaches the heights of true greatness among bad books and will be remembered forever for its raging, fantastic atrociousness (William Shatner's album, or Lil' Markie).

It may be unfortunate that self-published books rarely achieve that level of classic awfulness. After all, it's not like someone else thought this stuff was so mind-numbingly bad it deserved a place in the Hall of Shame. But every once in a while a self-published author comes along and makes me remember why I cringe every time I realize I'm reading a self-published book. And John Joseph Hughes may well top that list.

Back in the day, someone coined the term “doggerel” (from the Middle English “worthless”) to refer to really bad verse. John Joseph Hughes may well define the word “doggerel.” To wit:

I'm honored to be in her dreams,
A privilege for a wretch like me.
This is total acceptance, it seems,
To play a role in her psyche.
(From “I'm in Her Dream”)

Worse yet, the note at the bottom leads me to believe that this is to be sung to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” I don't know, you figure it out.

It is the rare book of poetry from which I cannot find a single worthwhile line, one useful image, to give it some merit. This is one of those rare books. Yes, the whole thing is like that. And deep down, I think, Mr. Hughes may be aware of this. One of the last poems in the book reads, in full:

Abuse me, scold me, taunt me,
Not much that I will do,
But say my poetry stinks,
And I will kill you.
(“Don't Say My Poem Stinks!”)

Pursuant to this, I will be entering the Witness Protection program as soon as I have finished penning this review; please forward all mail care of William Safire. (Half a star because I managed to choke the whole thing down while looking for something, anything, of merit; however, this will definitely be on my ten-worst list this year.)