This is the latest chapter in the upcoming American classic novel "Practice what you Peach" about Frank, a grumpy old peach farmer who hates peaches.
In this latest installment, Frank shows a journalist around his farm after winning the state fair with his premium peaches.
>>7892142
link to the previous chapters please
How do you cool cats come up with scenes? That is my biggest weakness. I've been trying to work on this one story for a couple weeks now. Got all the characters written up, the direction I want to go, lots of details about the setting, but all the scenes I write feel clumsy.
I'd prefer without the "-" but leave in the indents.
>>7892144
This is the first one.
I'm interested to hear more, but it seems like it could grow boring.
the too-high heels go click clack click clack
down the boardwalk,
worn by the pretty girls
who know you’re the type to ask em for a number
so they can give that cute little half frown
and spit in your face
with a grin
Inhaling, I try to project my thoughts through the short distance between us
and their bouncing between particles
getting lost in the chaotic order
of sweet beautiful psychics
m.i.a
they were only for me anyways
I close my mouth quickly around the escaping smoke
lest it take a part of me with it
>>7892168
>I'm interested to hear more, but it seems like it could grow boring.
I'm wrapping it up actually.
>>7892142
This is honestly the best thing I've ever read on here.
Khadija was the love of my life and I hated her for it. Raised a Muslim, she had long broken with the tenets of that faith, and her only religious attire was a thin emerald green headscarf that framed rather than covered her hair and that she took off for nights out. She didn’t drink as heavily as the rest of our group but tempted us with the worst of sins, often spilling drinks and spreading rumours and then vanishing just before all hell broke loose. However, for each act of cruelty she redeemed herself with kindness twice over.
Her whole appearance drove me to deplorable levels of lust and I could not go a week without seeing her, for she knew how to love and how to extract my worries like they were nectar. We joked about getting married but knew our parents would never consent to this, and besides the whole ritual seemed like a sham anyway. We hadn’t even told our friends. There was nothing to be gained from sticking a label on our arrangement and inviting other people in as spectators.
When I awoke my head was buried in her hair and her hand was tracing circular patterns on the small of my back. She kissed me gently on the mouth before giving me a chance to speak.
I made a sonnet in Portuguese for my Tinder description, but it wasn't successful enough, unfortunately:
"Talvez esperareis que eu me descreva
Nesta caixa de texto com tais termos
Que inflamem mesmo os vossos olhos ermos
E em vossos corações 'Amor' escreva.
Porém falta-me dom, falta-me engenho,
Falta-me arte para revelar-me;
Por mais alto que seja o meu empenho,
Meu descrever-me é mero mascarar-me.
Vejamos, no entanto, se eu consigo
Passar de mim alguma ínfima ideia:
Thiago (nome falso) sou, e a minha Dulcineia
Do Tinder nos caminhos eu persigo,
Sou jovem, faço Leis, porém... esqueça!:
Quem mais quiser saber que me conheça."
(Yea, I always use traditional forms - free verse is only properly used by great poets whose gifts transcend the possibilities of form.)
tfw my prose is garbage no matter how much I read
What kind of prose exercises do you folks do?
>>7892220
Copy the best STYLISTS of your language. Copy Shakespeare's prose, copy Joyce's best moments, Donne's prose, then King James Bible, and you can even copy Milton's Areopagitica if you're so inclined.
I said *copy it*. I didn't say read it or 'absorb' it. I said *copy it*. With your own damned hands.
>>7892222
By copy, do you mean write them word for word, or substitue? I've written a few pages out of Moby-dick because I adore Melville. I amused the idea of copying the whole book, but I have no idea if that would really be worth the time.
>>7892230
I don't know the first thing about formatting, feel free to show me how it's done.
Here's the raw text: http://pastebin.com/sBRqTSSA
>>7892142
I'd love to read everything leading up to this.
The blinding sheen of the white light had now entirely encapsulated the man, bringing him forward into a new world - a better world - for the both of them.
The lights subsided, flickering into solemn dissidence over the darkened canvas of night. They danced, and danced, like young, beautiful ballerinas bowing in form and body, curving inward and out, crescendoing into a graceful ballet display for all below to observe, finally letting go a collective sigh of relief and awe of the marvel in the heavens.
The man could feel now a tingling breath upon the crescent bowl of his right ear, a slight buzz of pressure in his left, and a voice of soft milk pouring in, and a near silent, slow whimper, yet powerful and grand in its expulsion from the cracked sky.
"Do you believe?", the voice asked him.
The man's lips parted and his eyes forever fixated on the lights dancing above.
"Yes, I do," he smiled, almost crying at this wondrous final revelation, a revelation of faith, "I believe."
The man blinked softly, and turned his head and shoulder down towards the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, the woman standing beside him, he smiled still. He waited. She looked back at him. She smiled too.
"Let's go home," she said.
And with that, the man awoke, afraid of the consequences plaguing him in the near future...
>>7892226
Copy your favorite passages.
Demosthenes copied all of Thucydides eight times over.
As for the time problem, let me say this: if you had used all he time you spent using 4chan to copy, say, Shakespeare's Hamlet, you would be a better writer by now.
Memorization is also fundamental. Substitute the music in your iPhone for poetry audiobooks.
>>7892142
Haven't been to /lit/ since new year, and threads like these make me want to spend time here. Thanks family, keep up your good work.
>>7892243
Haven't you ever read a novel before?
>>7892244
Well alright Mr. dubdubs.
Here's Frank and his wife riding home right after winning the state fair.
>>7892248
That's some good advice, anon. I'll get to work.
chapter 2: http://pastebin.com/pscbXYKe
Mother, mother, please don't go!
Let not my soul forego this show!
Forgive me, papa, papa oh proud!
Please take me home to Napa, you cow!
For heaven's sake, my sister, dear sissy!
Do take my almond, so bliss'fly.
And brother, brother, de' b'loved brother!
Do take my fist, and swindle'in souther!
Now 'spensive needs, see carried elsewhere,
N' 'pon thy lover's hand do welter!
And innit grand to say is such,
That lover's love is not too much?
And nay, I say, to just one tender,
But for daughter too, doth love surrender!
And 'pon my boy, shall finger'd lie,
Beneath, below, I hear them cry!
Oh, please, oh, please, doth father's love,
Not wane on you, as not my glove?
Or was not present, my mother's presence,
And cast away, to life, my presents?
>>7892142
did you write this just because you had to use the pun?
>>7892142
I'm not a frequenter on /lit/, or 4chan in general, but I've seen you around for what feels like quite sometime. I appreciate your writing. Especially since it seems natural, I value the simplicity and clarity in the text.
How long have you been writing? Do you have any literary degree or did you just start by yourself? Lastly, how old are you?
Hope you don't mind answering some questions.
>>7892142
Prologue.
>This is the story from the beginning.
>To whom should I tell?
>My name does not matter, nor is it important.
>But I will tell you this; I'm the greatest person alive.
>The person whom I love the most is my child.
>A very special child, whom I given birth to.
>I gave that child a kiss and told him a promise.
>"You shall be death the destroyer of this world and the next".
>That child and I are the dark legacy to a forgotten civilization.
>Soon enough that child and I will destroy this world.
>And it’s a promise I will honor.
This was my first rough draft of a novel I abandoned a year ago.
>>7892142
What's the plot about
There were many hazards to living with a senior citizen suffering through the early stages of Parkinson's disease. Sometimes our hero would attend to business on the toilet and find the first sheet of paper pre-shittied from a sloppy wipe and an innocent fingering of the roll. But these are minor details.
How's the first page or so? I'm not really writing this for any reason other than to say I have done so any feedback is welcome
Thanks to anyone who reads it
http://pastebin.com/4Jutzs7u
I don't know but here it is.
Mind's a thing I keep trying to simplify with a new lie take rickety wings and let fly with audacity from that complexity but the introspect-in-me realising the false reality is grounded left floundered as I run from myself the mind left to orbit keep your distance I don't want any assistance go away but please stay I don't even want to get to know myself so tell me about me don't get to know me I don't need another half because I'm a whole with no hole no soul no room to grow no seeds to sow just the king of all I see in my nut-shaped reality.
>>7892142
Good work anon
>>7892343
Thanks for the kind words first of all.
As for your questions; I never wrote much, but I am a linguist so I'm constantly working with text and language. That also answers the education part. And I'm 34.
>>7892587
The first part was pretty standard bleak dystopian city fare, but that second part was pretty interesting.
I have no idea what's going on, and I might be disappointed when I find out, but interesting nonetheless so far.
>>7893609
Thanks for reading it and taking the time to type out a response, I was thinking that the creature would slowly grow and become more of a burden on the guy and on the way to destroying it he uncovers some cult type stuff and it eventually consumes him, idk if that's bland or unoriginal or what but it's fun to write
He could see today that the girl was enjoying his readings. He had recognised the girl the first time she was in his class. He was familiar with that face, freckled, blue eyed and inquisitive and serene and her short dark hair. He had fallen asleep thinking about her.
One day she was sitting on the entrance steps after school had ended and the children had all gone home.
Has your mother not come to pick you up, he had said.
No, I don't know where she is.
He had downed a sizeable shot of whisky before coming out and finding her here, and it began to warm his empty belly and he felt a calm excitement, fiery, yet peaceful, peaceful. He looked out, beyond the steps where they were now standing, where the sun was setting in the greying sky, as the rain slowed down to a patter, and he felt moments, mere seconds pass by, knowing that what would come next would be a good.
"I... think..."
He couldn't finish, merely sat there, sat and stared and thought. The rose with all its crimson petals glittered delicately in the sunlight streaming softly through the wide-gapped window blinds. It lay upon the stark white tablecloth, soft and innocent and pretty. He stared intently at it.
"I think..."
He looked up again. Her face was beaming at him from across the tabletop. Her lips were red, not like the rose, however. Her eyes were darkly brownish bronze. She smiled eagerly. She looked into his eyes a moment longer, then resumed her gaze down at the rose.
He too turned back downwards towards the flower. He reached out for it. There was an urge all of a sudden to possess it. His fingertips went sliding up the stem--
"Ah!"
A thorn caught up his thumb and pricked it sharp. He pulled the hand back and he watched the blood so darkly gory red come welling from the wound. He sucked it with his lips. He looked across the table once again. She smiled now, but it was faltered, crumbling like ruins.
"I think... the answer is no."
>>7893628
John scanned the mountains in the dark. There were a few lights in the distance and the chirping of crickets. It was vast but they were warm and safe in the car. John, the man, rugged and old, in his battered jeans and a beer can in his hand. In his shaking hand. As he tried to calm himself, he looked sidewise. The girl was soundly resting. Her bare soft foot touched his leg. His heart beat faster and blood rushed to his loins. He gently moved her away from him and then took a beer. He took a swig from the can and absorbed the landscape and the darkness and the gentle hum of the wind and the rhythmic buzzing of the insects and was lulled to sleep.
When he woke to have his morning piss and cigarette, the girl was no longer lying there were she had been when he had fallen asleep. John looked around. The landscape was beautiful. He pissed next to the car and lit his cigarette, breathed heavily, patiently waiting for the girl to return. She came out of a bushes, her lightly freckled face blushing as she saw the man standing by the car. Her dirtied dress clung tightly to her small body.
Morning, he said. And yawned. What a beautiful day it is.
Morning, the child replied.
>>7893633
We've got a lot of driving to do, but let's get some breakfast first.
And break fast indeed they did. They stopped at a quiet cafe in the road. It was a hot morning and bright and the ground under their feet dusty. There were trees and a few old houses and the big mountains around them. John let the little girl put on her sandals and hop out of the car and turn back to look at him before he got out. He liked watching her turn around and look at him. John smoked a cigarette and drank coffee while the girl ate toast and milk. Inside of the small and empty cafe, looking at the child focused entirely on consuming her food, he was aware of the unreality of that moment, of the vastness of the outside and insignificance of the two people involved in this scene. He felt how these moments of beauty and quietude seemed to last for so long yet passed so quickly, fading into memory. And then passing on to death. It was a moment only they would share, and it would die with them. And it was perfect indeed. But such thoughts shifted quickly from his mind as his eyes traced the tight green dress, barely conceal the small perfect flatness hidden there and he thought excitedly about what lay ahead of them.
“At the bottle again, my man?” his friend chuckled with malice. “Not very Christian of you, is it?”
“Well -” he began to respond but he was cut off by the bartender who was telling him the price of the two drinks he had ordered (both for himself), which, searching through his pockets, he realized he didn't have. “Well,” he said, turning around, but his friend was gone, lost among the crowd again. The image of the woman grinding up against the man stuck in his mind. His attention had turned away from his he had now turned to a girl, small and rather cute, who he was apparently talking to at that moment.
“I'm a musician,” he was saying. “I'm a guitarist.”
“Yeah?” She replied.
“I'm in a band.” He said.
“Oh yeah?” Barely a question.
“Yeah. I play the drums. In a band,” he went on, lying. He wanted to tell her about what type of music his band played, explain to her it was a new type of jazz, with influences from the heaviest rock music and metal, almost psychedelic in sound, raw and organic, and that he was a multi-instrumentalist - they were, he would say quite humbly, possibly one of the most important (if not the single most) of these past several decades, and would, with their music, start a new jazz movement; indeed, they were bringing back the rock and roll the danger and the thrill back to jazz, but the girl was not interested at all, and moreover, had already stopped listening and was talking, with her back turned towards him, to some taller, handsomer, more sober counterpart. He would search for somebody else to tell about his endeavours as a musician; someone more interested, somebody who could appreciate his genius, who could appreciate the greatness of his ideas (even if they were only ideas and also more truthfully, lies), somebody, preferably, less sober. He was in a death metal band, he would say. He played the drums in a death metal band, but he was the band leader, he dictated the direction their music would take, yes, it was a new type of death metal; more extreme, more ugly, than any that had come before it, though he would admit with a laugh, it probably sounded like nothing more than a weirdly alien type of noise to anyone unfamiliar with the genre. He found himself outside in the smoking area, slowly draining his cup of the beer. In his mind he was coolly dragging on a cigarette before picking up his drum sticks, then counting in with one two three four taps on the sticks, before stunning everybody into a silence, of a type of reverential awe – yes! What speed, what flawless fluidity! The two bass drums pummelled, the high-hat ticked with ferocious speed, and with violence, but also with an awesome gracefulness, he shifted his left hand, ---- the raging torrent of the bass and the high hat with two or three loud crashes on cymbals..His drumming was smooth, masterful, elegant, like the start of Take Five, or violent and brutal and fast like Flo Mounier,
>>7892142
That is a stupid fucking title, and an awful premise, but the writing itself is great. I love it.
This is an excerpt of my first draft.
Almost every 4chan user is in Hell. Hell is described as being the absence of God. Whatever your theological inclinations, that God can also be applied to the non-divine. Humanity as a whole is the most relatable non-spiritual 'God'. The parallels between God and humanity are many, but the key is a mysterious humanoid presence with seemingly unlimited power. Most users here have no connection to humanity, which leads to a description of this hell.
If you have no connection to humanity then you are by definition an outsider. This outsider point of view can be observed in every discussion on this site and is generally implicit. It is acknowledged as a shared negative trait by users as a rule. This may partially relate to the Anonymous title everyone uses, which is a potentially very meaningful symbol. The entire site being anonymous serves two functions: removing any trace of humanity and creating a sense of a greater whole. When you and everyone else are anonymous then your have all chosen to carry the one name. This creates an entirely non-human online community where users are at their most indistinguishable from robots. This is also funnily enough the name for the sub-group that feels the greatest disconnect from humanity. What we have then is a group that has renounced humanity and attempted to create a replacement in its image, a fallen 'outsider God' called Anonymous.
>>7892142
Shitty title to be honest
Language is light coming directly from the image of the sun's disk, the shaft of sunlight into a darkened room. The words change significantly across the day and depends on the angle of the sun above the horizon, the altitude of the reader above sea level, the season, the geographical location and the amount of water vapor, dust and smoke in the air. This sentence itself is so brilliant that it overwhelms imagination, making all judgments unreliable, but if the noon sun were dimmed sufficiently, it would appear as a pale evening in your elementary school's empty halls. Pale greenish yellow schoolroom drawings. This color appears in the afterimage from rutilant light between the pines in your yard.
I love you & I know we will turn to ash alone.
>>7892226
>worth the time
well do you want to get good at it or what? It's an exercise, not time wasted. If you like the prose of MD then copy the whole book. It'll help you dissect it in terms of language, you'll understand the writing at deeper level. It never hurts to study language too, technique is very important.
He listens to rap
He logs onto tor
scours the deep web
and listens to rap
He checks the mirror
cleans it with a licked thumb
listens to rap
checks his 6
and shuts the door
He leaves the house
He leaves town
He leaves orbit
and the solar system
and listens to rap
He listens to the claps
sits and nods and says that's that
He coughs in his coffin
listens to the eulogy
coughs thick air
smiles and frowns
piles up and drowns
sees the light
sees the light
sees the light
and listens to rap.
>>7894058
I just worry that I'd end up not learning anything from it. I'm not very good at dissecting language, but I try my best.
Scuttlebutt, what, putt-putt:
translucence, effluvia, dementia:
inscrutable, elutable, gorillaz:
penetrate, elevate, cuticle:
particles, articles, trendy:
vitriol, menage a trois, blah:
Shrangri-la, Limbo, disco:
atrophy, McAfee, deleterious:
patternseeking, deliberation, creation:
vilify, extemporize, guise:
bold, sinews, chartreuse:
hi, there, lukewarm.
>>7892349
leave it wherever you found it
>>7892566
Interesting but besides the Parkinson what's the point of your book?
>>7892587
It's incredibly obvious that you're writing for no reason, and as long as you have nothing to say your writing will be shit. I have to say, I really enjoyed the descriptions, only the first couple of lines of each paragraph are good up until something happens or you introduce part of the plot. The description of the town and of the actions of the character up to facing the mirror are really well done imo.
>>7893629
sounds too much like a song
>>7893664
really nice, I assume you play an instrument right? I would love to read more about it. The only thing I didn't like is that you used the word "counterpart" sounds really out of place but that's pretty meaningless overall...good writing
>>7894115
He typed it out in his spare time at work.
What's wrong w/his prose? Are you afraid to openly like it?
posting in both threads i guess:
You want to say something but you think you don't think you can find a way to form a foundry and assemble these thoughts and words within your own capacity. A capacity unprotected and only approximated in the brains of the you and the brains of the ones you want to say this to.
You want to search for that node, the node that straightens your bearings in what you think you don't think you can achieve but still reveals itself to be something that you, you very much want to attempt, before the null. Sensing nothing but an indefinite yet finite decay that leads to this before the null. The you, before you lose all of your self in the what-you-don't-think-you-think-you-can-comprehend, something like that, even if it's only her.
>>7894154
Start a new thread. It's THAT GOOD.
>>7893664
>>7893643
>>7893633
>>7893628
All these examples are fine. They're well written, could do with a little tightening, but they read nicely. Thing is, they're just not that interesting, there's no 'personality' being conveyed, so they come across as ordinary. Now this is obviously the hardest part of writing IMO, and I'm not saying I can do it myself - but you guys are clearly competent writers, you just need to take the 'next step'. Though if you're just writing for yourself or friends or family then its fine.
That's why you're not getting much feedback, there's nothing very tangible to critique in your writing. You're not doing anything wrong per se, but you could be doing a lot more, y'know?
This goes for a lot of people in the thread.
>>7894123
No of course its fine and very enjoyable to read, but its not Proust or anything is all I meant - it's pretty straightforward and accessible.
>>7894094
Yeah, what I'm doing at the moment are just experiments in creating moods or tones in writing, trying to find my feet before I write something with merit. Thanks for taking the time to comment though, appreciate it
>>7892243
Preposition Ratio: 8.52 % ← Dynamic!
Zombie Nouns: superstition
Lexical Diversity: 41.48 %
Content Carrying Words: 57.86 %
Personal Vocab Diversity: 53.58 %
Longest Words: consequences, interference, professional, superstition
You're clearly suffering from delusions of adequacy—so let's put a stop to that.
>>7894007
You are living proof that a village somewhere is missing their idiot.
>>7893629
I don't waste time criticizing the intellectually challenged.
Sit simple—
put up your own
shifting sheaves,
and try not to meet
the eyes of those aliens
dancing around you,
with a thousand smiles
for a thousand other paper castles
who totter and leer looking lusting
for gaps that give pry-hold, tell difference
and deviance from the diversity
so deftly maintained.
Sit simple—
find your own
sad sample
who will sit simple too
while the monsters dance and
hunt for sacrifice among
themselves.
Wait and sit simple—
for the ones who will see your face
without killing you.
Spanish anyone??
First lines from a new piece, have to finish it asap so if this isnt any good i can as well quit right now and shift my attention to some other piece.
-
Dos hombres conversan y toman el desayuno de cara a la costa en un comedor italiano propiedad del mayor de ellos, de nombre Beltroni, quien come a prisa un croissant relleno de crema para pasteles y bebe extraordinarias cantidades de tazas de café negro; el otro, un joven de camisa negra, saco negro y apariencia balcánica, blanco, de cabeza grande, cejas pobladas y cabello negro y corto, de nombre Pepe, en cambio, no toca los huevos estrellados y bañados en salsa que se enfrían en el plato, fuma hondo y despacio y escucha a Beltroni con expresión desesperada, pero a la vez, de alguna forma, pensativa. No hay nadie más en el exterior del comedor.
La historia, quiero decir, la anécdota de la que hablan, contada según Beltroni, ocurrió de la siguiente manera:
Beltroni ha escuchado hablar de Jack de tres fuentes distantes y sin relación entre sí y todas ellas coinciden al referirse a Jack como un elefante: 1) un hombre con apariencia de elefante, 2) con las propiedades de un elefante, 3) un elefante, tal cual. Esa mañana Beltroni seguía en la playa después de una noche de sábado vertiginosa en la que, como ya se había vuelto habitual, no encontró ningún rastro que pudiese conducirlo a una nueva hipótesis sobre Jack, en cambio encontró a tres hombres vestidos de turistas norteamericanos que resultaron ser policías mexicanos y que intentaron levantarlo mientras caminaba de vuelta a casa fumándose un primo con más coca que hierba a través del bulevar.
The door to the adjacent room. It forms only as the sweat and skin and semen elapse through the bones of the cunt.
Swimming together, she pivots herself with entropic direction, your sense of gravity, oscillating with each pivot, begins to stir up a feeling of spheric nausea, polar to that of the familiar friction and squirming brain games her fucks have produced in the past. But what even is time now, as you begin to vomit all over yourself, exhaling for the first time since she established the vacuum between your lungs. The plugs and the leather prevent her from realizing the alkalinity of the liquid that is now lubricating the domain.
It didn't actually occur, the vomit that is, you only felt the sensation, an alternate frame of the infinite. The nausea subsides after the seventh slip and her structure goes limp.
Removing the plugs she can here you now as you tell her, "I'm sorry". The door to the adjacent room isn't there, and you are now alone.
>>7894287
Sit complexly—
put up my own
shifting sheaves,
and try not to meet
the eyes of those Mejicanas
dancing around you,
with a thousand smiles
for a thousand other paper mansions
who totter and leer lusting
for gaps to hold, tell th' difference
and deviance from the inverse
so deftly diminish'd.
Sit MORE complexly—
find my own
sad sample
I will sit
while the chicas dance and
hunt for sacrifice among
my bush.
Wait and sit manifolds—
for the ones who will see your face
without killing me—!
(It (doesn't (make (you) a) bad) person)
>>7894300
Where did you learn to write like this?There's something terribly sad and banal about you.
Deep woes flow through the streams
torrents down my neuronal dreams
and leave stains.
Growing pains and diluted axioms
calling themselves my emotions
when I know they're just spectres
from my past, bullied, beaten, and brash
so in the car I crash and my head flies
through the windshield, bruised
and so I die wondering why
wondering how high I hath fallen
down to the ground
wondering why
I have died
at all,
at all.
>>7894326
Shallow woes flow through me streams
torrenting my fantasy memes
and mark my mind.
Shrinking benis and swollen ego
calling myself a genius
when I know I'm just me
from my past, bullied, beaten, and I wipe
my butt
like any homeless schlub, bruised
and so I whine wondering why
wondering how high my ego flies
and down to the ground
wondering why
I have such ambition yet
nothing,
nix.
>>7894276
Ah yes, very impressive criticism
>>7894325
memes are my inspiration.
>>7894355
Two towering intellects do battle across the planet, stretching the possibilities of communication, resplendent in their wisdom's glittering wit—a common insult, a hack w/a cliché: met in kind w/beautiful, glowering sarcasm.
Our hearts pound while watching these minds unfold, seething at each other.
>>7894375M A G A
Duke left his bike behind the diner and walked around front. Sal was sitting at a sidewalk table with his shades on, smoking. He grinned at Duke and held up a shiny fresh copy of Revelista!
“Check it out Duke,” he flipped to the middle of the magazine and let a long glossy page accordion out, “our girl Daisy made centerfold!”
A shrill giggle began to escape from Sal’s mouth and he clamped his teeth down over it.
“Most of her anyway.”
“Be sure to add it to your portfolio,” said Duke, in bad temper.
He dropped into a seat. Sal tossed the magazine onto the table and lit a fresh cigarette off the one burning between his teeth. He offered the shorter one to Duke. Duke accepted it, wondering quietly that this was possibly the kindest thing Prospero had ever done for him.
“I’m one hell of a journalist,” marveled Sal “but now it seems I must play the detective too. How do we catch a serial killer, Duke?”
“I’d tell you to try thinking like one first, but that seems a little redundant.”
Sal tittered, “Duke, you crack me up. Why is it we never hung out before?”
“Because Mona hadn’t ordered me to yet.”
“Enough pleasantries,” said Sal, “let’s get down to business.
>>7894353
Hey I actually like your remix of my 'em. Good job anon.
So, you know, it’s fucking 10 A.M. on a Saturday morning--a detention during the first week of school. But, fear not, I’m not alone in this depressing room of disciplinary action. There is a kid here--sand skinned, about 5’ 7”, and skinny. I sit across the room from him, in the back of the class under this noisy, old air conditioner.
“Hey, man!” I shouted.
“QUIET!” said the disciplinarian, a mean looking white man of about 47, maybe 48.
I need to come up with a plan to communicate with this guy, my first target for the SS Lifting Club. The teacher is about 20 feet away, which I measured by counting the tiles. The air conditioner is pretty noisy, but only loud enough to cover a tiny whisper. I am assigned to a seat in the corner, and he’s in the other corner on my right. The teacher is reading a book but looks up occasionally. I could just wait for detention to be over to talk to him, but I don’t wait if I don’t have to!
I finger through my pocket for any type of parchment. Ah-fucking-ha! I got a hold of a Trident gum wrapper. Now, I just need something to write with. I look at the ground for anything. I mean 2 days of school passed; there has to be something… “HELL YEAH!” I thought, as I saw a thin piece of 0.7mm graphite on the ground. I look at the time, but glare at the teacher with my peripherals. “Damn it, he’s looking at me suspiciously.” After 16.25 seconds he looks down to read his book, Education is Sacred.
I quickly pick up the piece of graphite, but the chair creaked a little to the side. Good, he didn’t notice. I write, “U LIFT?”. Now, the only problem is transporting this gum wrapper to the sand kid. I could ball it up and throw it at him. But, there’s a risk. He might ignore it, thinking I’m some kind of delinquent asshole. Or, he could just be retarded and start throwing it back without opening it. I could just signal to open it by opening my hands out as if I’m opening a book. “Hmmm. That might work.”
>>7894926
I ball up the gum wrapper and stare at the time again. The perfect time to launch this make-shift projectile is exactly the moment when the teacher’s head moves down to read his book again. It’s 10:11:32.5231 A.M. As soon as he looks down, I throw the ball with my right hand without looking. It was a beautiful side-pass; damn, I should join the fucking baseball team.
The kid silently raises his hand, “Mr. Roark.” I look over to the kid and then to the side of his head. “FUCKING SHIT. IT GOT IN HIS FUCKING EAR.” I look over to my left, as if I had nothing to do with it. Quickly, the teacher gets up, asks him what is wrong, and then calmly proceeds to inspect his ear. He pulls out a pair of tweezers with his pockets, and takes the gum wrapper out. (Okay, two fucking questions need to be asked. Question one: why the fuck does he carry tweezers in his pocket? Question two: why am I so fucking skilled!)
After that, well, nothing really happened. It was finally 12 A.M., and we could leave. As I left first, the teacher said smiling, “See you here next week. By the way, I’m the school gym supervisor.”
I was dumbfounded but happy because I had found another target. I needed a teacher’s sponsor anyway--how convenient. We might have started off on the wrong foot (or ear), but it’s all going to work out.
>>7892201
>made a sonnet in Portuguese for my Tinder description
lol
>>7894043
something new in the world
but you made a grammar error:
>The words ... depends
also, Strunk and White aside, you can use "like" instead of "as" now
https://www.evernote.com/l/AWBFHxt2p6ZOnLGkWj4GqEA9_G2OLgeQBXY
>>7892167
I would replace swallow with gulp, "he gulped down his coffee and smacked his lips therafter, put down his mug and made way to the shed"
why does he sip casually and swallow vigorously?
is the coffee that good he wants to perform oral sex/ "eat it out". if the coffee was good wouldn't he smack his lips
my 2 cents
plz post all you got
Edward possessed every quality commonly thought to make a bachelor "eligible": he was tall, dark, and handsome; he was well educated but he always spoke with gentle good humour and a tasteful excess of false humility; and, of course, he hated the muslims.
>>7892262
>http://pastebin.com/pscbXYKe
i would replace bi-yearly with bi-annual
the phrase "I've never had you as a student before" is a bit awkward because it sounds like the main character has never taught him before. I would replace it with "I've never taken any of your classes/ I've never been in any of your classes/I haven't had you as a professor...
>>7895533
>why does he sip casually and swallow vigorously?
Maybe he's afraid she put peaches in his coffee too, so he sips carefully but swallows vigorously when he's confident it's just good old coffee?
Or maybe he just wasn't expecting the coffee to be that good.
>>7895478
The words don't depends. There is no antecedent for depends, the change is what is depending. Could have been 'it depends' but that just don't flow, Monica.
Where are you now?
- Joe
- I’m not ok
What’s up?
What’s wrong?
- My pumas
- My pulse man
Are you joking?
- I’m like freaking out
- No I’m not fucking joking
Who’s with you?
Just breathe the air or something
- My screen looks weird
- I’m freaking out man
Stop looking at the screen
Look around you
Where are you?
Come over here
Come around to my place
And we can just go down easy
And just talk you know
Like face to face
Not through a screen
You there?
:(
>>7897359
Is this the last recorded conversation on MSN?
>>7894007
pure autism
>>7897368
I imagined it two people texting, one of whom is on drugs.
Would you say it's somewhat engaging?
>>7897386
It was more funny than engaging when the druggie stopped responding after the other guy told him not to look at the screen.
Jiro dreamt of sushi
in a dream I had last night.
"Focus on simplicity," a voice repeated in Japanese.
So I did
by plugging into the crowd by the pond
and watched the flowers
dance in the wind and
get decapitated by the overly impassioned
who call their contractor love.
>>7897409
Yeah I thought I'd put a small joke in there to make it somewhat less serious/cringy/dramatic. It's part of a story about the failure of 21st century communication, i.e. texting etc.
So many stories subsisting on simple signifiers
arranged by some arbitrary similarity
like letters, rhymes, and length.
A collage of fonts, strewn onto screens willy-nilly,
lack the substance of oral culture
or the intricacies of post-modernistic megaliths
like [insert 20th century literary 'masterpiece' here].
Focus on the fucking signified
and for god's sake
have some pride.
>>7897422
Well I can definitely relate to the freaking out on drugs and trying to get your buddies to help you part.
>>7894294
are you native? you're grammar is shit, your sentence organization is bad, your storytelling is bad and your characters are bland. I'd tell you move on but what's the point if you're going to keep writing like this. DESU my main concern is that your prose is very ugly, doesn't make me feel good or comfy..
Which would you rather read about, a high school atheist getting his first job at a Catholic church or a film student getting his first gig directing porn? Or do both sound dumb? The latter is mostly a comedy, and if my word means anything, the former does not contain any hammy message either condoning or condemning religion.
>>7897960
First idea's a little contrived, second one is actually pretty common among film students.
Whatever you can make work.
>>7899217
Pfirsich kampf
>>7892142
does this count as an essay?
>>>/tv/67991015
I'm writing 12 interconnected short vignettes, laced together by a unifying theme and action and I'm sort of just grtting ideas out, but I'd like to know quite how stupid this is.
The stories are all unified by characters living in the same city who are hallucinating various things. The only one thing constant in each hallucination is that everybody sees Octopus in the sky. Many Octopus. The event that sets in motion the string of responsive events is revealed in the final chapter to be thus: a mans little sister is terminally ill, and he's deluded himself into thinking that by selling more merchandise at his job and getting more money, he'll somehow be able to cure her. To this end, he poisons the mass product of his employer's immediate competitor, giving all of their consumer's hallucinations. Obviously, this is all pointless, and the man, whos distracted by his obsession and delusion, leaves his sister in a hospital by herself, where she dies and is buried alone.
The resulting hallucinations by the other characters serve as a two pronged attack, weaving inter-related tales of paranoia, obsession and fear, while unifying the central theme of all of the stories: human beings as individuals sign an invisible contract with eachother, and can just as easily breach it, when they agree to live together as a society of any scale, be it large or small. As part of a city of people, these individuals attempt a basic.trust of eachother that they will all not harm their co-habitors, and that they will at least fake a "normal" persona. The stories are most about the perilous string on which this contract is teetered, and how easily it can all become unfolded by the will of a single person for whatever reason, even irrational. There's also some amount of commentary on capitalism and how it negatively effects society on an individual level. The octopi represent this ominous connected-ness everyone shares, eight legs in any direction denying anyone the right to ever truly escape and sever ties with their past lives.
The story is called "'Pi in the Sky".
>>7892159
Sometimes I try to make a kind of mental storyboard for my scenes, like they do for movies and comics. I find that it helps if the first "case" of the storyboard has something happening in it, and is not just the start of a gradual zoom on the action. In a comic/movie, it would be filming the set before the actors, the set explaining what the actors do. It is all mental, and I think about it before writing (bus/shower/walking/shitting).
A lonely man wanders through the rain-drenched streets of a large faceless city. As a product of his remorseless anonymity and his lack of meaningful human contact, he seeks the services of a pleasant young prostitute, hoping that a re-enactment of teenage fumblings down by the ol' river will restore to him a sense of his humanity - even if this re-enactment must take place on a dark curb above a stream of sewage, rather than under trees in full bloom on the dewey grass of his youth.
He wander and wanders and when he finds such women as he has been seeking, dressed to the nines in fishnet stockings and little else, he reviews his priorities and desides to satisfy the tremendous hunger that has developed during his urban search. 'This is a whoring distict,' he thinks to himself, 'and there will be enough whoring to go around once my bell is good and full.' He enters a nearby Chinese restaurant and hopes he can get his bowl of warm noodles and finish before closing time.
He order the dish and it is brought to him with Oriental efficiancy. He looks at his waitress with lust in his eyes as she puts down his food and asks if he'd care for a drink, and he ruminates on his fetish for the yellow people and how he would much prefer to spend the night with this innocent specimen than one of the used-up old whores waiting for him outside.
He declines the drink and begins to eat but quickly finds a flaw in serving. He calls his waitress over and creates quite a scene.
'What in God's name is this?' he asks, pointing at the bowl with outrage on his face. 'There's a God-damned pubic hair in this dish! I won't be finishing this food and I sure as hell won't be paying!'
He stands and storms out of the restaurant and the waitress is taken aback. She looks through her slanted eyes at the dish and finds no pubic hair. With half a mind to follow this most unpleasant customer out of the restaurant and reason with him, she instead follows the path of the Lady from the East and humbly takes the plate back to the kitchen, disposes of the contents, and finishes her shift without complaint.
Twenty minutes later, done with her work, she goes to the kitchen to collect her things and exits through the back. She looks forward to getting into her warm bed and reading a book before carrying herself to work tomorrow to repeat her entire monotonous day again. She walks back to the street down a dark alley but stops in her tracks when she sees a familiar face - a familiar face, that is, plunged into the nether-regions of a haggard old prostitute.
'What in God's name!' the Chinawoman screams. 'You storm out of my place of work over a pubic hair in your noodles, and then I find you out here giving oral sex to some whore?!'
Her recent customer looks up with a grin on his face and says: 'let me tell you something, lady. If I find a noodle in here I won't be paying for this either!'
>>7899420
This is literally a joke.
>>7900962
A damn good one too!
>>7902540
They're there for a very good reason: I don't know the first thing about layout.
Is pic related better?
>>7892142
None of you fucking /lit/ards are even half decent at writing. It takes more than a large vocabulary and an English degree to make an impact on your audience.
>>7902464
http://natethesnake.com/
>>7892245
See its good and all but it doesn't make any sense. I feel like if this had some added context it might be good but I don't know if you can actually write the romance over-structure of whatever the fuck this is supposed to mean in context. It better not be related to religion as some quasi-reference to the bible or some stupid bullshit like that because those never pan out to well.
>>7902630
>It takes more than a large vocabulary and an English degree to make an impact on your audience.
nuh-uh
I'm too tired to write right now but I created this piece a while back and I'd like some criticism.
Fifty Shades of Fast pt. 1
By hedgehogfucker69
One day Amy was having breakfast with her best friend Sonic. Amy was eating a vanilla yogurt and Sonic was eating cereal. They loved to eat breakfast together and it was their favorite part of the day. Amy and Sonic always enjoyed spending time together, even though they were just friends. Amy needed to get a glass for some warm milk, and she picked up her yogurt and spoon with her to get it. As she reached to get the glass from the drawer with her spoon hand, and she accidentally spilled some yogurt on her chest. Amy was a little concerned but not very, and quickly grabbed some paper towels to clean it up. As she finished cleaning herself she looked over and noticed sonic was staring at her. She felt a little nervous, but was also slightly aroused. Sonic quickly excused himself to the bathroom and left Amy all by herself at the breakfast table.
Sonic was gone in the bathroom for a long time, and Amy was getting concerned. She decided that it would be a good idea to check up on Sonic, as sometimes he had trouble finding new toilet paper rolls. Amy walked right into the bathroom as Sonic was fiercely performing the five finger shuffle. As soon as he swung his head around at the surprise intrusion he ejaculated all over the floor of the bathroom, and got a little bit on Amy's skirt. Amy was a little astonished, but felt a stirring in her nether regions. She promptly apologized, excused herself, and left to go to her room.
.
>>7902706
pt. 2
Amy felt a rush like never before and her panties were so wet that even Niagara falls would be jealous. As soon as she got through the door of her room she took her pants off, held them in her hand, and furiously diddled her skittle, while sniffing the cum-stain. She got her female juices all over her bed but she didn't care because she was so into the thought of sonic furiously pounding her virgin pussy. But because she was so intensely bruising the beaver she didn't notice Sonic walk in. Sonic was prompt and ripped off his pants and unleashed his hedgehog. As Amy was flicking away her white wine she felt a furry friend slip in, but didn't care because she was close already. Sonic feasted on her wet lettuce like it was ripe berry. He was already jerkin the gherkin as he licked her soft delicate melon-like underlips, and right before finishing he decided it was time to go in and he sunk his erect German general into her pink flower and pounded away. Amy was close to climax but needed an extra push, so she grabbed Sonic's fingers and forced them onto her supple nipples. She slid his hands onto her firm breasts and squeezed. She was ready now and moaned like an animal. Sonic was close too, and they both finished at the same time with Sonic making a new Jackson Pollock inside.
After they were done they cuddled in bed until they ready to fuck again. They fucked every half an hour for almost 2 days straight. 9 months later sonic and Amy had a child named knuckles, and they lived happily ever after in between furiously fucking, of course. The end.
>>7892159
compared to me, I'm really good at scenes (I'd like to think) though I really suck at developing the personality of my characters. I also refuse to make characters that are binary good/evil.
The thing I love most about stories is making up the setting and the scenes, its why my favourite literature is usually scifi (since I'm just not that hype for fantasy) and I like to do the same.
im writing a novella about the finno korean hyper war.
it's about two brothers, a Finn and Estionan, who are from a different father. One is a monarchist, the other a SJW. The Finn is a user of something like 4chan, wanting to get in the Action against the Koreans. The Estonian has a black friend who's a solider that fleed war from the pharaoh WeWuz.
They end up in the Balkans in the middle of a civil war, again, and one loses his mind going on a tangent how oranges and serving plates are destroying civilisation. The SJW kills a Slovene in self defence, and loses his mind.
During this time, WeWuz invades Ragusa to help the Koreans. The Finn convices the Est that he was right, and the books end with suicide of them, and the aftermath of the hyperwar.
The name? Hyperwar's Hypersphere
>>7892178
I agree.
hey, i found the first 8 chapters on tumblr. is that you op, or is someone plagiarizing your work?
A bit of a poemey type job here. no more plans for it really. give 'er a gander
A little worm of ill will writhes within me. On a salt of short man syndrome and the shattered shells of the egg that birthed this ego it wiggles without death. Caged it croons, before sleep and at crack of dawn, the songs of self pity, self loathing and self acceptance. Its OK. Its fine to waste time. You've got a thousand hours played and a few thousand more up your sleeve. Don't worry wormy, you've only begun your journey. He dances on my mind the two step of slipping time and as the bass kicks grow in intensity i grow in restlessness. Its not ok. Im not ok. this isnt fine, there isnt time. And the spiked adrenaline anxiety melts to a warm gray murk of depression. This isnt fine, but that is fine, and I, will be fine. Oh well.
I love the sea
like you dear, full of love
and full of life, like you
migrant; guest
sometimes, like you, mysterious
sometimes, like you, sorrowful
and sometimes so silent
I love the sea
I love the sky
like you dear, merciful
made of joy and stars
a lover; a foreigner
because, like you, too close
and sometimes, like you, too far away
with eyes of song,
I love the sky
I love the road
for that is where we met
bliss and misery
friends and youth
where our tears smiled
and where the candles cried
where we lost our friend
I love the road
I love the sea,
I love the sky
and I love the road
for these are life
and you my dear,
you are all that is life
------------------------------
this is not my work, I merely translated it when I had nothing better to do. But my question is if this is rhytmic at all. I know nothing about English metre or English poetry's elements in general, so I would like it if you pointed out what could have been done better.
>>7903272
It's me.
That was the only blog site that wasn't a complete pain in the ass to set up.
I should really delete it though.
>>7903292
Fuck you. This is a critique thread.
>>7899420
Fucking gross but kind of funny, 7/10.
>>7903161
cna anyone please reply to this i'll even take an insult i just want to feel something im dead inside
I'm typing my journal entries into a blog for exposure and to keep from losing them if I lose the notebook. It is on aerochameleon.wordpress.com I add an entry every other day or so and would love feedback or ideas from you, my brothers.
>>7903718
What's it about?
>>7903718
I just made an account and followed you. Is wordpress any good?
>>7904123
>Is wordpress any good?
I wanna know too.
>>7902630
Better than masturbating and feeling sorry for myself.
>>7903742
It's an account of my travels more than anything. I moved to Peru about a week ago with not much money to see what comes out of it. The entries are filled with impressions, experiences, ideas etc. I am behind in typing them up just because I haven't had the time to type everyday.
>>7904123
Thanks. I like it so far, but I don't have anything to compare it to. It's free and easy to use and that was enough for me.
>>7892167
This was nice. Interested to hear more if you're willing to share.
Now at the age of 28- only three months since the day her life had been taken from her, Mae carries herself around as a ghost would in a house where they had seen every corner, been through every door frame, and could count the dust bunnies a thousand times over. It was supposed to be their birthday today and while downing another shot all she could do was shudder as the booze slammed and burned the lining of her stomach.
----------------------------------------------------
I'm new to writing so please be gentle.
A tree and stones; touched by the sun and passing clouds. Spotted shadows dance on their faces - a sweet, mocking mix of shade and warmth. It is kind to the stones and cruel to the leaves - they have browned and crinkled, the shadows a late relief.
We pass them on to greater sights.
>>7906355
She's not actually a spooky ghost, is she? Too bad.
1/2
The beginning to a short story of the unexplained end of the world and a man dealing with his final moments.
The sun shined down and blistered his slowly cooking skin. Unable to gather the will to move, he simply laid basking, taking in the feeling as his body felt warmer and warmer. He inhaled a deep breath into his lungs and stretched his hands onto the cool grass. They embraced him, a hundred blades gently running themselves across his sleeves, his hands, and his hair. The aroma rose, fell and sunk itself into him.
Gathering his strength, he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position and continued his glare towards the sun. It was difficult to understand the gravity of it, the magnificence that such a grand figure truly was. It was like a good song he supposed; far too easy to enjoy and far too easy to forget. It was even easier to forget that one day it too would be gone, but then that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. All things gold must fade, and so all days must give way to night. He had always thought that endings were a grand thing, an item of great inspiration and joy, though even now he had moments where he wondered how a shelf life could ever be a joyous thing; but then he had moments of clarity. How could one ever know motivation without the threat of nothingness looming over them? How could they understand joy without the threat of pain breathing down their neck? How could people understand life without the threat of death standing in the corner of their eye? He couldn’t help but feel thankful for an end of some kind. The way he saw it there were only two things in this world that ever mattered; how you begin something and how you end it. It was a simplistic ideology, but simplicity never hurt anyone. How much pain had been caused by someone who felt they needed more when in reality they had what others would kill for? He longed for simplicity.
He shook his head, realizing he had been staring at the sun for minutes. He blinked, watching small specks that riddled his vision, dancing in front of him as his eyes adjusted back to their normal state. They felt warm, too warm, but he appreciated the sun’s touch none the less. He slowly glanced to his side hoping to see the familiar figure that had been there with him, but she had left likely long ago to leave him in a half-asleep daze on the ground with a feeling he didn’t truly expect; loneliness. Maybe it wasn’t as much loneliness as it was of being left behind yet again. She was always trying to make her way ahead of him and it slowly killed him inside, to which he was growing apathetic to it; and maybe even to her. But she was such a bright spot in his life, such an example and a motivation that he couldn’t truly find anywhere else. He had tried, but whether his will simply wasn’t strong enough, or self-improvement not a big enough push, he fell short. It was always her figure he was chasing and her torch he kept lit.
>>7909579
He realized it then. He was in love with time. Not the concept of it like some philosopher fantasizes about or the human representation of it you’d find in childhood fiction. No, he loved time. He fell in love with memories and parts of his life that he would never truly relive, constantly personifying them into whatever he could rationalize in his head. He raised women to these pedestals to represent to him his childhood, happiness, and countless other emotions he never truly understood. To represent all the good times he had long since left behind. He remembered the first girl he could ever say he fell for. Her name was Diane, a sweet girl filled innocence and ignorance of the world around her. He remembered when he moved, how he would visit and how he would use her like a tool to go back to those wondrous days of childhood. No, he wanted her as one wants a memory. He felt for her as one would feel looking through a photo album. All the women of his life fell to the same fate, to represent a point in his life one which was never truly as great as it once was. Lonely times represented by sparks of hope, angry times represented by moments of sight, and apathetic moments mistaken for the gaining of maturity and knowledge. He was helplessly, head over heels, and blindly in love with the great delusion of time. Lost time, spare time, old times, and new times, but goddamn him if it wasn’t the good times that were slowly killing him.
And now she was no different, just a goal to him, a challenge that perhaps he never really expected to complete. A target he never truly thought he could hit and when he eventually did, he’d lose much of the passion he had felt. Memories constantly relived aren’t memories, and you simply end up living in the past wishing and hoping for something to force you forward; he couldn’t, and it ate at him. Every time he tried to move he felt as if he was banging against a brick wall, simply watching others walk through and wondering why he was so unable to do the same.
It didn't matter anymore though, did it? There where no more great battles to win. No great struggles to fight. Just the simplicity of accepting and letting go. He gazed into the sky.
>>7907945
Only on the inside, no worries. She'll find hppiness soon enough
>>7909672
>She'll find hppiness soon enough
Ugh
It was bad enough that she isn't an actual ghost.
Her lips achill like winter's breath
Heal, she can’t, my love bereft
If you were life, then she is death
No, she can't fill the gap you left
http://pastebin.com/9GBTGMXU
Please maybe read my thing.
It's part of a novel I started, which received agreeable responses in a critique thread from a while ago. I continued with it. I don't know if it's any good, or delivers any feeling?
>>7910160
To my taste, there's a lot of telling and not a lot of showing.
But I guess that comes with the territory when the narrator is the protagonist
>>7909982
Was on phone and I'm not the best at texting, sorry about that. If you wanted some background Mae was a doppelganger of someone whom she spent most of her life with. Long story short they decided to live as one 'person' (They acting and living as if they were a singular person and even taking turns to be 'Mae'.) but the other one died and now she's trying to pick herself up and move on with her life. Thing is, she went by the other person's identity instead of them being Mae and so she's left with the option to move on with her life as if nothing is wrong and live under the other's name or to completely re-create herself and everything she's worked for. She takes the latter option and that's about where I'm at now. It's very late where I am and I know there's probably a million ways I could've explained this better but that's the main plot behind that excerpt. It's a little rocky right now, I know but I plan on making this a novella if I ever get the time.
boomp
Nobody reads poetry anymore
It seems that I am alone
No one to discuss
T. S. Eliot
Bukowski
Ginsberg
I only know one person who owns
A book by Walt Whitman
And even he, I think,
Hasn’t read anything by him.
Oh well.
No one knows the pleasure
Of a good smoke
And a good poem.
>>7912239
>poetry
Doesn't even rhyme.
>>7912239
Nobody reads poetry anymore. It seems that I am alone. No one to discuss T.S. Eliot, Bukowski, Ginsberg. I only know one person who owns a book by Walt Whitman and even he, I think, hasn't read anything by him. Oh well. No one knows the pleasure of a good smoke and a good poem.
