Last one hit its bump limit. Post your writing, receive a critique.
Have fun!
"He."
>>7426736
Heh.
>>7426736
5/10
>Normie rhyme poetry
The sun rose in the east
It rose a rose
Rubicrating west
a rufescent glow
Tell me how shit I am.
help me out /lit/
i have this 40 page short story, but it has a title every 2k words of so (for 9 breaks altogether). the titles kind of serve as another way for the fictional author of the piece (not me) to address its audience, but it might just be self-indulgent. should i keep them?
>>7426806
It's not absurdly bad, if that consoles you at all.
>>7426828
If you are going for that metafiction angle, then it's fine. It's fine, too, if it is necessary to understand the sections.
>>7426832
I just like writing red over and over.
The monolith of marble, raw and looming. The skin of canvas, taut, and daring rupture. The lines of staff, bars of prison. The page, the paper, the leaf, the scroll; a boundless void, bathed in scrying light, aching with absence, a fertile desert alife with mirages, wordless thoughts, a shimmering haze, like the surface of an oasis: a trembling kaleidoscope, swirling with fluid frames. How many have dived within those cool waters, only to drown in the cold and lightless depths below?
http://pastebin.com/q4nPRqPf
It's not that long so yeah. Could def use some critique. Please be fair.
>>7426842
I could tell.
I wrote an essay about P.E.
Here's the intro paragraph
In recent years, physical education has come to be regarded as something of a joke—its very mention evoking a spectrum of jeering responses, ranging from frivolous dismissal, to scornful mockery. It’s the sort of “class” that begs to be encapsulated by sarcastic quotation marks, a class where burnouts may freely exercise their passion for apathy, a class where schedules are filled, and GPA’s are padded—the academic equivalent to packing peanuts. Put most succinctly, P.E. is not taken seriously. Not by the students, who’s only real lesson is in the evasion of the coach’s (un)watchful eye, nor by the administration, whose now plummeting interest, faith, and investment in the program can be condensed into one singular question: should physical education still be a graduation requirement?
>>7426841
thanks anon!
>>7426806
I think sun shit has been overdone. I think we should drop it already/10
>pic related
>>7426852
This is good. I would recommend replacing the commas in the beginning with colons, though.
>>7426716
Is this a good sentence?
How it fell, the snow, like fragments of shattered nimbi: whimsical and delicate, shreds of stationery whose secrets (some confessions of love, others, curiously enough, threats to expose it) became lost in the virginal white sea which churned slowly in the wind.
>>7426865
The sun's crawling ascension, slow and predatorial, sets the horizon ablaze, blackening under fire, mountains and trees like fissures in the sky's burning womb.
The 51, 51, the rotting 51,
eats desire, gives nothing back,
door to the left,
carpeted in Persian sand,
soft incense ash and sometimes
bloodied glass.
where primeval evils past
trapped themselves
beaten by the infinite length
of sixteen meters squared.
from boredom came the storm
books ripped, letters torn,
only halfway done
they bled ink all over the floor.
the rank couch
pushed onto the balcony
gettin’ bleached on rain and hail
like the discoloured shoe they turned
into a shatterproof ashtray.
no men or poets allowed
in that hexed room,
scented with sweat and ecstasy.
the residual white smoke
turned all words
into squirming worms .
by winter nights those
red hot stars dangling in the void
were the only source of light and warmth.
everything was
opiates and
silhouettes.
by the end,
no monsters were left
both exorcised by time
and rage
they left
the lone mirror on the wall
discarded cutlery in the trash
and a mason jar
filled with dope’d-up dreams
half-whispered at night.
>>7426881
It's alright, it's got good flow, good rhythm, but some of the descriptions are a bit off:
>snow
>shattered
>whimsical and delicate
this clashes. "shattered" calls to mind shards of glass, hard and sharp; not in any way "delicate" or "whimsical".
>shreds of stationary whose secrets
Here you compare the falling snow to shredded stationary that once had secrets. It sounds nice, but it doesn't make much sense. Why does the snow have secrets about love, or affairs?
>>7426885
>it doesn't rhyme
whatsthepoint.jpeg
>>7426915
>>7426881
Just say, "It snowed."
>>7426924
That's boring.
>>7426928
get rid of the parenthetical and the last six words
also whose and became
>>7426928
Yeah, it is boring, but the way it's written in op is too purple imho.
>>7426936
not poster but I like the parenthetical. It's a tad precious, and the context renders it meaningless, but i think it's the strongest part. Should be used elsewhere tho for sure.
>>7426806
Doesn't seem to have a purpose. You have to be going for something other than achieving a rhyme scheme.
>>7426915
Not all poetry needs to rhyme, but i generally prefer it to.
>Anyways.
Here is a crummy poem i wrote while bored in class:
What sound is that,
which echoes in the catacombs
Of the mind? Where rat
offer company to poets' ancient bones, and gnaws what marrow remains
alleviated from the burden of its soul.
From suffering it has flown, those miserly refrains
Form no immaterial chains on the plaintive knoll.
>And some shitty limericks for fun
Rape jokes aren't funny they say.
"Be quiet! Don't laugh, and obey!"
But life for a bard
Is oh so very hard
No noes will cause me dismay.
I once knew a feminist
who called me a meninist
But by the stache that she had
I'd have thought her a lad
So I settled to call her a Stalinist
A priest stopped me in the street
To preach of the sin found between sheets
I said to him "yes father,
God's honor I won't bother
Before to his wife's I did sneak.
>>7426955
limericks were funny except the third one which is awkwardly worded.
the poem is illustrative but just ends and there's nothing said. seems incomplete. seems like a random piece of description from a nove; written in verse
>>7426832
Still bad though I'm guessing :/
>>7427046
it's not good anon sorry
>>7427046
Cheer up. You are a beautiful human being:D
>>7427068
What would make it a good stanza?
>>7427158
you just have to develop a theme or a sound you want to work around.
>>7427158
Its unfinished. Its just a short description and one which doesn't feel particularly inspired. You're working within the East/West dichotomy which is conventional, and it also doesn't rhyme.
>Rose a rose
No offense personally intended, but it *sounds* really pretentious, it just doesn't have a good sound to it. And using words like Rubicrating and rufescent when they aren't necessitated by metre strikes me as a type of manufactured sophistication.
Substituting the word rufescent rather than red, or crimson doesn't really elevate your writing. Using fringe words can work, but its better to use them to punctuate longer lines.
>The sun stood over the east
>It blossomed as a rose
>As it grew towards the west
>and aged in a rufescent glow.
Or something like that, but that's a hastily made substitution.
Oh, Irony
I praise my world's new idle
a grand new-old ideal
an old friend turned sour,
now jesting new power.
Rusted quests gleaming, set for battle
using our old friend as saddle
for an ancient quest now turned comedy.
Oh, revolution of this tool turned for its own present deed,
oh deed of fun deaths, oh deed of dull liveliness, oh deed of deeds.
After the bombs and sickle fell
we now have our comrade in sale.
Oh how grand it is to sit on the boarder,
oh what fun it is for man to quarter.
Comrade I know your ways
How you fool the rich, poor alike for days;
downtrodden can't wait “gobble more”
empowered lust for controlling outpours.
You have them in a vice loose unseen.
You would kill your hostess with no remorse,
knowing that death's better than a corpse.
Now I will traitor my warning on deck
and end this ode turned betrayal with a, kek.
When bomb fell man mutant form; sons of men change. Harken near, for tale told of eyes given unto perfect range.
Ears remained same such as hair and face, but eyes did mutate; allow conciousness to escape.
With new eyes, man was able to do extraordinary things, capable of building, and destruction. Depending on colour of course.
Hail wise Elderman, what have your eyes shown you this day?
Hail my kin, I have looked future-tense and seen many things of the weird.
The astral-halls are emptied, our people lay life-robbed, stranded twixt planes.
New children born without vision, blinded and cannot see.
Demons from Hell unleashed upon the kind spirits to alter fortunes of all.
What must we do Elderman?
Nothing which men can do is possible for now, it is fate.
Heroes may be needed future time, send out messages to all.
Father, are we Gods? Do you think you are a God? No, I am a worm. No, you are my son, don't insult me that my love is wasted on a worm. But as
the word says, "Ye are Gods". Have you been using hallucines? Yes, I made them in a star. Come, let us see where our friends are hiding.
It was noon, a wind blew showering those who walked with dust particles. A man was sitting on his porch observing and meditating. He did not know
what his relevance was. For from his DNA would come the next differential change in man.
Time was looked through, even utilized, but could one see all things? The spirit returns to God, but mans flesh when united with said spirit creates
soul.
The ancestors cried tears on the mans dna, filling it with mates. Choosing what they wanted to make the species grow. It multiplied and spread
throughout the Earth. All were infected. But at that same time, the ancestors died, their vision was lost. The same action had caused an opposite
reaction.
But they mistook their own mortality for death. For they had not experienced such things for a long time. They had forgotten what it meant to be
mortal. Was this their punishment for their loftiness?
Who says mercury isnt ready?
press the zipper into the slot,
pull the strings and tie the knot,
you really should try on another size,
the flabbiness just doesnt suit you.
they're not expensive,
in fact they practically give them away,
from within boxes in the ground,
with stones that tell you where they are.
Just get that befreckled one,
or maybe the ebony one,
or if you're daring,
the stinky one.
I wonder how we will look,
when we go in the nude,
when we start wearing people.
>>7427240
>why is it a poem?
The "gods" speak in prose to evoke concepts of ancientdom. The father and son speak in a personal level as a way of highlighting the natural communication between two people. The man is in 3rd person to give a step back from the inner workings of his mind and look at him for the pathetic creature he really is.
>>7427255
made me smile
it's cool
>>7427212
Content's great. Rhyme scheme blows monkey chunks..
>>7427219
I think that some phrases are just awkward, and its generally strange to have archaic speech incorporated, but its not necessarily wrong.
>seen many things of the weird.
I assume that this is the use of weird in the same sense of Shakespeare, otherwise its syntactically strange. I think it would make much more sense to use it as a segway into the next sentence.
>seen many visions of the weird
>empty astral-halls, our people... etc etc
I think that you should make it more clear based on the syntax who is speaking, and do away with the "Elderman" entirely.
There isn't much loss in saying "what must we do?" If you make it clearer that he's speaking to another person you won't need to denote a name imo.
And as said by others, I think that it reads more as prose than poetry since you didn't format it. Or is that the intention?
I think that the general idea is interesting, but that its potential is higher than what you're filling atm.
Its such a lofty concept that when you padding over such a huge event as its trying to tell it doesn't seem to fit suitably.
Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.
Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother
Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.
Hesitant
to call the shots
don't commit, don't make assumptions
don't believe in faerie tales
at the moment when everything else around me pales
I sit with trembling fingertips against the glass
time passed--
we both remember what happens last.
>>7427361
actually good
the only word that bothers me is pales. that whole line feels like a cliche, i don't think it's necessary. also omitting the subject for the first few lines makes it feel as it is addressing the the reader, so the me is kind of jarring, but it would be gone if you removed that line.
>>7427380
thank you
I agree, it is a lot better with that line removed, now that you point it out, i initially had only "when everything else around me pales" and that's even worse, i tried to patch it with "at the moment" instead of realizing it needed pruning
>>7427361
It actually reads more like rap lyrics than anything else desu. But I do like it, it seems to have an interesting rhythm to it, and i like that it has a direction. It doesn't feel quite complete, you may be leaving the conclusion to inference, but if so it'd be good for situational context.
While trapped beneath the glass
I saw the parasite
flow through what was once a city
like spilled paint
Flowing outwards by the heartbeat,
its cartilage metronome
the only clock left
I saw the pus
accumulate
from moisture
into tears
into puddles
into eyes
I counted the hairs of the parasite,
those worms hungry for the unconquered sky
blossomed from the craters of broken pustules
Its sickly off-white flesh and the way it glistened with the sheen of an open wound
made me resent sight
And I heard the growth speak through
the sheer brute force of time
one of its thousand tongues
eventually
began to make sense
It wasn't the loneliness
nor the taunts
nor being damned
but the tedium
that made me listen
I let its breath, its putrid language, into me,
a colony of
little minds
squirming around
the contours
of mine
He called the once-city
and the little corner of the mind I still had
a grave
of course
he lied,
the parasite enjoyed the competition
Thank god for women
They are so damn
Soft and pretty
rest is found in a woman's arms
When a full heart lets
Its long aching sigh
As passion's flood ripples
With the sound of
A name ringing loud on the water
>>7427498
>like spilled paint
Yeah, you were painting a pretty picture
>It wasn't the loneliness
>nor the taunts
>nor being damned
>but the tedium
>that made me listen
Contextually I'm kind of wtf this does not belong.
The next sonnet is BADASS,
The last sonnet could've been done way better.
>>7427586
Sorry not sonnet, but whatever a 'section' of a poem is called.
>>7427586
>Contextually I'm kind of wtf this does not belong.
you're right. thanks for the kind words.
i think i'll get rid of stanza. i had a nagging feeling something was out of place but couldn't figure out what. that gave me some other ideas, too.
i agree the ending is not optimal, either, but that will take more time.
>>7427611
Yeah it's no problem. Like I love some of the stanzas, especially >Flowing outwards by the heartbeat,
>its cartilage metronome
>the only clock left
Like WHAT
The only major problem I see is that the stanzas don't flow as well as they could. It's great but poorly organized.
>>7427651
yeah, i know what you mean. it's tough to make palatable.
brump
this was fun
Watering riptide edge oblivion. Born hopeful baby birds nest. Into void sky vacuum swallow. Preach kind life, with wings over land and sea. Split red the sphere, ploowmate, oyster hollow breach. Swept sparrow swift Ra ran crest clods. Wake slipt past waves crashes cracks dawn. Angles sine-like, like, like larks.
A faint but satisfying click, much like two bells oscillating in an imperfect unison, whisks by my ears making me wonder whether something actually triggered that sound or I just had a bright idea and the cartoon cliché of a light bulb zinging above your head when you’ve had one turns out to be true.
Another.
“Ffff” I hissed inwards due to catching the skin on my neck, right below my Adam’s apple, between the zipper of my hoodie.
“Second time today.” I thought.
I walked through a bridge admiring the sky and the way it looked after it had snowed a bit. I’m always completely consumed by the purple tint of the thick clouds caused by the light reflecting back from the snow with lower, longer wavelengths tilting it to the red spectrum.
I find the last couple of days particularly interesting not because I randomly decided to marvel at useless things for the sake of being joyful, but because useless and improbable things keep transpiring among the rest of the daily stuff more than what I consider normal.
Stuff like the case with the zipper, the way I often ash my cigarette in my half full cup of coffee on the table, the way I try to unlock the dorm room doors of my friends with my own key, only for it to fail and make me smile. I really enjoy the ridiculousness of the last one repeating a few times a day whenever I happen to be visiting someone.
People like to wonder at the universe whereas I wonder at why the stupendous improbability of my consciousness even existing decided that it will have a handful of annoying glitches. I’d probably have been more upset about this if the universe’s rule set had not had such a success after being field tested for a couple of billion years.
Another of those glitches is the random things that keep suspiciously whisking away from my sight. It would happen at completely haphazard moments. For example when I’m paying attention to the interesting way people’s eyebrows move when they make facial expressions, and at some point, while I’m doing that, something would move behind something else, just behind the border of my eye’s crisp focus. Usually I write it off as an animal moving or a piece of paper or plastic bag blown away by the wind. Both of these, however, count outside, where the world is constantly moving and not inside, where my concern is well-placed when such things occur.
A strange itching in what feels quite like the very center of my brain first started bothering me on the way to an ugly but charming dump of a bar, which I frequent , after an acting audition. That is also weird since the brain lacks pain receptors. I was to play a charismatic fellow who likes to yell opinions at people while deliberately invading their personal space because he is convinced that his edgy cologne is somehow pleasant to them. I read half of the script and am yet to see a solid point to the story. It might be one of those very few movie ideas where you have to be a terrible actor to pull off.
I'm both crap at writing and critiquing so bear with me.
>>7428407
I like reading about microscopic details like this. Fun stuff.
>>7428076
Reading this out loud turned out to be an enjoyable experience.
>>7427535
I feel like the first three lines don't work with the rest of the poem. Too simplistic maybe. Rest is good though.
pallid-laid inextricable in Air
becomes air: of sin-emptied external
,from Air, for all to see.
I write trippy poems:
Pulsar misbehaves
Sheaf of radiation
Playful waves
In it's way stands Parthyplexylora
and it's crooked ring
Pity the youngly hatched
(sprouted?)
matrabosia colony blossoms
the kind with tiny limbs
The way they writhed made
the eerie jungles (of sorts)
look more lively
Were perfect for tasqeniij soup
>>7427422
Sometimes it does start to feel like rapping
--
My love, my dove
A stained white glove
Once pristine, but now--
Why do they even make such useless items?
As bad as eating steak with a disposable spoon-fork-knife combo
Or one of those plastic wine glasses you can buy at a gas station
You know, prefilled, with the stem packaged alongside?
Who would find that classier than a Budweiser,
Who can enjoy themselves in white gloves?
I'm not like that, I'm not one of those types
A consumer: oblivious, restrained
But perhaps I suffer
For holding aspects of modern life in disdain.
Wouldn't it be wild
To buy silk underwear every year
And be snuggly and warm, and not worry when they develop holes?
Have you seen footage
Of the people who live at garbage dumps in Guatemala
They ship the trash in from you and me
And these children
With practiced hands
Pick over it all?
Or mothers in India all in a line
Washing their babes of caked-on street grime
In matching metal tubs.
Who puts the tubs there? Who bought them?
Who decides its bath time?
I laughed at the idea of an “uncontacted tribe”
We have photos of them, they've seen people wearing our clothes
Now it horrifies me.
They know us, they hate us
Oh how they hate us
And not without reason.
Every industry is insidious
Caught up in the greed of “us”
Draw distinctions
Face extinctions
A warm blanket of crumbled calcium enveloped the little wisp that laid still upon the still ground. It nestled alone in a dark; desolate foreign meadow. Little pale limbs gripped tightly on little body of equal shade. However, the little wisp struggled in vain, as it tried to maintain its wavering glow. Alas, the small wisps body shook to and fro, in protest of its unprovoked assault. Shards of long decayed leaves offered little protection from the cold chattering wind. The air howled as it made its way through the gaps of knawled limbs of ancient shrubs. The wind’s violent gale took hold of the little wisp - having it pinned.
All of a sudden, the large holes in the wisp’s face sparked to life. Two balls made of slimy flesh made their presence known, no longer hidden by thin curtains of blotched skin. The left ball, with a dot at its centre, the colour of a refined sapphire, gazed at its surroundings. The ball on the right, with a dot, at its centre, the colour of sour milk, quickly followed its neighbouring kin. Sadly the pairs efforts were a hopeless endeavour. For there was nothing to be seen. No light in the sky, or on the ground that could reveal the world around the little wisp. All its big eyes saw, was a curtain of black, a land void of colour… A blank screen.
Surprisingly, the wisp was not afraid of the dark. It knew nothing of who or what it was, and why or where it was. Yet, it felt like where it was before, was much scarier than now.The wisp lifted its stiff little body, thin icy limbs no longer furled.
With a great stretch of its frail body, and a slight groan of relief. The wisp set out on a journey in this invisibly world, in hopes of another. For while it feared no overbearing night, it did however fear the silence it brought. The wisp craved anything to end the hush that did smother.
The whistling wind was a paper-thin ward that quelled its anxiety of the hush-hush. It's bare feet offered little protection from the diversity of unknown goodies, that dwelled upon the cold floor. However, the tingling pain did little to deter this little wisp. Its stride hastened and widened, spurred by the pain it did bore.
>>7428989
Sprint it did, in search of a sign that it was not alone. The wisp ran and ran, and ran some again. It’s ragged breath and burning innards begged at the wisp to stop. It ignored all pleas, nay! It did not even hear them, it’s body screamed, but it’s mind was zen.
With nothing but darkness for miles to see, with it came the mystery that was time. The poor little wisp had no idea of how long it had began its peralis pace. It's only clues were its dry lips ,and a fire in its stomach that threatened to consume its flesh and bone. The torment the little wisp beared, it thought, was a small price to pay for the chance of finding a soundful place.
A time passed that couldn’t be measured, as the little wisp marched on its path. Suddenly! Its dry eyes saw in the distance, a small flickering light. The little wisp jumped with joy and let out a booming sound of wonder. Or, at least it would, if its throat was not so dry. Driven by pure desire and hope, the little wisp tripled its daunting flight.
With hallowed breath and hallowed heart, the little wisp pushed on. Its speed and pleasure growing ever greater, as the light in the distance transformed into an assembly of more radiant flickers. On all fours the little wisp now did run, its calloused hands easily bore the attacks of the mysterious earth.The little wisp thought of all the wondrous noises it will hear, the laughs, the songs, even the bickers.
As the magical glowing orbs grew bigger and bigger, the little wisp ran faster and faster. Its four little limbs working in perfect harmony - towards their so-close goal. But with no eyes to guide its way, it was only a matter of time until something went wrong...
The poor little Wisp suddenly fell down a great big hole.
>>7428469
Shut the fuck up
You sound like literally the worst person to trip with
>>7429006
Coming from somebody on 4chan I could hardly care any less. Instead of being a retard like usual why not just point out whats wrong with what I wrote?
>>7426716
http://pastebin.com/vc902mks
>>7426806
It's not good.
>>7426852
overwrought. What are you trying to say? Think about how pinecone justifies his metaphors by delving into clear and lyrical description before diving into the more lofty ideas. Also this isn'y nearly pretty enough to justify the fluff.
>>7428458
telegraphic writing is hard to do. Here it lost me after the second round of knocks. Think about using more imagery or making the action less trapped in thought and more in scene.
Latest chapter in the "Practice what you Peach" epic; about a peach farmer who hates peaches.
Edited since last thread.
A reporter from a local paper visits Frank the old peach farmer to do a piece on his prize-winning peaches.
Will Frank be able to hide his terrible secret from the media?
Will his fat wife get him to finally eat his peaches?
Let's watch...
>>7430064
>telegraphic writing is hard to do. Here it lost me after the second round of knocks. Think about using more imagery or making the action less trapped in thought and more in scene.
Thanks for the feedback, appreciate it. I'm sure it was more fun to actually write than it is to read.
Choral quietude:
a song sung to
an empty church —
the singer stands nude
proud
at the altar.
Licked lips look liquid
flowing free beneath
plastic wrap shimmering
in sunlight’s seat.
I can hear her voice
tickle her throat as it
leaps through her lips.
Hot breath blowing hair
from my forehead to the air
pushed towards the heaven
from which she summons her song.
Her stomping feet and
thunderclap hands
vibrate through pews.
Adam and Eve felt no
shame at their humanity
blowing in Eden’s breath
until they sunk teeth
into fruit flesh.
Bless them.
They were right
before they knew what
that meant (if it means anything).
This singer
(this girl)
her tones touch me.
They sink into my skin
choose to stay and
stick up all the hairs.
She gathers my
torn-up memories
sews them into a
Sunday Suit
and pulls me to
God in a trance.
I want to waltz
with her at the altar and
dip her into the song.
my plugs
keep be talkin spanish
let's just
say
i'm
super
savage.
>>7430081
why do you have no commas before the direct addresses
This is based on some stupid writing prompt about some admiral retaking Earth or whatever. I just started. I never write and it probably shows here. I'm worried about unnecessary adjectives and fat to be trimmed
A faint buzz rolled over the reddish-brown, desiccated valley. Here and there a tree trunk long since turned to stone stood as a monument to what once was. The sun was low in the west, as if to examine its work from a closer angle. It was the only thing that moved around these parts.
There was a bizarre sense of serenity about the place - the serenity of a man in the clutches of a horrible illness, finally succumbed to eternal peace. If anything, a rush of water might have overwhelmed the scorched remains of living things and destroyed this museum of death. What is art if not a recording of man’s influence on his surroundings?
The buzz grew louder.
It came from a dark spherical object, no larger than a human head, flying in a straight line and keeping about a foot off the surface. It had no identifying markings and no visible weapons. Neither was of much use here. The object flew on.
Far above the planet the Styx was locked in stationary orbit. Total communication silence was in effect, but the ship was far from quiet.
“What?! We haven’t even cleared a third of the surface!”
“We’ve both seen the same readings, Officer. The planet is empty.”
“Empty of what? Armor and personnel? Do you have any idea about the number of potentially deadly bacteria…”
“This order comes straight from the Admiral. We touch ground at 0700 tomorrow at the center of the green zone. As the probes expand the safety radius we will push for Site A. Units will maintain full biohazard protocol until we receive final clearance from your section.”
“The Admiral doesn’t seem too concerned about my clearance now.”
“I assure you the safety of our crew is our top priority.”
“Of course.”
“Officer Dace.”
“Captain Marcus.”
>>7431006
>Not unnecessary moving the typology around every other sentence
Jesus Mang, do you even into sci-fi?
I wish I was an object. I wish I was as I see others. Yet, I dream alone; "I dream as I live -- alone." How scary is the thought of utter loneliness? And, even worse, that it is objectively true? There is a barrier between my mind and the World. It is a barrier I have inherited by the very fact I was born. Nothing can solve how alien I feel in my own skin. Constantly disorganized, always fatigued, and never "in the right place" -- always off-stage, somewhere far away. How I actually wish to be far away from it all! But no, I feel far away while still being here. And because of this, I know I will never cure myself of utter depression.
Some are blessed with balance. They are blessed with comfort in their own bodies -- or, even better, they are self-aware and are comfortable. Yet, I am self-aware, but uncomfortable. I attribute this to many things, but I mostly blame it on birth itself, on this life and the lack of a next one.
Everything could be so beautiful, but I see none of it. This is angst -- that it could be so beautiful, but it isn't! What do I make of this but put my head in my hands and somberly wait for the moment that will force me out of my spell and make me alive again?
Dogs are cool
Sometimes they drool
Dogs love food
They are naturally nude
Dogs pee in grass
Dogs sniff each other's ass
"Don't be too rough," she whispered. I unzipped my jeans, my penis ready to explode. I slipped off my undergarments and grabbed my flesh. I guided it to her vagina, and pushed it in slowly. It was like a sword peircing the bodies of my enemies. I started to sway my hips back and forth, her hips gyrating with mine. She started to moan as I thrust my penis in further. I gazed into her beautiful hazel eyes. Her face was so lewd. She looked like she has been craving sex since she was born.
"Go faster, it feels so good," she said. I drove my penis into her with all my might. I was beginning to climax. I could feel the walls inside of her tightening. I could feel my seed building up inside of me. I grunted loudly as I sprayed my fluids inside of her. I finally took my penis out, I felt complete now. We cuddled in bed afterwards, our naked bodies so close together. We slept till mourning, and that's when I realized I'm actually a fat neckbeard typing away my fantasy on my computer, who will never actually be loved by someone else.
>>7431699
lold
>>7428458
I really enjoyed your writing. It could use some revisions as it sounded a bit awkward at times but i liked the style. I think my favorite part was that long, complex sentence that broke up the short simplistic thoughts around it.
>>7431576
I really like it, but it doesn't feel like I accomplished anything. Your AABBCC rhyming scheme is executed precisely and your ability to describe objects and actions of this archetypal creature, yet this long and deep feeling of a missed moment, or a callus lack of a conclusion leaves me unmotivated and cold. The inability to feel after learning about dogs has made me a husk of a man I once was.
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now. It is too late. The Evacuation still proceeds, but it's all theatre. There are no lights inside the cars. No light anywhere. Above him lift girders old as an iron queen, and glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day through. But it's night. He's afraid of the way the glass will fall soon it will be a spectacle: the fall of a crystal palace. But coming down in total blackout, without one glint of light, only great invisible crashing.
>>7432189
who the hell did you expect to fool? this is /lit/ - pynchon general
>>7426716
Wake up
>wake up
Grab a brush and out on a little make up
>make up
my first story, any pointers other than it sucks?
>>7432192
I don't know what you mean. It's an original piece and I wrote it. All feedback is appreciated.
>>7432246
t-t-timmy?
>>7431950
Thanks man, you too.
Konstantin looked at the cream-colored walls, thinking it an odd choice for decor, then glanced fondly at the damp and cheerless patrons who, with dreaming eyes, took sips from their half-empty glasses. ‘How lovely,” he thought to himself, ‘how lovely and peaceful and nice it is in here.’ The drinkers with partly-open eyelids wheezed a hello to him or gave a lazy nod when they saw he was looking at them, and he just smiled. Konstantin had been outside in the city far from the hotel and could not find a single decent and satisfying place to be and now he had found it, right there under his nose, right there at his hotel lounge. He heard those patrons speak with child-like voices to each other whenever they shared a simple word or two. But really, there was scarcely any speaking in that beauteous drinking lounge and like angels they ceased speaking whenever he glanced up at them. Oh, how fond he was of their frumpy little faces, their bulbous noses, the crease that folded over beneath their eyes, the puffy pouches on their cheeks, they were like badly-aged golphers slouched together on their high stools. But soon the angels vanished, and the cream-colored room vanished, and came the bedstead, the old furniture, the quaint old mirror. They had all vanished and Konstantin awoke in his hotel room to someone knocking on the door for admittance.
>>7432474
wow, really good prose
>>7427314
like I said before, you gotta get a joyce expert in here. I can make neither head nor tails of it, personally
>>7428407
anal
>>7428461
rhythm like a nice waltz, but I don't quite catch the meaning. probably improper personal failing (of mine)
>>7432498
thanks, glad you liked it.
>>7432208
The story in itself a bit of a cliché, nothing I haven't read before. Still caught myself smiling once or twice. The writing is decent I guess but the story is too short to really tell, I can imagine it being a dialogue in a bigger story. You also seem to repeat yourself sometimes, things like 'early hours' and 'morning' really imply the same thing.
But hey, I'm just some guy on the internet.
his eyes, vacant
roll about, rotate
endlessly trying to locate
the peripherals
they are there in the corners
the bridge of his nose
his eyelashes
the red-hot tips of his lids
slowly closing
not unlike blemishes
unseen until now
Shit I know, but I'd like some pointers.
First page of the last short story I wrote.
It has been over ten years since Anon's romantic relationship with Inertia had taken over his life. It was self-sufficiency and the reinforced realization of above-averageness which had prompted this relationship.
The first few years made for a seamless ride. Anon loved how Inertia would fuel his utmost personal desires without ever having to articulate them. At the same time, Inertia wasn't too clingy and was very permissive when it came to Anon's worldly pursuits. After all, genetics and above-averageness enabled Anon to be a good student and a respected individual. Lightness was considered cultural currency in Anon's teenage years so he was admired for the effortless manner in which he dragged along his above-averageness through society. Anon's peers loved Inertia, which in return deepened Anon's love for her. He would pamper her with his undivided attention and coddle her ego with poetic nicknames like Freedom and Idleness.
Years passed and adulthood crept in unnoticed. Above-averageness was now measured in functionality and Anon's potential could only come to life through hard work. This bothered Inertia, as it reminded her of the previous boyfriends who have cheated on her with Labour. Inertia knew she was more attractive than Labour, but was also conscious that Anon's folks and most adults would rather have Labour come over for dinner. Fights became regular and Anon would degrade Inertia with names like Laziness and Sloth. He decided it was time to end the relationship. He would still have his above-averageness, he thought. He then started having a few one night stands with Labour, but he couldn't commit to a steady romantic relationship, as Labour was very straight forward and he feared that she might reveal the fact that Inertia had in fact been a gold-digger, only in it for his above-averageness.
"What if Inertia spent all my above-averageness and with that took away my dignity when she left?" He was proud of having the courage of being so blunt in his self-analysis. Sure, he was an emotional wreck, but it was Inertia's fault and he still had his unbiased analytical mind. His thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. It was Inertia. She was saying how sorry she was and how she wants to make up for everything. She said she knew that Anon always had a thing for her sister, but never dared mention it. It was time for a confrontation. The three of them just sat there, glancing upon each other on Anon's doorstep. Inertia, Anon and Narcissistic Self-Pity, in a self-sufficient never ending love triangle.
>>7432514
thank you
>>7426716
I was wearing a brown, leather, London Fog hunting Jacket. I was just listening to, "Rattle and Hum," the newest U2 album.
Not quite my taste.
Suddenly Sal, or was it Jim, points out a fox creeping into the clearing. I suddenly look around and realize my dog, Trump, is missing. In a moment of panic I grab my Cabela's Mountaineer Binoculars and search the area for him. I come to focus on the Fox and realize my dog is in the middle of the clearing, in deeper sleep then Jennifer on Valium. I nervously notice the fox inching closer to my pet. I quickly grab a baggie out of my jacket pocket and dump the contents out on my wrist, snorting the pure white powder. My mind now cleared, I watch as the fox gets into a sprint and jumps over my dog. I realize he is taunting his prey, setting up for the kill, and while I don't particularly love my dog I also know I will have to bring him home with me if he dies, and I don't want to clean blood out of the backseat for a second time. So I stand up, look right at the fox and shout, "Get a job you filthy hobo nigger." The fox is immediately alerted to my presence, and runs off.
Bret Easton Ellis’s “The Quick Brown Fox Jumped Over The Lazy Dog”
>>7435165
>435165▶
>File: ap.jpg (24 KB, 256x392)
top kek
>>7430064
Any thoughts? I'm willing to do additional, more indepth critiques
“Utter rubbish,” Balding Man squawks over the microphone, lending dissonant sauce to the twangy pasta of his guitar chords, “trash, garbage, garbage-trash.”
Applause with the enthusiasm of an office drone at eleven A.M. replies, flaccid hands loathe to depart from their drinks. He takes it earnestly and gets off the stage, settling down on a dusty sofa cross the room to his cooling bagel. The Writer looks back to his work, cursor blinking weakly on the stark and barren page. Tepid coffee is what he drinks, acidic to say the least, but it keeps him moving. Uninspired black typeface dances to and fro across the screen, scrolling right then retreating back to the left in a dosido of indecision; always the same few words.
The speakers come alive once more, warbling with the tune of an Andrew Jackson Jihad written smaller and more cheaply in musical ink bought from the same place as his moustache wax. Jihad Junior chirps about low end balance to the event organizer between pieces, who swoops in from his shadowy perch behind the stage: a fat, ponytailed Phantom. The audience doesn’t seem to notice the minutes long gap in which the portly fellow fiddles with bargain bin sound equipment. Regrettably, Jihad Junior takes a second crack at captivating the audience with his soulful, nuanced originals. Unfortunately, his listenership will never be able to unpack the subtleties of his seemingly trite, simplistic ideas, but damn it if he doesn’t keep trying.
Fade In:
Ext. Street Sidewalk - Day
In Southtown San Antonio two young men walk down South Alamo St. On a clear and brisk day.
BOBBY, A young, almost surf rock looking fellow, a man who is only perceived as spacy, walks down the street with Coker.
COKER, A ginger whose pants are a little too tight sometimes, but can still think properly walks alongside Bobby.
BOBBY
So I was heading home from a show the other night and my dad called, he said he wanted me to pick up some milk and eggs from the gas station before I head home, I said ok, and so I'm driving to the corner store and it started raining.
COKER
Was that tuesday? It was raining pretty bad on tuesday.
BOBBY
I don’t remember man, anyway I pull up and get out and at that point I start getting wet. Like soaked to the bone man. Now I'm cold buying cold milk and cold eggs for my dad who went to the store like two days before and should have already bought this stuff. And- And that's when I saw her.
Bobby stops walking for a second with Coker taking a moment to realize he stopped
COKER
Saw who dude?
BOBBY
This girl.
COKER
and?
BOBBY
I don't know. I didn't talk to her.
Bobby continues walking with Coker speeding to catch up.
COKER
Uhh ok, then what was so special about her? Why bring it up?
BOBBY
I unno, nothing, she just-
Bobby stops to think.
BOBBY
She just felt- I don't know how to put it. She looked- She looked like she was from a different time line.
COKER
What like, she was from the 1920s or something?
BOBBY
No, she looked normal enough, but it was like as if she came from a place, a slightly different one than where we're in. where money has different presidents on it. Y'know?
COKER
No, I don’t know. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.
BOBBY
Like have you ever stopped to think what if the fifty dollar bill had John Adams on it instead of Grant? Or if the Nickel didn't have Jefferson’s face but had James k Polk smiling at you. That's what this girl looked like.
COKER
She looked like Polk on a 50?
BOBBY
No John Adams on the fifty, but yeah. Can you imagine what it would be like to live in a world like that? And then to suddenly see that Jefferson was on the nickel the whole time?
COKER
No Bobby, I can't imagine that.
BOBBY
You don't need to, because she lived it, man.
COKER
She sounds like a normal person and you've just attached this strange thought to a random person you didn't even talk to.
BOBBY
No man, I saw it in her eyes.
COKER
Yeah ok. Wait ...what?
BOBBY
Do you wanna go get Tacos or something?
COKER
Yeah, sure.
>>7436366
It feels a touch awkward in places, but I really like the feel of this. It's sort of like diet Absurdism, light enough for normies to latch onto.
I am a pleb though so what do I know.
>>7436366
high-school tier. but you have potential.
Poem for Middle Aged Man at Open Mic Night
Awkward atonal grunts
belie the deftness of your hand,
how do you manage to sing so poorly?
Jesus, practice, man!
If you worked so hard on your vocal craft
as you did the digital skill,
perhaps the audience tonight
would be not so aurally ill.
As shitty as this poem is,
if you could only hear:
the middle aged guitarist man
murdering the house's ears.
To You: The Cowards
To You--who prey on the innocent
To You--who bomb the unknowing
To You--who shoot the unarmed
the unsuspecting
I will not fear you
for, plain and simply,
you are cowards
preying on the pure
creating chaos
mass murdering
shooting fish in a barrel
sitting ducks in a carnival game
I will not give in to your treachery
For you, I will not alter my steps
For you, I will not change my trajectory
I dare you to meet me on the battlefield
where I shall be your equal
fully armed and dangerous
willing to die to defend
my freedoms and way of life
Here is my gauntlet which,
I suspect, you will not take.
I see through your façade.
Like Saddam in the spider hole
Osama Bin Laden in the compound
Tsarnaev hiding in the boat
behind your shield of beliefs,
you are nothing
but a chicken shit
lily livered
piss ant
coward.
(This got posted in my campus 'writing' group by an older woman)
Where is yr guy?
Is he alive? He had a magazine or something. Is that still up?
Two praying mantes were holding the reins of their respective horses, their eyes scanning the wasteland with grim impatience for any kind of landmark or sign of life. "I think we should make camp soon." said the mantis with a feathered cap.
"Just another league, we may as well make use of these horses while we have them." responded the swarthy mantis.
"Why do you say that?" queried Feathercap.
"We will have to eat them soon." said Swarthy.
"Eat them, but why?" said Feathercap, softly clawing at the mane of his horse. "Because we will need to eat. Why do you ask so many damned questions?"
Swarthy looked again across the desolation, blinded by the glare of the sun.
"What are we doing out in this hell?"
"I've told you, Feathercap. We're travelling through to find my home. My father has died and left me his fortune."
"Yes, but why am I here, Swarthy?"
"Because I asked you to come with me. It's quite simple."
"No, why did you ask me to come along?"
"Patience, Feathercap. All will become clear soon enough."
The boiling sun roasted them as they turned towards their destination that morning, nothing visible but this wrathful glowing god blistering their brows.
"I don't know if I can go any further without food, Swarthy. I guess we will have to take the horses."
"Take them? you mean slaughter them."
Swarthy leapt from his steed and glanced at it a moment, its dull eyes gazing back into his, listless and without thought. He drew his blade and brought it down on the beast's neck, killing it instantly. Feathercap's horse noted this event with fear charged eyes, but dared not to bolt, for hunger and thirst.
"Well, that was easy."
Swarthy chuckled, stepping through mud created by the seeping lifeblood. Feathercap, still queasy from a life being taken in his proximity, stuttered a reply.
"I suppose mine is next."
Days later, the mantes flew along in short bursts, covering large tracts, but burning precious energy rapidly.
"I can't go much further, Swarthy."
"You must, the stars tell me that we are only about 6 leagues away from my home. I am hungry too. The last of the horse meat is rancid and inedible. It will only serve to attract vultures now."
Feathercap grimaced and held back his fear of death.
Halfway through the last leg of their journey, the sun set upon their wings.
"We can't make it like this, Swarthy. We're so close, but the land seems to stretch on forever, we will die soon."
Swarthy, hearing this, smiled to himself.
"I suppose it is time for me to tell you why I invited you to my home with me, Feathercap. You see, food is so very expensive. You owned two horses already, and were so kind to come along with me,greatly assisting my sojourn. However, I am afraid the time has come for your usefulness to become apparent."
"What are you saying?"
Feathercap shuddered, as he saw the blade glinting in the starlight.
"I'm hungry, Feathercap."
>>7438509
ok, no need to be a jerk
Hi, the following text goes with the illustration I'm posting so you have to look at it to understand.
Jonathan and his limbless dog:
I couldn't contain the pain that swelled within my limbs.
It swam inside of me searching for a wound,
To stick its little pinky in,
Just to cause me pain.
It had been a year since we met.
I had seen you from across the room sitting with that dog,
Patiently awaiting his turn at the vet.
I was engulfed by your fragile face
And the knife I felt turn inside my chest
When I witnessed you sink into yourself as I approached.
You told me he had been hit by a car
And that, by the looks of it,
He wasn't going very far.
You denied my request to take you to the zoo
Explaining to me that from now on it would only be the two of you.
I have been thinking of you for the past three hundred and sixty five days,
Thinking of ways in which I could declare my love to you in a way
That might be poignant enough to break through the skin.
You chose the limbless dog over me
But I will live longer,
Through the window that leads to eternity I see you and I bathing in floods of laughter.
I hope that you will join me there and take the leap.
For you I leave my body parts that didn't make the cut.
>>7433073
I like this
>He then started having a few one night stands with Labour
i thought one night stands were ONE night
That is fwb
>Narcissistic Self-Pity
Wait, what, where did that come from?
>>7438677
holy shit i didn't even read it but your post is brilliant
>>7438984
Thanks I drew it today then wrote the poem :).
The first shotgun blast hit was aimed at the sky, the second one hit Anthony in the face. The pellets took half of his face with them even now, looking at the fragments of burned tissue and shattered bone that once made up his skull, i couldn't feel sorry for him. It was not something personal... I guess i always knew he wasn't going to make it.
Yooo /lit
Former frequent abuser
I need a clandestine audience
React to my message:3
My poetics will.earn the respect of thus
Gods do not make love. They do not have genitalia or erogenous zones, and no component of their form could serve as an analogue, even metaphorically. But consider that each god was sifted from the scattered forms of their future siblings, distilled and separated from their family, which is to say, the rest of their self. For this reason, even very different gods can come to understand one another, if they can withstand the pain for the sake of the relief beyond. And it is a relief, to allow the immiscible to dissolve, to let two become a lesser number. It is never permanent or complete—the need to exist, like burning lungs at the bottom of a dive, always overtakes before total oneness.
So, let us say that two dove together, to cold lightless crushing depths, straining against the moment of ego death, and returned in a blind and desperate rush, washing up half-drowned on the warm glittering shore to rest in the the arms of their lover. Let us say that the younger was the first one to start laughing, thrilled to the edge of his sanity and shivering in the sun, and let us say the elder was the first to shed tears, overwhelmed by the joy and absurdity of it all, and shivering harder still.
I feel uncomfortable criticizing English texts because I have a bad knowledge and instinct aesthetic response to the language. I can translate my own texts, but ussualy only literary, with no attention to sound and other effects. My criticism of the works here would be far from commendable.
>This is from the tragedy I am writing. The original is in Portuguese. It is a war speech (a piece of propaganda by the tyrant that is the main character of the work). Apologies for the bad English.
Make every drop of blood in your veins roar,
And that every single gland in your bodies boil in tigers:
War now grunts to you all the avail
- The assent that society and peace deny -
To unlock the deep wells of your instincts
And allow the darkness to climb them.
From the cavers of the mind unless the wolves,
Might the steel armor-plate your hearts and your brains
So that the prays of pity and the cold cheep
Of fear do not penetrate in your spirits:
That both this knots, of veins and of thoughts,
Disentangle their skeins of contradictions
And only the furious famine for victory sing on them.
Oh gods of war, that sculpt with blood
The labyrinths of human destiny,
Honor the sap with which our
Cuts do honor you, and that your records
Embroider tales of glory with the scarlet
Lines of our scars.
Our sacred texts speak of angels,
Well, to me angels are our own young lads
When in the wars they dew blood from their muscles
And drip sweat that smells of cholera.
Yes, this are my angels, the genies in front of whom
My faith knells and my deeply moved
Heart sing hymns, yes, this are my angels,
And not the storks of heaven, greasy
With butter of light and oil of stars,
Effeminate harp players
That dilute the golden eternity
Of their flaccid afternoons drinking champagne
Of ambrosia and eating bonbons of nectar,
Pinky and obese cherubs,
Raspberries that have swollen by eating to much manna bread.
We man have naked, wingless backs,
And only ambition, the fierce hunger
Allow us to fly to the heavens of the eternal.
>>7432732
>responding to day old posts
I read this a few times, and there are parts i like and don't like
I think the second stanza does a good job at establishing what it is like to look at the tips of your facial features. It also is nice since it almost tricks the reader into looked at their own peripherals, especially with the last sentiment in that they are overlooked like blemishes until now, very cheeky. Feels like when you make someone conscious of their breathing.
However the significance of that is lost on me. Are you trying to write a piece that makes the reader pay attention to those things? If so I think it works.
This NEEDS a title, especially since the poem is so brief. The title can do a lot of the work for your poem, it can prime the reader in some way so that you don't have to add anything to the actual poem.
Also the image of "vacant eyes" "rotate endlessly" is a little confusing. Vacant eyes are hazey and unfocused, they don't move or anything. If this poem is about noticing those peripherals in your vision, there is a very distinct look one has when staring at the corners of their eyes looking at their nose or their eyelashes, and I don't think I would describe those as "vacant."
fun poem get a fucking title you fuck
I would really appreciate any kind of feedback. Thanks.
At dawn when the birds begin their routine and the sun pinches my skin,
I wake by fear of seeming without virtue.
I manage my way down the rugged slope to my virgin cove and sit in solitude.
My eyes and ears to the horizon - I yearn.
I talk to myself and ponder if I will ever set foot on my home once more.
I contemplate plans to leave this land.
I close my eyes and for a moment the crashing waves blend with my breath.
I seem to stand immobile, hovering an inch off the ground.
The city I once delighted in moves around me, swallowing my senses.
Children playing, tagging each other, some skim my robe as they weave through the crowd.
The smell of garlic bread in the market air- it tickles my tongue and causes me to salivate.
A lush garden drunkens me with nostalgia - the many different flowers, their form, color, significance, all remind me of my commutes in spring.
I eavesdrop on a young couple - the love they share, their ignorance, or perhaps their fearlessness pours into my heart, making it sag - bringing me down to earth.
I am reminiscing,
I am running away from my reality to what is now a good dream at best.
And as I sit there studying the the vague dark forms across the infinite,
I realize that my eyes can only see so far,
and like the little shell homes that wash up on shore,
my hope too is swept into the vastness of the sea.
Until tomorrow, my dear Rome.
>>7430081
I like it
Fluttering about
Landing softly
Upon thick green leaf which
Antennae slightly twitch
Oh beautiful monarch butterfly
I ponder your serenity
How peacefully,
How calm
You sit there waiting
>>7433073
I dig it. It's quite memey. I can relate.
>>7432827
2small2read lrn2present
>>7432474
>>7432498
+1
>>7432208
Sickeningly cheesy. Dialogue is stilted. A/S/L?
>>7431699
kek
>>7431049
Elaborate on that, mite have merit.
>>7431006
>It came from a dark spherical object, no larger than a human head, flying in a straight line and keeping about a foot off the surface. It had no identifying markings and no visible weapons. Neither was of much use here. The object flew on.
What? Is it a drone, or a spaceship? A cannonball? What's going on?
>dialogue
So it must be a probe. Ok. And there are references to art and a metapher about a sick man.
Just take it more slowly.
Try to read your text as if you have never ever read it before. It's confusing to me. If someone does not know the memes of SciFi it'd be impossible to comprehend.
>>7430081
I've always admired your stories about Frank and Mira. I'd appreciate if you could upload them all in one png.
>>7428407
I like the text, because I like the narrator. But there's to much "I". Repeating "I" isn't necessary, it's clear that there's an internal monologue going on. Just experiment with forms.
>>7426885
Is this like a crossover thrash metal song?
"FIFTY ONE, FIFTY ONE, THE ROTTING FIFTY ONE! (YEAH!)
EATS DESIRE GIVES NOTHING BACK
I'LL FUCK YOUR MOM IN THE ASS WITH A RAZOR DILDO!!!"
Just a thought bro...
>>7439588
Here anon
I began travelling many years ago; so long ago that, even now I find it hard to remember my life before I began. I was a young man, bright and excited to see the world, like many young men at my time were I guess, but my desire seems to have had a purity, and single mindedness that helped me to accomplish it.
One of the most confounding stories I can recall happened a year after beginning my travels. I was staying in a small town in the great unspoiled land. the villagers seemed amazed at me, the colonization had never touched this part of the continent, so it was likely that these people had never seen a white man before. Despite this unfamiliarity, they graciously provided me with a warm room to stay in, and food to eat. I paid them back by working with the men constructing boats and other things they needed. Evidently I had endeared myself to the king of this tribe because when I decided to leave further south he sent me with a guide to follow me, until I passed the tribe that they were currently warring against.
The character of the tribe was very atypical to what I was used to in Europe, or elsewhere around the world. They did not romanticize, they created very little art. They were very plain. The few stories they told involved creatures encountering the perfect, their own version of the "sublime", and being destroyed by it.
One night I stayed up to hear an old women, her black, painted skin almost disappearing in the night, her wrinkles descending on her face as a strange status symbol, tell a story to a group of the children. Her voice croaked with a seagull like squaller.
I can still remember the first few lines of her story. "Once there was a snake that crawled across the river, it ate frogs that sat at the edge of the river and anything that was foolish enough to come across it."
The story progressed that the snake ate a god in the form of a small bird. Because of this the god turned him into a human, the human snake was then shown to a tribe where he was taken in. He must have been an incredibly handsome creature, because almost immediately the he had suitors that were interested in him. Though, he did not react to them as a tribe member was expected to. This greatly angered the tribe, but soon he found a woman that he was attracted to, and he bumped his head into hers. The tribe found this strange behavior to be to be perverse, and unworthy of one of their tribe. He was forced out. He ended up returning to the river that he came from, and being eaten by another snake.
My head is crushed in by the inscrutable man, falling paralyzed and comatose in the gravel.
"I want to die! I want to die! I want to die!".
The girl in my mind stared at me as I started to disappear, giving me a dark ominous stare as if he was stabbing me with his own eyes.
"You aren't you, you will never be the lineage"
"I should have died back then. Like Mama, Papa, Oda, and Dietmar"
"Those rubbish people died long ago, all they did was make sure your life was all bright and vivid.
No one will remember that vivid place in your life except you.
It is time to wake up, life is not a blessing, it is a curse, a curse that binds you so much has such demands: to be feed, to sleep, for pain to be fixed.
It is your time to go to be free of this curse.
This is the third time for you, there is no escaping"
As I start to disappear in my mind, on my knees, grabbing the grass and flowers with such madness, tears, and slowly embracing the ecstasy of death.
"Mommy, Daddy, I'm so sorry, I can't help it"
I find a card with the number "13" engraved in it, lying in the grass.
A quiet thud, I hear a bell that rings in reverb with my heart beat.
Waking up one day, with pain,
I'm done sleeping.
Wrote this about a girl in my class.
I first saw her in the parking lot, trying to kick start her scooter. I remember everything about the first day I saw her.. She was wearing a fur blue sweater that glistened as the sunrays struck it. Her long eyelashes moved up and down as she blinked, revealing her golden eyes. Her lips were pursed together in exasperation, every wrinkle in them like the folds of a soft velvet quilt. She had long legs, the shape of which was accentuated by a pair of black pants, tastefully selected to hide the most and still manage to call the lookers attention to her firm waist. Above them, she wore a black t shirt that clung to her, much like a newborn clings to his mother. It showed a little and left the rest to imagination. Her little ponytail bobbled up and down as she kicked, furious at the scooter's stubborn refusal to start...
She appeared like an angel who'd descended from her heavenly abode. Like a small flame that burns in the midst of midnight, she glowed. The night can not put out the flame, just as how she stood out from the dirt, the grime, the selfishness and cold that surrounded those around her. Even so, she was pure. They...cannot....touch...her..
>>7440186
Ok anon
If it's Africa, why would you need a warm room?
>Using ; if you don't capitalise correctly all the time ;-)
Tone is civilised all the way, that's coherent.
It's good enough to interest me in the second page, or the rest, if there is one.
>>7441684
That's something I'd write in my diaryt_b_h. Then I'd be ashamed.
I spent my life behind a screen
Because to feel it all was all too scary
To go out there in the midnight air
Was so, so hair raising
The- the main thing
Was how tiring it felt
The chatters the clankers the answers with no questions
The matters the fretters the stutters with no use
Oh, all these thoughts could make me melt!
Did you know?
That Faulkner said that-
He said-
Something about feeling
So then, for talking, we're all better off dead?
>>7441822
The rest of your poem is too beautiful to be opened with a common saying like ' I spent my life behind a screen'. I think these kinds of phrases are best kept for silly poems. Anyway, I know the feeling anon.
>>7439263
Can I have a look at this?
Here's two versions of the same story. Would appreciate feedback on both and which you think is better. Thanks! [1/2]
Minnie looked at her body in the mirror and thought about how it looked just a summer ago, all tight and young and teasing; she thought about how the boys would smile at her and leer at her and how much she loved the attention that her breasts, all high then, got her; she thought about how she looked now with her belly poked out so that she could only see the very tips of her toes when she looked down and not her whole feet like she could before and she decided to stop looking and to stop thinking.
The baby came early and Minnie figured that it was just as well that it would. She labored hard for nearly a whole day straight and then the doctor congratulated her on the child.
“What a beautiful baby boy,” The doctor said with the kind of mechanical softness reserved for those who live around life and death all day. “Would you like to hold him?”
“No,” Minnie said and turned her head away from the squirmy thing that had stretched out her belly, the belly that was still large and not yet deflated and spilling blood all out of her and onto the hospital bed and onto the hospital floor. She let herself doze. The child would be there when she woke up, no need to rush.
Minnie took care of the tiny baby like he was a doll, feeding him from a bottle and laying him down softly when he needed to nap. She bathed him in the kitchen sink until he grew old enough to get washed in the tub. She’d take care to wash all around his tiny ears, beneath his ever-cold wrinkly little nose that always had the crust of snot and tears collected just under it from crying all the time. She liked washing him, or rather, she didn’t mind it. She could let her thoughts drift elsewhere as she rubbed her fingers over his scalp, a washcloth between the fat folds of his soft belly.
She was washing him one day and letting her thoughts wander. She thought about her belly and how it used to be small. She thought about youth and how she had and didn’t have it. She looked at her son and kept on washing him and kept on thinking and then he was letting out air underneath the water and she heard the sick sound of gurgling and then he wasn’t moving and then he wasn’t gurgling and then he wasn’t screaming like he always was screaming but she was screaming and shouting and still thinking her stomach and how nice it used to be.
>>7442798
Here's the second version post got too long to put both in one [2/2]
Minnie didn’t want the baby boy from the start, didn’t want her stomach to balloon up and get marked up like her mother’s, she didn’t want her breasts to sag and her feet to get swollen and milk to leak from her downturned nipples for a thing that would sit in a crib and cry, lay down in her bed and bawl, spit and dribble and scream and take like she took; Minnie was not cut out for motherhood and still her body betrayed her and held her month’s blood for ransom and then there was a baby boy crawled out of her body heavy and early and dribbling and screaming in the morning and the afternoon and she did not love her son but here, one day when she was bathing him and holding his fat body upright out of the water while he screamed and baby shampoo fell into his eyes, she thought about letting her hand slip back for just a moment and then did so and then the boy was dead and then she was crying and bawling and dribbling everywhere slumped over the bathtub while his fat body floated in the lukewarm water because so what if she never loved the child anyway—is a mother not allowed to grieve for her own damn son?
>>7426716
A short one I call Ordinary Girl:
Sometimes my mouth gets me into trouble, not like when you call someone a bitch behind their back and they find out and call you a cunt on Instagram, but more like when your mouth finds its way below the waist of your married coworker and lands you in the middle of a storm without your raincoat. I didn’t even really like him but how nice does it feel when a man with a wife is enticed by you in your chipped-nail-polish-and-milk-stained-toothed glory? How good does it feel to suck like an infant and pull out stolen seed? So good I think I thanked him the first time, right after it happened, right after we went out for drinks, platonic, and talked and ended up back at my one-bedroom and I didn’t even get naked, I just kissed him, fast and slow and then down--he melted under me in heavy breaths. He kept his eyes closed the whole time, either in surrender or shame. Maybe both. I thought about his real and not imaginary wife and what she must have been up to as I worked and how he wasn’t thinking about her right now, only my mouth on his cock, I thought about how easy it was to bring him here to burn his vows and and feed me.
>>7426806
The point of a poem is to invoke an emotion in the reader. This doesn't inspire any particular emotion. Perhaps giving the sunrise a sense of purpose might help?
http://pastebin.com/9dcguXAJ
This was submitted to an online publisher
>>7444541
Terrible: your sentence structure is basic; your punctuation is very questionable; your diction is elementary; your themes are saccharine; your flow is nonexistent; and you use a first-person pronoun in every sentence. My recommendation: read, recite your writing out loud, read more, analyze closely the styles of different authors, pick themes with some semblance of depth and meaning, read even more.
>>7444578
Just curious here, what do you think the themes are?
>>7444578
ooh, ooh, do me do me
those who murmur in the mud of sin, waiting for the whirlwind to come,
beg others to join in their fun,
as misery loves company.
creeds torn over on the rest of the plan, prostituting to the clapping of the crowd, the dollar, measly as it is potently portentous, blissfully unaware as the brass tacks stab into their trenchfeet, just as the spaldrings before them, they too felt as the rampant orchids blossomed, and the tuberculous stab of barnacles and whelks, prodding wastrel voices in their gullets, raping their peace.
>>7444541
what publisher?
>>7444631
n-no, it's okay.. i'll j-just sit over here senpai..
A poem I wrote.
Smoke’n’Drink
There is a misconception
going around,
that cigarette smoke is blue
like that of a cigar.
This in aspect is false.
The modern cigarette is grey in smoke,
with grey chemicals,
grey taste and
grey feel.
If anything its like a beer that
you
can
get
for 18 a 15.
A cigar is more,
it is blue,
blue in taste,
blue in smoke
blue in feel.
Because its tobacco, not fauxacco.
Its like rum, rye or gin,
which incidentally are best had
with a cigar.
Preferably Cuban.
I’d like to say though, nothing wrong
With 18 for a 15 pack drink.
But like it’s grey counter pert.
Just understand,
You could have blue.
>>7444677
kinda like it, not a big poetry guy so i can't really critique it but I like that it's simple and I really like the first stanza (except for the last line, seems a little wordy, but maybe I just don't understand it or something), and "fauxacco" is pretty clever.
>>7444677
Popular?
>>7444706
judging by your multiple line reaction that you think his is interesting enough to say something about while denying me even the most paltry of insults, my writing isnt even worth shitpaper.
>>7444707
What do you mean?
>>7444706
I don't write much poetry myself to be honest, only recently started getting into it, though I gotta say it's been great, really got me out of my rut. Glad you liked it, and your right, does seem wordy but I wanted to put it out first to see if others thought the same.
>>7444718
lol I don't even kno what u wrote man. this is an anonymous board
>>7444729
thought you were with Popular cigarettes
>>7444751
I gotta confess, I'm a bit slow tonight, is that a group your talking of?
>>7444755
Cuban cigarettes. Really good ones
>>7444753
no I'm not. no worries man that's why you don't shoot a killer when the lights are off.
>>7444768
Interesting, something tells me I wont be able to find it Canada, but hey I'll keep an eye out for 'em.
>>7444785
bang bang ah well, sorry.
>>7439263
>>7442375
Please?
>>7446330
what the fuck is that pic? lol
This isn't strict critique, but I'm doing a peer review and I have a question I'm not sure where else to ask. It's regarding this sentence here:
"This conversation is over," he adjourns.
Is that proper use of the word adjourns? I guess you can adjourn a conversation, but I haven't encountered that usage before. What do you think?
This is the beginning of a story I'm going to write about missionaries who eventually lose their faith. In this paragraph I've tried to introduce an homage to Plato's Cave, and foretelling for the approaching missionary-vs-native conflict.
>>7447001
That is not the correct usuage of the word.
Last night God offered me a kiss…
Of course I accepted!
I could never deny such a handsome being as He.
Side effects?
I began experiencing uncontrollable affection for every creature I could see… Then, I was warned by some flirtatious angelic onlookers that sudden and/or gradual death of the ego is expected, lack of verbal communication with others, reclusive behavior, fits of uncontrollable laughter, excruciating bliss, and possible mental confusion might occur as my life crumbles like pebbles, from a disintegrating mountain to my feet.
Hmmm… They never mentioned this in the storybooks.
All in all, those amorous heavenly beings were right. It was an intense night, let me tell you.
But by morning I found the sun kissing my toes requesting me to stir. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, feeling quite transformed, I regained awareness and realized that God was standing by my bedside asking me to use my newly revised tongue to speak.
To enlighten this earth with the playful words of my own cosmic sunshine.
Hmmm… quite a task.
Especially for one little being, sitting up in bed, slightly disoriented, and recovering from God’s crazy (surprisingly juicy) kiss.
Honestly, I almost declined. But then, I began to feel something flopping dramatically around in my mouth,
and I realized…
My tongue has become quite powerful.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “What an honor, to birth my love into this world through words.”
“Yes,” He said,
“For You have consumed God’s cosmic breath. And all of life is born from here.”
Well, I thought, “It’s a good thing You brush your teeth often.”
Then with a smile God remarked, “Would you like another French Kiss?”
How could I decline such an offer?
before he slept
he watched the mirror
how cold and bitter it will be,
when the night comes
he can spit his rotten teeth
back at the sea
and grim dreams charge forward
>>7442828
You're not a woman, are you? I know because I'm not one either. Work on your rhythm.
>>7442805
You're not a woman, either. I like the sentiment, in the first sentence. The stuff you write in run-on sentences isn't as good, but that's probably just because it's not written as well.
>>7442798
This is much, much better. It also hits my pregnancy kink button so point for that. The ending isn't really much better, though. Too much happens at once.
>>7441684
This tells me a lot about you, but almost nothing about her. I hope you get the girl anon, but remember that she is in fact a girl, not a repository for adjectives and titillating analogies. Make that show in your writing.
>>7440468
I have no idea what just happened. Sorry!
>>7448315
Here's part of a story I'm writing about a bunch of theater kids who camp out at an abandoned hotel the night before the end of the world.
Last summer’s haze of hot flesh and cold feet had given way to autumn’s sweaters and winter’s stocking’s without much resistance, and the Maribel had stayed faithful throughout. The boys she’d almost slept with had all been happy, even eager, to comply when she told them, so politely, that she wasn’t feeling into it anymore after the foreplay. Though they both knew “it” was almost certainly a euphemism for “you,” the Maribel watched as, each time, an almost cosmic terror, previously unnoticed, left her lover’s gaze as they afforded themselves a degree of physical intimacy that can only be achieved non-coitally: cuddles. “I guess all the real men died in the war,” thought the Maribel, adjusting herself. For what it’s worth, she was probably right.
The Maribel didn’t get it; she wasn’t very maternal, physically or emotionally. She was what certain well-endowed female rappers might dub a “skinny bitch.” Yet these boys unloaded all kinds of private matters onto her: insecurities, dreams, fetishes, the works. Even those who seemed confident enough, at least during drunken or drug-addled courtship, would melt into her arms like warm jelly the moment so much as a shoe was removed. “It’s your eyes,” said Monette, applying too much makeup in front of the Maribel’s bathroom mirror, “You have very piercing eyes, Cadence told me. Guys find it intimidating, so they compensate by assuming the feminine role.” It should be painfully obvious Monette, now applying blush, was the daughter of two Freudian psychologists. “I dunno, guys are dumb,” she concluded, snapping shut her compact mirror.
“Morgan wasn’t dumb,” said the Maribel from her bed, hugging her favorite pillow.
“Darling,” said Monette, who often spoke this way. “You really have to get over him. I can’t stand seeing you like this,” she said, gesturing mysteriously to the Maribel’s face.
“Yeah, I’m over him,” said the Maribel, and hugged the pillow tighter, “But he wasn’t dumb. Not like those other boys.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s in a better place now,” said Monette unsurely. “You ready?” she asked, and slapped the sidelong Maribel, who was no such thing, on her ass.
>>7448135
You ever think about factory work?
Cut to Music Venue, Night:
Couple sitting at a bench outside.
MAN:
Wow, you know, I never knew grinding coffee beans could be so meaningful after a loved one passes away.
Music starts playing inside the venue, couple gets up to go inside, revealing COKER and BOBBY in a heated argument, music fades in and out.
COKER
I can’t believe you are legitimately telling me that you use it as a crutch for your art.
BOBBY
Look, dilapidated landscapes are the only way to get truthful results from the lense, and fancy houses with their non-brutalist architecture clean everything up. I can’t work in that kind of environment man. It’s gonna put me out of a job!
COKER
First off it’s not your job. You don’t have a job. Second, brutalist architecture is awful. And third, are you seriously arguing against gentrification solely on the merit that it hinders your photographic talents?
BOBBY
Do you not remember when I had an opening at K23 and the party just kept going? Remember how many of my prints sold?
COKER
Are you thinking of the one where the cops crashed the event because half of the people attending it were on drugs, and the other half bought your prints because they wanted to remember the night they couldn’t leave the parking lot until 5 a.m.?
Music from inside gets louder.
BOBBY
Yeah! It was an interactive piece about how the blight of the world can ruin even the most distinguished of men's achievements.
COKER
You just made that up.
BOBBY
No I didn’t. Artistic intent.
COKER
There are so many other reasons to fight gentrification or even to be for it, but come on man.
BOBBY
Oh, like what?
COKER
Ok, uhh, imagine it’s Sunday. And- And you really want chinese food, right? None of that Buffet or express stuff, the real, americanized deal. So you start driving to the one closest to your house.
Music stops inside.
But its Closed. So you go to the next one. But its closed too. By now it’s so late that you think most of these places are gonna be closed anyway. So you go to the third one. The fourth one. Fifth one. By the time you find one that’s open, it's already 9pm and you're 20 miles away just because you thought it was a such a good idea to go get General Tsos chicken. And then you're just tired and sad the rest of the night.
BOBBY
Oh wow man, I think I get it now. I didn’t realize how insensitive I was being to the local population. Crazy man. Anyway, how is the set list coming along man?
People and the Band from inside all go outside after the set was finished for a break. BOBBY and COKER fade into the crowd.
I got sad, but didn't get strong.
It's done me no good to feel bad for so long.
No romance, no majesty.
Not even quaint tragedy.
An ennui painfully modest,
and a mediocrity plain, to be honest.
I daydream impassioned throes,
Deep young loves born in winter snows.
The hottest summer days, an intense lovers' spat.
All things, I suppose, that are slightly old hat.
I'm impotent and cowardly,
Afraid that's how I'll stay.
If these words never leave this page,
Know I'll always love you,
In my own strange way.
First draft, haven't felt like writing in a very long time so this is my first thing in ages.
Will post other critiques in separate response
>>7447104
self bump
I glance back at my younger days and recall the times when the sun was not quite as dark and the night not as comforting - ages, it seems like, have passed since the those tender, fragile days.
Was it worth it? To trade in innocent fear for comforting disdain? Golden naivety for silver comfort? I pass my time, desolate and contorted by my endless thoughts, but the answer does not come.
How could I achieve so much, but yet become so little?
Again! forbade horns, and in better deal wine shops anyplace
Fed if fish, purer waste, roadway
towns in foe: how've gone the
potatoes? Derry alive fortis swig for
bags, gorier gorge, forward driven
gowns for thinking people alike
Don't email Esme pen to pen, queen
Concur, doth shave the merry parts
frown towns, tie a temper,
indiscriminate farcical elf be
hypochondria born.
Forge gave what Helena of Troy
deserved; foe back gorge in shame.
Towns babe, they'd of new things to
be a little comfort gown gestalt, o
darling pretty pretty! But shaking
If new.
Huge chunk key. Jeff is yet reigns; for
jab got me blame others, torn
financial up the sweet fiend downs
Who rock her. Knuckles let hot frown
Got to burn one, bake another but it
doesn't rise to the occasionally..
Don't got a tribe, but on the one off
settled in. Heist, swindle, you vote
forearm, and greatly a killing spree
satiate; froths the gentlemen's
coffee. nay, go heal glass Joan, done
in sand groans she, drowning far
from home.
>>7448450
this is great. really good rendition of a conversation anon
Choral quietude:
a song sung to
an empty church —
the singer stands nude
proud
at the altar.
Licked lips look liquid
flowing free beneath
plastic wrap shimmering
in sunlight’s seat.
I can hear her voice
tickle her throat as it
leaps through her lips.
Hot breath blowing hair
from my forehead to the air
pushed towards the heaven
from which she summons her song.
Her stomping feet and
thunderclap hands
vibrate through pews.
Adam and Eve felt no
shame at their humanity
blowing in Eden’s breath
until they sunk teeth
into fruit flesh.
Bless them.
They were right
before they knew what
that meant (if it means anything).
This singer
(this girl)
her tones touch me.
They sink into my skin
choose to stay and
stick up all the hairs.
She gathers my
torn-up memories
sews them into a
Sunday Suit
and pulls me to
God in a trance.
I want to waltz
with her at the altar and
dip her into the song.
called you dancing queen
At the Quai des Brumes
At Kamakura you said you'd like to paint tears
On the neutral face of the Buddha
In the season of storms
We went walking in storms
Just like a video, just like a symphony
And for you, when things go wrong
They go wrong for all the right reasons
And when it gets warm you adapt with the seasons
In a world of changing colours every colour has a meaning
And the universe exists for the convenience of your feelings
And as for me
I know a different world
A world where the sea
Refuses to rage when boy loses girl
Oh I know there's comfort in sadness
But I try to distinguish these passing emotions
My unimportant existence
From the great machine of the world's indifference
If I were you
If I were beautiful
Maybe the world
Might seem more meaningful
I grow old! I grow old!
As the winter comes on and the sky grows cold
But you stay as young as the rays of the sun
On the sparkling machinery you call your destiny
Do I dare to eat a peach?
Do I dare to walk the beach?
And if I dare to eat a peach
If I should care to shed a tear
Could I claim more for my action
Than selfish satisfaction?
(Stock mammalian reflex, biochemical reaction)
Mono no aware
The sadness of things
Mono no aware
The temptation to see
The world as it ought to be
Mono no aware
The sadness of things
As if things felt anything
Blinded by tears
I can still see
My insignificance
In an indifferent universe
Mono no aware
>>7430064
You're decent but empty/ on the nose, stop posting here and get better.
>>7449215
I'm still not sure where I should go with these fractions of scripts. I want a plot but every time I try to write something where Bobby and Coker actually do something it feels even more forced than my normal writing.
This is uh about something that uh happened to me uh when I was younger.
It's called "Rake"
[TRIGGER WARNING]
So uh, this poem has some vulgar and potentially triggering language.
Ahem.
*Shuffle notes*
*Adjust mic*
I hate slam poetry
It's not poetry
Poetry is what I say it is
Fuck the establishment
I don't need meter, I'm raw emotion
Fuck the establishment with a rake
I was raped
By my dad and two dudes both named Jake
A black women told me I hate
So I stopped hating and started to celebrate
The art of slam poetry
While two jakes and my dad keep my anus
And my heartbreak
Is in a hole in the ground filled with steak
I am meat
Am I meat
It wasn't nice to meet you, rapist
With your fistfucking eyes and your hate
When you broke me down and scattered me
I had to gather myself up with a rake
Now I can't even look at group photos without getting shakes
Because I see how I look just like daddy
So I take selfies without me in them
Take myself out of my online expression
Because your masculine aggression
Ruin'd me and bruised me
I'm a mistake
But daddy
I was a mistake
And you with two dudes both named Jake
Dug your own graves
So I'll fill them with my words
This slam poem that I hate
And get out my rake
And piss on your graves
Because you said that night was full of mistakes
But the only mistake was those bones I wish I break
Those ribs you broke and left me to hang
Dripping blood out of my empty grave
You stuffed yourself in and tried to decay
But fuck you, daddy, and fuck you both Jakes
I'll beat you to death with my rakes
For your dirty butcher gardner rape
*Cry*
Th-thanks you
>>7447104
solid. not my cup of tea but even I can see that it's super primo high quality stuff. a thoughtful un-narcissistic guy is so fucking rare, I guess it's always been like that.
Anyway, why bother explaining yourself? Your work should stand on its wn. It does
>>7448135
hat in hand
>>7448826
you're repining for a world that never was :(
http://www.evernote.com/l/AWAudlZqdxFOU6AfuxGdENqkUjcz7Gvk-wE/
>>7448320
Can I get some feedback on the tone here?
>>7452158
wow. i'm so fcking unhappy
>>7452277
I guess it's good. agon inducing
>>7452158
i didn't get it, and what did get i did not find interesting
>>7452318
just feel like I'm not even a part of this world any more
the people like me that get made fun of and become bit roles in minor pieces like yours (lengthwise, I mean) aren't even like me. even those much mocked losers are still better ,they've still /done/ something. to say nothing of the modern women. so where does that leave me? below the frostiest underdepths of hell, that's where. and that sucks
what more do you want? why are you even writing at all if you have a life to live and aren't trapped in anything and probably enjoy things and meet people all the time?
>>7452321
O i am laffin.
I'm writing this to exercise my own demons, anon.
I'm just like you.
I have these great ideas for scripts and stories but I can't write for shit and no one to critique me other than anonymous people on the internet who masturbate to bandanas
>>7451655
didn't you get this from that one slam poetry thread? i know this is meant to be ironic, a pastiche of slam, but I actually don't like it, it's too heavy handed and it hella rips from Plath's "Daddy." The "ake" rhymes are fucken annoying too, they don't sound good constantly repeated like the long "u" of Plath's poem.
Good evening. I don't know if I'm writing a diary or a memoir at this point; all I know is that I hate this waking up in the evening instead of the morning. This nocturnal lifestyle is depressing as it gets. Four days in, and already, I've had it up to my chest with this dank old place; I just want to wake up to the sun again. All I see these days is a ruddy half-disc as it sinks beneath places I may or may not see, and that's only if I can drag myself out of bed and get myself dressed quick enough to see it. I missed it tonight, yes, but I have another thing to catch my eye tonight: the blood-moon, on whose face rests the city of Draage, the four-thousand-year-old capital, Kaguya's domain, her throne, her proof of presence in this realm. With "Heir of the Dog" on the turntable, soon to be followed by "The Moon Looms Low", I sit out here on the bench I painted for mother - all colors of the rainbow splattered in bubbly coats interspersed with my seven-year-old fingerprints, easily the tackiest thing you'll ever see in your life - and put the pen here whenever I feel the well of inspiration for my quaint little flute melancholia run dry. The moon guides my hand, and only in her brand of darkness can I see well enough to put my thoughts to paper. As I do I look from the porch of this place to the wooden bridge to the land below, shakey, creaky, and rotten as it is; tomorrow, I will take the plunge and cross that bridge. With my things at my back and my confidence lying somewhere in the brown grass down there, I will leave this place for the first time to go forth and XXXX.
And what?
Walk?
Sleep?
Breed?
Do all of the above once I achieve marriage and learn the definition of mediocrity?
I can't say I know.
It's just the opening of the second chapter of what I'm doing now, but I feel like I pretty much modeled it after one bad day I had where I woke up in the evening and had an all-around glum day. It'll probably change in the future, but I'm content with it for right now; better than nothing, after all.
Just for context, it's about a sheltered girl of 9015 going out into the world after her parents die; she discovers she was only raised as human afterwards, and she's actually the last of a vampiric race that kept humans as cattle prior to their near-extinction. What happens after she leaves the house is anyone's guess.
>>7452406
I didn't find it too engrossing. In general I don't like all this /lit/ obsession with the NEET lifestyle. You ever walk into a university fiction-writing course and all the kids are writing college romance stories? That's what it feels like here. Your piece reads very much like some other things where the narrator is trapped not only in a small dark room but also in a cycle of "mediocrity" and depression.
Take a sentence like this: "I sit out here on the bench I painted for mother - all colors of the rainbow splattered in bubbly coats interspersed with my seven-year-old fingerprints, easily the tackiest thing you'll ever see in your life - and put the pen here whenever I feel the well of inspiration for my quaint little flute melancholia run dry."
"Here" is unnecessary. "Splattered, bubbly, interspersed, seven-year-old, tackiest"--you're doing too much with language in too little time. A reader can't absorb that much so fast. Consider that three of those words are adjectival and the other two, splattered and interspersed, introduce adjectival clauses. You're slowing down your sentence. "Well of inspiration" is a cliche and a weak phrase. I don't understand the ending: "quaint little flute melancholia run dry." It's not grammatical UNLESS "run dry" modifies "melancholia." In which case, you have SIX modifiers on it. You can't do this to your reader and expect them to keep up--people simply read too fast. Gotta tone it down, pick only the most important words, which are usually verbs and nouns. 90% of the time, you can do without an adjective or adverb.
>>7452452
I take that back, I feel stupid. "Run dry" still works as the compound verb.
White Elephant
A hope.
A long and lasting pull
To tie that wrapped gift shut.
Truly it seems
Substantiality,
Fortissimo
Enervate,
The type of pull you didn't want.
A gift you'd rather receive
Never would you wish this fate upon me
Upon us?
Upon the aspiration of a friend?
But this gift we share like Mom's Christmas vacuum
First used then wrapped and recycled again.
A happy little trifle that we remember not
And when the time comes, be it boredom or brevity
We pass the present onward
Or toss it in the trash
>>7452452
It wasn't going to center around the NEET lifestyle, certainly, but yeah, I see where you're coming from; I feel like I've got a decent concept, but I feel like I'm executing it incompetently, given what you've cited (which I myself felt when I read it aloud) and the fact that I'm basically beginning the thing with her retreading her life.
Granted, the whole thing is supposed to be the character writing, and I intended for her to write like an inexperienced 17-year-old would, but I still think it could be far better than this. Certainly, if it's not very engrossing, I should probably sharpen that approach up or just abandon it altogether.
>>7452461
"Long" and "lasting" are doing the same thing here. You only need one of them. I'd recommend "to tie A wrapped gift shut." You haven't introduced one yet, so "that" would be uselessly directive.
"Fortissimo?" Really? Are you describing music? Get rid of the word, find an English counterpart--it will do wonders. Substantiality, unless you're doing some kinda wordplay, is not really poetic. It's a long and ugly abstraction.
"The type of pull you didn't want"? Are you not the one tying the gift?
"Never would you wish" sounds kinda dated. I'd avoid the word "fate" at all costs. It's really juvenile and besides, really overused. I rarely see it pulled off with panache. "Aspiration" is another one of those long ugly abstractions. Say what you mean. Wish? Hope?
"This gift we share" is an odd construction of object-subject-verb. First, it's confusing. Second, I think you wouldn't lose anything by writing it SVO.
"Remember not" is awkward man... why can't you just say "don't remember"?
I think you're trying to play with words here: "pass" and "present." But you've said gift twice already. The present thing doesn't really work, esp. if you introduce it at the very end.
Overall, the language could be cleaned up a lot. But you have a strong conceit, I feel, just not fleshed out enough. I wanted you to stop worrying about making the language do little tricks and acrobatics. Just focus on: "am I saying what I want to say?" "Am I saying it as clearly as possible?" Only after that, can you start molding the language into a sculpture. Again, I wanted more development of the gift idea. Maybe give us an emotional response; how do you actually feel about the gift? How do you think other people feel about it? Or maybe focus down and describe the gift as a forgotten thing, a vagrant, if you wanna get into pathetic fallacy. These are just examples. Keep working on it.
>>7452504
Thanks man, I'll work on it
>>7426885
it's not that bad anon, don't let those fags deter you
Piano
His fingers rest on familiar ivory
But old friends grow apart.
Once effortless dialogue
Feels awkward and stale
Hands that darted about,
Over the Dalmatian keys
Now fumble and crack
Leaving bits and pieces behind
Until nothing remains.
Forgetting and forgiving
Doesn't fit the bill
And now it just seems fruitless.
"So, you're actually a fucking faggot." she said to me. Lizzy and I had been fucking for around 2 months now, never really calling ourselves anything, but everyone around us was well aware that we were pretty much a couple whether we wanted to acknowledge it or not.
I'll be honest, I had always been bi, and had never thought much of it to just tell people. If they were generally curious, or I had really gotten to know them, I'd tell them, but I wasn't the kind of person who that's the first thing I just tell someone upon meeting them.
Anyway, Lizzy, I don't know how in the hell she did it, but she must have found out the password to my phone and had read all of my texts. I had been having a bit of an intimate conversation with somebody who was a male, nothing outlandish, but enough that I too probably would have been offended had I been on the other side of this. She had confronted me later that day.
"I had my suspicions, mind you, but I thought I would give this a chance." she continued.
I took a step towards her so that I could better look her in the eyes to show to her that I was sincere as I tried to explain.
"DO NOT get any closer!" she exclaimed.
I knew it was futile. I exhaled deeply through my mouth, looked back up at her, and simply said "I'm sorry it had to happen this way." Then I turned around and walked away.
>>7452549
it's a bit too surreal for me. "hands...funble and crack leaving bits and pieces" What exactly are you getting out of this image? Do you mean it literally? It doesn't inspire any feeling in me.
Avoid this pitfall of pairing your nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc.
>awkward and stale
>fumble and crack
>bits and pieces
>forgive and forget (huge cliche)
"Fruitless" doesn't pull as much weight as you want it to. Where are the metaphorical fruits? What does the narrator get out of forgiveness that he "now" can no longer derive?
"effortless dialogue" doesn't evoke musical imagery / sounds like i'm sure you want it to, it just sounds like talking--monotone and sporadic.
It's a combination of little things like these that take me away from the poem. Clean up that language and be specific with your descriptions. Obscurity is not your friend in poetry.
>>7452333
well you got a critical hit on me at least
may as well keep going
>>7452789
Oh, I will.
Would you like to read it when it's finished?
>>7452906
ya. so far it's solid enough for a zine too I think
>>7453001
Cool. But anon how will I contact you?
>>7453012
use the force
>>7451696
Thank you for your feedback, it's very appreciated. :)
>>7453031
I guess I've been stood up.
Left at the alter, so to speak.I guess I'll just post it in one of these threads or something.
>>7453051
altar even.
>>7453056
you scallywag
How do I become a better writer?
Is it as simple as reading a bunch?
>>7453544
You also have to write a bunch.
>>7452402
I recently read Plath's Daddy, so yeah, that's why. It's been stuck in my head for a while.
Great poem.
But yeah, I know how bad the "-ake" rhymes are.
The whole thing is a piece of shit. Like just terrible. I don't know why I decided to post it.
Thanks, Autism.
>>7452406
> kiddie fantasy
Lol, fuck off man. You've posted this shit in two threads now and nobody likes it. Delete it, forget about it, and MAYBE come back when you're older, when this shit writing you got should be gone.
A man walks into a dentist's office
"What seems to be the problem?" the dentist asks.
"My girlfriend is always analyzing everything I do"
"Well", the dentist furrows his brow, "it sounds like you should be seeing a Psychiatrist"
The man throws his hands up in exasperation. "That's that problem!"
Do you like it?
>>7453012
sorry, I don't run a zine. I just meant that you could probably submit it. I don't really know, honestly, the stuff in the highest rated zines looks kind of shitty to me to be honest. I recently read some excerpts from conjunctions recently, for example, and it looked like a bunch of crap.
>>7455035
It's not right to treat your boyfriend.
>>7427591
>whatever a 'section' of a poem is called.
who do people like you critique poems
>>7455035
>>7439263
i really like this, nothing to critique
Rate mine, please:
The rebel Maurillian forces entered sector 8-B of the Knealion corplex system upon gaining clearance into the Sio galaxy. Anadosax stared through the geroloscope hanging above his door, a grave look in his eyes.
"Colonel Misdea" Languidroid spoke through the corpeus mic in a whisper.
"What? What is it--" Misdea replied, aware that something foul was amiss. Before he could finish, the steel LASER barriers of the antechamber burst open and twenty silo guards came rushing in, armed with zepo 5Cs. Misdea didn't think twice before reaching for his Cortex gun and fired at them.
>>7455608
Reads like a debriefing report
The coin turns in the air
anxious as watching eyes.
Indecision waxes iridescent,
accompanying a bittersweet calvary
armed with sparkling broadswords
and severed monkey paws.
Suddenly–physical laws all forgotten–
the coin pauses at its apex,
opening mouths wide
and eyes wider.
"What are they deciding?"
A whisper says somewhere near.
"You really don't know?"
Many mouths and faces reply,
followed by a shrug and a shake.
So the coin begins its descent,
looking to land on an open palm.
No turbulence, all panic, it lands,
and the pilot exclaims: "Death it is–!"
>>7455608
get rid of all the following:
>corplex
>gereloscope
>a grave look in his eyes
>corpeus
>aware that something foul was amiss
>before he could finish
>zepo 5Cs
>didn't think twice
1st thing, all this random technology shit, it's too much... even if you explained it in a different chapter, it's too much. It's the equivalent of a tom clancy scene where the protagonist observes the inbound militia through his Zeiss infrared binoculars, chambers a round into his suppressed M16a4 assault rifle and readies the detonator for the C4 composite explosives. You're writing an action scene that happens faster than we can slog through all the words. So delete some words.
Second, enough with this suspense crap... a grave look, something foul was amiss (which doesn't even make sense; the thing you want is either foul or amiss, but not both), and the WORST part is the dude "didnt think twice before"--well if he didn't have to think twice about it, then why do we? Just have him start shooting.
>>7455817
actually it wasn't too strong, because it takes a moment, and it sets up a weird relationship between bf and gf that isn't immediately relatable
>>7455819
I'll work on it being punchier.
>>7455817
Sensible Chuckle, here. i had to think about it for a minute, but then i lol'd. probably not one for a stand up routine
>>7455827
Not planning on a stand up routine, I'm just gonna fwd: it to my grandma when it's ready to be released into the world
>>7455766
L2: the coin is anxious? that's what you've given me with the syntax. I don't believe it. ascribing anxiety to a coin as your intro... is ridiculous
L3: indecision is an abstraction, and attempting to give it a color (iridescent) doesn't do anything for me, and also, it's the wrong word in the context of this poem. the coin flipper isn't being indecisive, because the decision is about to be made
L4: get rid of bittersweet, it does nothing. what is this cavalry you speak of?
L5: sparkling is a silly and too easy word, I'd avoid it.
L6: monkey paws? what exactly is going on in this poem?
L7: forgotten implies the physical laws were remembered at some point. it's the wrong word. and just say "gravity." physical laws is hella broad
L9: just say the mouths open. the coin is not doing any of the work, it's just a coin
L10: same as L9
L11: see L3
L12: overly complex, as well as ungrammatical. just say "someone whispered."
L14: many mouths don't reply. One person says it, the rest agree but don't talk--basic crowd dynamics. forget the faces
L15: unnecessary
L16: "so" is unnecessary and misleading--the coin falling does not logically follow from the antecedent, which in this case is the people talking
L17: again, why're you ascribing feelings and desires to this coin?
L18: ungrammatical but I'll make an exception
L19: a brilliant line. In fact, you could delete like 80% of this poem... it really drags itself out longer than necessary. just give us the coin in the air, the people's confusion / fear, the coin landing, and then the final line.
hit me
>>7456002
*tips clavanaugh*
>>7455869
Hey, I really appreciate this line-by-line walkthrough, you offered some prime advice (esp. about the word choice).
As far as your confusion goes regarding the coin's constant personification: using a coin-flip to decide something (whether it be inconsequential or serious as we have here) almost entirely supersedes and substitutes the human element in an equation. The coin becomes the agent of action, in effect, and so all relevant thoughts, feelings, sensations, etc. are transferred by the people involved to the coin itself; it is judge, jury, and executioner in effigy. And the people in the crowd represent any given commonwealth; the inquisitor is the skeptic; the remainder are the devout. But I'm just waxing pretentious now, essentially, the coin's just a symbol, holmes.
Anyway, it's always helpful to hear a third-party's perspective, and I really appreciate it.
Posting an excerpt from a short fiction piece that's getting published in my school's undergraduate literary journal.
Everything on there is pleb shit, let me know if mine is too.
1/2
After I had had a few more beers in the room I fell asleep again. When I woke up I was still drunk and he was back. Our uptown friends weren't with him. He was drinking but he wasn't drunk yet. She sipped her wine out of the bottle and looked at the floor.
He told me he couldn't find the house and that they were taking a cab to us and then he took a pull. I opened another beer. We drank in silence for a while.
They showed up, Salem and Shiloh and Naomi and Deb and Maria. They were all drunk already and we drank more together before cutting to hit the club from last night. We asked them how uptown was and they all said yeah at the same time and finished their drinks. I finished my eleventh beer.
I was too hot to walk next to anyone on the way down so I kept ahead with my hands on my hips or pressed to my temples. They mingled behind groaning and sighing and panting for air.
When we got to the club it was empty, the windows were broken, there was nothing inside. The homeless people gathered outside were sleeping or dead. Nobody asked where the club went. Everyone looked away from everyone else, eight different directions, and then we decided to look for another bar.
>>7456117
2/2
The lights were haze brown in the dive that we found. There was no room at the booth for me to sit and stare at my friends so I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. An old wino was sitting next to me. He shook my hand and asked me who was I here with? I told him nobody. He shook my hand. He asked me who was I here with? I told him nobody again. He shook my hand. The bartender looked over our heads. I looked at a fly on the bar. I finished my beer.
My friend shouted my name from the booth by the entrance and told me to come on we were leaving. He sounded angry and sober. The wino at the bar stood up to defend me against who he thought was an antagonist and charged my friend. And then it finally happened; my friend started to grow and contort, ripping his clothing to tatters. His eyes dripped scarlet and sank back into his skull, glowering from the darkness within. The fingers on his hands grew into talons and he hunched over on his horse legs, bracing for the attack. They grappled and fell to the floor as white hair began to cover his naked body. Blood sputtered into the air when he pierced the wino’s skin with his claws and his fangs, it landed on my friends' faces and the walls and the floor. They both screamed and roared, spitting onto each other. There was a communication between them as they battled, a primal dialogue of moans and cries which made more sense to me then any words I remember hearing. The wino put up a fight, and just as my friend shredded his chest open he stuck a knife into my friend's neck. The dead wino fell from my friend’s clutches as he rose and shrieked like bat sonar before falling dead into a puddle of both of their blood, red on white fur.
I finished my beer as Salem and Shiloh and Naomi and Deb and Maria and my friend's girl cut out of there, silent as the rest of the world. I ordered another beer.
>>7456120
Damn, just realized I used "then" instead of "than" at the end, and they still published it.
Like I said, pleb shit.
>>7455196
Oh yeah I don't care about a zine, I just wanted someone (you) to read it when it was done.
Also are you talking about a /lit/ zine? I thought the last one had been defunct for like two years.
With razors swimming beneath my skin I am in Julian's room and she's sweet as ever with her body, tapping my shoulder, and with her mouth, saying what everyone says but dreamier. She is the Faerie Queen on my eyelids dancing, dancing powder blue powder on my eyelids and putting me to sleep with her dust and her salves. Sincerely I try to make sense of my condition with words to her and she doesn't get. We're vaporizing weed crystals with her machine and it's annoying, sucking on plastic.
She takes my head in her hands and slips my long hair between each of her fingers.
Her mouth opens and it's all the light in the room. My eyes break before it, this is a just woman! Everything out of her is brilliance and my mind won't let my ears run with it, I only my sight failing before her noble glow. Her words are rays and her cause is always noble, a knight like out of the old stories of lords and honor and bravery. I'm making it all up.
§3.4d: Morphemic Content
Some “intermediate-level properties such as being on top of that and being to my right” (Brogaard 2013, pg. 35) make up part of a whole class of neurally and cognitively realized content for the “closed-class elements” found in languages (Kemmerer 2015, pg. 77). These are the morphemic elements which handle core grammatical functions, and they neither undergo much change through a language’s evolution, nor are they readily borrowed from one language into another (Kemmerer 2015, pg. 77). They can be quite distinctive of a language’s distribution of “language-mediated concepts,” as language researchers have referred to them (Jarvis 2007, pg. 113). This is especially true for various linguistically encoded contrasts of “spatial relations [such as being-on-top or being-to-the-right] grammaticized through closed-class morphemes, such as prepositions in English and Dutch, postpositions in Korean, and case endings in Finnish and Hungarian” (Jarvis and Pavlenko 2007, pg. 143). Despite the controversies to do with linguistic relativism, cognitive researchers are coming to recognize that the world’s thousands of languages can impose different nuances of processing demands on learners’ brains, given that some languages “carve the world of experience much more finely” in certain respects than others (Kemmerer 2015, pg. 148). Even everyday experiences with foreign languages remind us that some words will translate in context but not in all cases, since their criteria of application may just capture different intuitions rather than different classifications. Thus the linguistic properties of morphemes hold some promise for our discussion because they go beyond the surface details of linguistic output and serve as the building blocks of meanings, which as we will see may be constituted by radically different ways of construing experience. If they are formed from processing resources in a way that suggests the implementation of salience mechanisms, then a cognitive account of linguistic meanings will be supported. If morphemes appear to be products of a stronger form of feedback flow which rewires earlier stages of processing, then a liberal semantic account will be supported.
Clitoral Clichés
Pardon the sentimentalism
but I need to share something
whose tickle we have all felt.
I once met a girl
who was as much of a girl
as Jesus Christ was a man.
Yet, I should tell you now
that her appearance in my life
was no more than a cameo.
The first time I saw her:
a Phoenix flying past a setting sun;
a sappy song crying to end.
The black in her eyes: a serene arena
set around a singing siren
whose words pulverized entirely.
Her locks flowed pulchritudinously–
long, opaque, beauteous and endlessly–
and her smile sliced my strings.
From her lips I heard "abscond"
and so my heart did with them,
leaving me cadaverous.
Our paths crossed like co-commuters
and we nodded understandingly
until one day.
I asked her out.
Alas, taken she was
as she did with my
everything. And so it kissed
its fate as does
everything.
>>7456398
There's a lot of great stuff in this, but also some things that sound clunky and forced: "Phoenix flying past a setting sun" and "sliced my strings" for example.
But overall I really liked it, even gave me some feels.
>>7426716
Long ago, before there was time, all the world was an endless ocean. The ocean could not give and nor could it take; it was void of life and love.
Then there was an explosion of fire: the birth of time. The fire mingled with the water, and the land sprang forth.
On that land, life would come, and the four peoples would inherit it: Drygs, Fowlin, Gnomes, and Man.
But now that the ocean was no longer lonesome, it proved to be careless to the fragility of land and its peoples. Up from its waves came the Odd Ones.
The giant beasts from before time but not quite before the ocean preyed upon Actomere’s people, and to lead them was Ciulmak, Then Dancing Adder.
The Odd Ones mercilessly tore into the minds and bodies of all Actomeren. Some demanded tribute and worship, while others would simple feast.
The Dancing Adder, being the perfect being among the Odd Ones, demanded tribute from some. The rest he had strewn about his lair like pigs in a butcher’s shop.
None questioned him, even among the Odd, for he had proven his might, but the seeds of change had unexpectedly taken root.
The Four came, Treslu the Knowing, Mi’uuz the Eye, Goroj the Scourge, and Ft’yfel the Renderer. With them came The Great Divide.
The Four separated from the service of The Dancing Adder and developed morality, but their Odd ways lingered. No mortal can fully comprehend their morals.
Two vanish in the mists of history. Goroj the Scourge held dominion over the Great Droplet for some time before disappearing. Ft’yfel would go further.
Sometime during the brutality of Odd rule, Ft’yfel, with his spear alight, chose his agent. Kavas the Wanderer, a Man.
Kavas travelled the land, compelled by the incomprehensible will of Ft’yfel. He gathered many companions, and they all went to war.
With a gauntlet of slain Odd Ones behind him, Kavas did battle with The Dancing Adder. When the battle was bleak, his own spear came alight, and the tip trespassed Ciulmak’s armor.
Defeated, The Dancing Adder spoke thus:
“Taketh thy turn in the muck, rutting swine. In thousands years, the wall wilst thou hit.
Mine agent in dark corners grows, and through him wilt my resurrection commence,
So I mayst show you hogs the thousands years of woes.”
I haven't had anyone but myself proofread and I keep finding mistakes every once in a while. This is a section of a prologue, but it's one of the first bits of world building I did for this story.
>>7456549
Hey thanks–!
And yeah, that definitely makes sense considering I wrote it off the cuff. But it is based on a true story, so that explains the sincere tone–a broken heart's better than none, type of stuff.
Anyway, I really appreciate your comments, man. Cheers–!
>>7456571
>and nor
What the fuck was I on.
>>7456398
Trust me when I say I'm doing this for your own good. It's good that you're writing poetry but you also have some work to do, and I recommend you read more from the canon.
Don't use thesaurus words--often, they don't fit your sentences.
"Her locks flowed pulchritudinously" is simply baffling... how far did you reach into the dictionary for that? and you used the adverb form! Find a better verb than "flow" so you don't have to resort to the adverb.
"Beauteous" is silly... why can't you say "beautiful"? and get rid of "endlessly," because it's an adverb and because it's an adverb that follows a string of adjectives, which makes it ungrammatical.
"abscond" is too latinate and opaque for my taste. What's wrong with "go"? It's short, simple, and powerful. Avoid overly Latinate words as they are generally 1) more difficult to associate with images and 2) not as sonorous as Saxon words
"cadaverous" is alright in isolation, but here you've dumped it at the end of the clause and attached to that word "leaving," which makes for an ugly construction. Leaving in this context is so unclear.
It's 2015, don't say "alas." ever.
"Taken she was"..? Is this yodaspeak? Also, it;s ungrammatical: "taken she was as she did with my everything." I don't even know what you are getting at. I'm assuming you're playing with the word "taken" but the sentence doesn't make sense.
"Kissed its fate" is an unclear image and anyway "fate" is so overused in juvenile writing and you should avoid it altogether.
There are some problems with the language here, problems that can easily be cleaned up by being more direct with what you want to say, and worrying less about vocabulary and pretty phrasing (which in this case only muddles your sentences and therefore makes them un-pretty.)
Also, change the title pronto. It's not enticing or witty in the least.
As the leaves of fall begin to fall
Down to the ground to imminent decay
The days go by uttering in light.
Screaming at times for someone to
Help them
Save them
From the hole of all that’s bad
From the cavern of darkness and carelessness.
But in the deepest of depths
An echo transcends the dark.
Slipping thinly through the air
Reaching every wall and ear,
Bouncing off the smallest particle of dust,
And dissipating once it reaches light.
We must take a journey,
Hold our hands tight,
Venture into the source
Through the thick blackness of despair
Onwards to that sound of hope.
My feet bleed,
My sleepless mind faults,
My eyes can’t distinguish
From my dreams nor home,
Yet there are colors,
Striking by,
Creating a path
Where a big bright moon passed by.
I must continue,
I say,
I must go on.
My body wants to fall.
My knees to touch the ground.
My eyes to cry out tears.
My lungs to scream for death.
My mind full of fear.
Chemicals control me,
Tell me how to see,
They travel through passages formed by experience,
By thoughts.
What’s in my control?
Can I be sentient?
Can I control how to be?
Can I be saved?
I can.
Then after miles of stepping down,
Through a journey that never ends,
Where my everything has been drained,
My energy,
My love,
My will,
I found that the echo
Was gone.
Fucking gone.
I stopped quietly.
My heart silent.
My ears attentive to every vibration of the air.
Nothing responded.
And nothing there was.
>>7456790
The solitude creeped deeper still.
My hope was gone.
The one thing I followed through my journey,
Was not there for me to reach.
I grab the rocky ground.
I hold on and press it until my bones break.
The cave vibrates from my maddening screams.
My eyes so dark and white,
Brighten with the last cry of my being.
The falling rocks break upon my head,
Upon my body, on my face,
But I don’t move,
I just scream in madness.
My veins turn blue,
My skin red,
My brain bleeds deeper,
While my heart succumbs.
After many days of this tantrum, I remember
Of a beautiful lady,
Dressed in blue and pale skin,
Delicate, innocent and good.
I see her!
She’s right there!
Her fragrance emits a light
Light blue hue caressing her nearby surface.
She looks at me,
But I am too afraid to look back.
I feel shame, unworthiness.
But I see her smooth lips begin to move,
I distinguish the echo I’ve been following
Flowing through her voice.
It feeds me and makes me strong.
I get up to continue my journey,
I must reach the end.
The cavern seemed deep,
But I must go on further,
It is maddening, I know.
I’ve been traveling for all of my years.
Every time I look back I see
The entrance of the cave.
The helpless day standing right behind me.
As if I never moved.
At times through my journey,
When I look back and into the distance
I see a green leaf,
Growing back again.
>>7456790
>>7456794
There's simply too much here for me to do line edits, so I'm gonna try to give you some overall advice.
1) avoid abstractions. "Darkness, carelessness, hope, experience, control, my everything, energy, love, will, solitude," etc., are abstractions--they don't refer to an actual THING, but to an idea. In all writing, abstractions are like the fat on a steak. They taste good and enhance the flavor of the thing, but the entire steak is made of fat then it would be disgusting. So it is in poetry--when you introduce so many abstractions, they carry very little weight, and a reader finds them tedious precisely because they refer to formless and shapeless ideas, ideas in the writer's head that are not conveyed to the reader. A typical poem should have a few abstractions at most, and balance them out with concrete things: a pencil, a cloud, a person, a slap.
2) don't ramble. This poem goes on quite a bit, while actually saying very little at all. You often take us out of the moment for little narrator monologues that become increasingly frustrating. "I must continue, I say, I must go on." "What's in my control? Can I be sentient? Can I control how to be saved?..." "Fucking gone." "My heart silent." "My hope was gone." and much more. This has the effect of making your readers say, "get to the point already!" Then I get to the end of the poem and I wonder if you've said anything at all. I recommend you read anybody from the canon--read the masters. See how they do it, and then try to imitate. You're a beginner, you don't have a voice or a way of doing things. The apprentice copies the master repeatedly before he can become one himself.
>>7456779
I actually didn't use a thesaurus at all for it, prometete. But I do really want to thank you for your tips on 'Clitoral Cliches' (will consider changing after I edit) nonetheleast.
A tall black shadow lays an anvil
down onto my chest when I slumber
and he slices my eyeballs asunder
with a scythe forged in the smithy
from down under
so anaconda wrapped my lungs like coils
and my eyes bulged and spilled
Spaghettio's spelling 'murder'
till Pluto's plot stumbled with foils
lighting like cinder shills
failing to finish the writer
who actually decided to go to bed
to find and fight tomorrow
with kindness instead
of lead.
California strangles my bones
and winter rattles my veins
the breath of a fresh steamy sigh
of regret
passes through the orange mists of sunset glinting off the frosted strawberries
twinkling across sea foam into clouded eyes and tight lipped smiles
baring teeth to the biting cold
and sitting softly in ragged embrace of embers withering in each exhalation
or bitterness lingering on each ray of light flickering through the gnarled orange groves
a tentative wind caresses the cheek
resent grows with time
and the wind begins to flay the exposed flesh and tear the strands of hope in twain
between the crashing maudlin sea
and hills rife with frost born silence
lie youth laughing at the passage of time
with cracking tree-fall the joyful cry out
"Glory to the death of time!"
and then with sobbing giggling whisper:
"I have nothing left to wither."
