Post your poems in here. Comment, discuss, and (contstructively) critique other's work. Try to avoid flaming, this should be a learning experience for everyone.
A man walked up to a gallows pole
With his hands pulled tight round his back
His heart was a knot and his hands were a tremblin'
He feared the void's cold burning black
The spectators shuffled below him
The crowd, like a cancer cell, grew
A sharp wicked wind started blowin'
And a war horn heard only by few
And the man couldn't see, for the hair in his face
From the wind all around him that blew
He was no longer aware of his place
But he knew that all sight was untrue.
The hangman bestowed him his necklace of thorns,
Boards creaked from the trapdoor below
And the wind shrieked his swan song,
His soon-to-be-gone song
The floor dropped from under his toes
His fall was a timeless adventure
From above, he saw life's forking paths
Time to him was a child's illusion
That men's minds outreached couldn't grasp
A horseman rode up to the gallows pole
With a presence that stifled the crowd
And out of his mouth came a roaring of waters,
And the trumpets cut clean through the clouds
A muffled crack signaled the death of the man
Veins burst in the whites of his eyes
And the now stoic horseman, like a surgeon began
To strip the man's worldly disguise
Slung 'cross the haunches of the lone horseman's steed,
The criminal's body was placed
The horseman's spurs thrust them away from the gallows
And ascended the steep path to grace.
spiderman shot web
it squirted upwards with glee
how do ~I~ shot web?
“Kiss me! Kiss me! You’ll do nothing wrong the sooner you kiss me! James! I need all of this! This hiding in the bastion has got me sick. I’d rather burn than see myself grow old with him, and this seems less likely the case with you. Do you not want a secret to hide? Something to keep us up at night, I say! Less than quicksilver the ideal, of course. I’m growing awfully tired. I’ll try not to suck my thumb, but I must ponder! What’s so great about India? Are they too busy flying kites to even notice we are gone? That must be it! The summoned serpents seem to be the only ones doing as they’re told, and that’s by way of flute! Am I inaudible to you James? Am I insane? Look at me James. Fetch me another poppy, one that is in full bloom.”
The cardboard container
sits on top of the
next to these things
a glass pyramid
with its peak cut off
and suns engraved in it
holds a drinking aid –
a beer lid pryer -
a tube for writing
coloured 3 a.m.
a clear tube now dry
and now-off mint rings.
in front of these two
a clear thin bowl
meets frosted glass
with the weight of
about twenty-six dollars
I wrote this poem just before. i wanted to sort of abstract normal objects. i gave myself certain rules, for example, each line that describes an object has the same amount of syllables as the described object has faces.
its a first draft and not really a serious thing, but i would like to work more with this kind of idea. i'd like to simultaneously describe a thing's properties whilst also removing the thing from its properties, if that makes sense.
lemme know what ya think. no worries if you think its crap
>an angsty time ago
When I looked at you
I saw a sickly man
pacing toward his death.
Your eyes were glossed
and faint red veins
cracked their white eggshells
that were probably more yellow
than I remember.
A heavy gaze
nestled above violent blue
sacks of skin, sunken
by headaches of stress,
heartaches of parenthood,
body aches from the fat
that wrapped your bones
and bulged the skin
to protect against pity
You traded cigarettes
for arteries of grease
that sedated you
long enough to lose some hours
in the T.V.
One addiction for two.
You accidentally taught me to think like you,
and so I did.
You were always carefully observing
from a distance,
anticipating everyone's next move
except your own.
You were never that good at chess.
I studied your mistakes,
you were an example
of how not to live
a happy life,
and silently I thanked you.
doused with resentment
like the rich coffee you drank
with too much sugar.
I was your second chance
but what of my own
Traditions of which the roots
are long forgotten
kill the mind.
I get to choose my own ceremony,
and if I build a life like yours,
at least it'll be mine to burn.
Without you staring at my hands
there will be no one to criticize
the way I light a match.
This......I like this.
Here, take a pic of Alison Brie.
Your poem seems to have a lot of apocalyptic imagery, especially from the book of Revelation (horsemen, a voice that sounds of many waters)
I really can't critique anything because I don't know much about poetry, but this was an enjoyable read. Got any more?
Interesting concept and formatting. It'd be nice to read more, say if you expanded the length and continued with the syllable/ face ratio.
(Sorry for bad grammar, English is my third language. Still working on it.)
thanks man. Yeah I think I'll work on more, and add to this one too. The concept is in the early stages. The idea of having the poems properties reflect the properties of the thing the poem describes or embodies is fascinating, I think.
Thanks for the feedback. Your english is pretty good I think haha
The Ass was:
I once had a lover who was shredded, torn, and covered
hidden by an impalpable mist.
I once had a sweetheart whose life was shattered scree-dark
and who drowned before she gave me a kiss.
I once went on 4chan and saw a thread entitled "For man:"
and swore it was mine but I don't think it was.
I once browsed le reddit and upvoted posts on Seddit
because they reminded me of what I be, what I was.
I once had a poem that I wrote and left unknown
except when talked to my cat.
I once had an ass that was emboldened in sass
and was languid and was sensual and was
I am squealing and shaking and talking to myself
I am trapped in a vacuum tumbling around the world and I can smell things that aren't there
setting the table: napkins, forks, cups, plates
and the whole house reeks of onions grilled by the neighbors
when I start to inhabit my skin it turns slimy beneath my sight
fingernails begin to fall off
I am a sour stranger
I am takes one to no one
I am the pool noodle of balance beams
the dionysus of empty basements
the cobweb of the sun
the radical, bohemian CEO of coca cola
the saturnine cannibal of myself
the cockroach trapped in a switched-off dust buster
i am less than everything
more than nothing
wild but well-defined
pigeonholed as a dull phoenix who matches the color of its ashes
I am one who believes that we hate this generation. And theres no point in being ironic, or making an -ism out of it. The fact is the way i see it, there is this vibe that seeps from everything in this age that just makes people sick. our minds are getting hazy and people on the street seem to speak less coherently. fewer than two dozen writers produce all of the music that we hear on the radio. That has something to do with it,
This one took me a while:
I think of you, when I watch the sunlight glimmer
Over the sea:
I think of you, when the moonbeams shimmer
Over the stream.
I see you there, when the dust swirls high
On the far road,
When the traveller shivers, in deepest night,
As it narrows.
I hear you, when with a dull roaring
The waters rise.
Often in silent groves I go walking
When all is quiet.
I stay with you, however far you are,
To me you’re near!
The sun sets: soon above me are the stars.
Would you were here!
Really like it, can't quite tell if you're writing to a specific person, idea, god, etc. One way or another the passion for the object is appealing, admirable, enjoyable, etc. few things though
>all is quiet
trying to find an effect for this redundancy, seems like over-emphasis.
>however far you are
>to me you're near!
really dug this bit, evokes a real sense of joy, glee, etc.
I really like this, do you have any more?
Here's my shitty one:
I woke this morning donned again in a colorful jester's disguise
I clawed it off without malice and fed it to the beast at the foot of my bed
Picked my scabs until they were deep enough to crawl into
I drove a red blood cell to a dead end job
I glanced sparingly at a pregnant chef, if only to sneak a glimpse at her halo
Ate the words of my past lovers
Satisfied, I drifted into one of those mid day naps in which I swam through a macabre dream
A dream where the dead walked with words caught in their throats, thoughts whistling through holes in their heads
The nap took most of my day
Now, I saunter under juxtaposed street lights just to see my shadows cross paths
seems lazy, but then again, maybe that's the point considering your subject matter. Not sure how much thought you put into it but i'm gonna read into it too deeply anyway.
>the fact is the way i see it
taken out of context this is a powerful statement, not sure if intentional
lack of proper punctuation, etc is a nice effect whether purposeful or not.
>and there's no point
directly following the introductory sentence expresses listlessness, this is appropriate.
maybe you weren't thinking at all writing this
Glad to see some excellent discussion in here. I'm pleasantly surprised by everyone's work, and I'm looking forward to reading more.
A little information about myself: (I apologize if you guys don't give a shit but I'm pretty coked out and rambling):
I'm a recently divorced construction worker, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. My medication helps quell most of my delusions and odd behavior, but what helps me most is my manual labor job, and my love for writing poetry, no matter how sophomoric it may be.
Here are two poems I wrote tonight in the middle of my cocaine binge (I know, I know. I should NOT be doing hard drugs. Oh well.):
Light shatters through dusty blinds and uncovers
A heap of muffled sighs and tangled legs
Who but us could have come this close to love
Only enough to take the pain away
And rub against your grain
Rolling in the ruins at the foot of your bed
You woke up
I crumbled and settled into the dust surrounding me
Whence I came, there I'll go
Where you go, please don't tell me
I'll spend my nights tracing lines on train routes
Over and over until the paper
Saturated with ink comes apart
Fraying links, carving ditches between grain fields and unnamed bodies of water
It's more about my obsessive delusional behavior surrounding the bad events of my divorce.
But that's the beauty of poetry, you can interpret it in any way you please!
Cocaine has become a semi-regular thing for me, I just write and write and write on it. But I've been addicted to benzodiazepines for seven years now.
Once, a night of stunted slumber
Reared at me its puzzled face (disgraced
and wond'ring of my fate)
and gasped aloud with raucous thunder
on how I'd stumbled on this place
without deliberating, grating ghastly
past my wilted mouth
oh why oh my oh me
and kissed upon his cheek a clout (he recoiled, what was this about?)
If I can't find my peace in dreaming
Deem me doomed, and shroud my room
With windows blinking, never leaving
I'll stay awake and muse the moon
I saw them move in the pre-dawn blue
through the wheat and tracks and nothing new.
A car of silver black and light
and all in essence the last of night.
Sister held me in her arms
way of all sisters on our farms
I said "I want to go and see,"
"Father might again need me."
But she held me, whispered "no"
and with the wind the wheat did flow.
And the ageless sky was lighting red
and no I won't return to bed.
See, see, they move again
from the truck now there step two men.
Nameless always, dreams are walking,
Father still, no longer talking.
And dust rolls from the hillside down
on Father's face all marked and brown.
He reaps the grain and grain alone,
what life they summon now unknown.
The wounds of youth sealed in time
are opened fresh and are made mine
And brother at his side is bending,
the men strike silos, tocsins rending,
But for none of them there is a pleasure
Like that the farm or earth might measure.
A game of paper, regulation
They have brought us here my father's station
And the land is gold and dust is hung
Suspended here our lowly rung
Where marching marching never far
Has come and broached us in its car
But its track are made in soil and mud
And ahead are made in world's blood
They kiss my brother's head turned black
and wave to mother in the shack
And crawl again back through the wheat,
the dust around my father's feet
From the past, the Dezful sand
Nasr abandoned every man
Alone alone through breaking day
the father looks as if to say
"It is wood and stone and nothing more,
millennia graced this rocky floor
A thousand wars bled here in stone,
and from which we ourselves are grown"
And brother lies beneath the blue
the wheat and tracks, the nothing new.
>Cocaine has become a semi-regular thing for me, I just write and write and write on it.
OP, there is a fantastic writing aid lurking in your kitchen that you just have to try. Amongst the fish forks and butter knives is a teaspoon. Well, it doesn't have to be a teaspoon, a soup spoon or dessert spoon, or another kind of metal spoon will do. This is the first item to collect. Now look in the cupboard where the flour is and locate a plastic tub of baking soda, it should have 'sodium bicarbonate' written on it.
Take your cocaine and make a 50/50 mix of baking soda to cocaine. The next thing you will need is clean water, but don't do anything yet. First you need a lighter, candle, and a small metal object (personally, I find a fork with one prong bent backwards to be ideal).
Light the candle. Now add the mix of baking soda and cocaine to the spoon, adding enough water to dissolve it. Hold the spoon over the candle and stir with the fork prong. After a short while you will see something forming and sticking to the fork. Keep circling the fork and watch as it all collects together. You may need a tissue to collect it on before going back for more.
After ten minutes or so you should have a nice collection of small rocks. make a bed of untouched cigarette ash in a pipe and rest a small rock on top. You can try lighting a cigarette and letting it burn by itself for the perfect ash, don't let it crumble or powder.
After smoking, your eyes will roll into the back of your head, and every cell in your body will feel like it's orgasming. This is normal. This is good. It lasts about five minutes, and then you are on an incredibly strong coke high and can write even more.
>why the fucvk are advising him to smoke cocaine even more?
Why not? Cocaine, snortable cocaine, is Coc HCL - Cocaine hydrochloride. The molecule is bonded to hydrochloric acid to make it soluble. Sodium bicarbonate is an alkaloid that bonds to the hydrochloric acid to remove it and create pure cocaine.
>it's not healthy.
Well why don't you espouse the virtues of kale shakes instead then, and tell him how he can squeeze out five extra years in a retirement home. If you want to sacrifice fun and dedicate every waking hour to be the absolute pinnacle of health, go ahead, but don't expect anyone else to, and don't expect us to keep a straight face when you get hit by a bus in three weeks either and wasted a monumental amount of time 'being healthy'
He just seems to have problems with cocaine.
Advising him to take even more is not the most sensible choice, don't you think so?
Also, the healthy part was poorly worded, I don't care too much about my own health either.
>Advising him to take even more is not the most sensible choice, don't you think so?
I'm not advising him to take more, just consume it in a pure form --the molecule that grows naturally in coca leaves -- without snorting a lot of hyrdrchloric acid with it. Have you ever seen extreme cocaine cases where the entire center piece of cartilage has been burned out of the nose, creating one large nostril? Yeah, that shit's hydrochloric acid. I don't know why you want that to happen to him, and are rejecting my harm reduction methods.
The local cinema was showing a Batman movie
I saw the guy fly in the sky, thought to myself "why not I?"
So I made a pair of wings, climbed up upon the wall,
About to jump into the air when a man from the street called
"Wait a minute son, don't you realize the danger?"
"What do you think you are, some kind of angel?"
I considered for a minute, supposed he only spoke the truth
The piercings on my eyelids only emphasized my youth
And the cocaine on my sandals meant the same to him as me
But that's neither here nor further, so I spoke considerately
"Now if you understand just what I'm trying to say..."
"...whatever you do, don't grin, you'll give the game away!"
By now a crowd had gathered and it seemed that all was lost
In the anger of the moment I had tangled life and lost
It seemed to me the time was right so I burst into song
In the anger of the moment the crowd began to sing along
I could not see a way out of this predicament
Just then a breeze came through the trees and up in the air I went
I must have flown a mile, or two or thirty-eight
Thought to myself pretty soon I'd hit the Golden Gate
Just then a passing bird for no reason I could see
Took a peck at my wings and that was the end of me
I went down, hit the ground faster than the speed of sound
Luckily I broke no bones only tore my underclothes
I just wrote this today, its the first thing i've written with any near resemblance to sincerity, i don't know why i wrote it but i've just been itching to write things and express myself on paper. Is it a good starting point, can it be improved?
I made a noose from an Ethernet cable
To upgrade the release it provides
I no longer needed a user interface
Tether myself to untether.
I wouldn’t have to wake up and face it all anymore
Face inadvertent advertisement for shitty bandwidth
Low grade data communication
Limited by what the service provider dictates I’m allowed.
I’ll decide what I’m allowed and allocated
Or so I’m encouraged to do so
It’s a lie, false, an illusion, it doesn’t exist in physicality
Much like the internet.
When I say i instead of I,
What is it that I imply?
For what state is State or state,
but in the most supine of fates
and when you bring your big L liberals
liberally I shall suggest
that you Please Fuck Off
The press of your cold belly
Leaves an imprint fine and lined
Scales are pushed and forced to flesh
Coiling round my neck and waist
You warm your blood and wait to dine
I run a hand along your scales
They thrum and throb with icy blood
I trace your lines like treasure maps
You squeeze around my welcome lap
Your eyes reflect an ancient flood
Forked kisses falling on my neck
Like dying breath of autumn wind
Before my lap you’ll lie across
You must ensure you’re poisonous
The mark of love is having sinned
Savage, smooth and intimate
You lunge for my soft neck
My bones decay, my eyes are ash
In love we wildly thrash and thrash
All Troy is gone to wreck
Very nice rhythm and rather lovely internal rhyming. I get the feeling you dig some Romantic poetry?
Lughnasa (It means the Autumn Harvest festival in my native ireland's ancient celtic culture)
Autumn beckons door to door
Goes waltzing on the threshing floor
Gather ups the shivering sheaves
Gilded in her golden leaves
Makes a bouquet of the rot
Makes a page of all the age
A shrine to Gods
The men forgot.
Forms a feast of crimson flood
From the sunset’s letting blood.
Lights the match and chops the wood
Knits her starry nightly hood
Thank you, friends. I simply speak in riddles or say whatever comes to my mind with a friend on Skype, and from there I create dialogue. Almost always I will create a conversation, but instead of going back and forth, I will write the entire conversation from one persons side, and then the other.
So this is the ladies, and I have yet to write the mans.
Need to fix your rhythm my friend, remove "'round" from the line it's in and it flows much better. Also nice is an adjective, not an adverb
I have some poetry to share with my pals at /lit/
Cosmic ambiguity solidifies an aversion to my words
Well fuck that, dinosaurs and sundaes.
Epic adventitiousness and grandiloquence shithole, well now it's meta as fuck too
Purple's my favorite color so your elucidation is dildoes, "pal"
You're all shit
"Shit 2" (yes there is a Shit 1)
Your apples taste like my shit
My shit tastes like your apples
So is it shit or is it apples?
Reduce taste to irrelevance
Close your eyes
It's all the same to someone
So eat up And enjoy,
Yeah women like muscles
Buff is hot
So drink your bull semen to get ripped
But when she finds out you voluntarily drink bull semen she's not going to think you're hot
So in the end really you just drank bull semen.
A swallowing silhouette
I wrote these all within the last day or two, feel free to critique or comment on all, some, or none of them
Insert: Lascivious cerebration
Results: Unwilling Attraction;Query Sensuality through Applied Manners and Etiquette;Self Absolving;Seppuku
Insert: Query Sensuality through Applied Manners and Etiquette
Insert: Unwilling Attraction
Cause: BEAR MACE
Insert: Self Absolving
IMMINENT PENEAL FAILURE
Cause: BEAR MACE RESIDUE
I dig the atmosphere, really like the last stanza. The middle stanza feels a bit awkward to me though, I don't know if it's the rhythm or the wording specifically but the middle two lines strike me the wrong way
Nothing amazing, but it's definitely a good starting point and can definitely be improved. I believe the structure could use a bit of improvement. Seems a little clunky, I don't like stanzas in free verse.
I really like the opening line and the idea behind it. I've made one line poems and I think your opener would qualify for one.
In the last stanza I don't think physicality is a good word, it seems kind of awkward to me, but that's just personal preference.
All in all, not bad, especially not as a starting point
I want my words to feel like watching people in love. Not a romantic love, a love that transcends relationships people can have. Personhood, and the things that go with it (identity, intimacy, death, and those things), complicate the mission of writing beautiful words. I'm not sure if I have to take my work more or less seriously to get good at it, but believe me I'm willing to try both. The problem is I can't convince myself it will ever matter what I try. Fuck, I've been already been "trying" to write for years now. It kills me, why do I do it? Everyday nothing happens. Nothing changes. I'm not just in a rut, I'm in an ocean trench.
Look at me, writing about having writers block. How original, how nuanced, how absolutely genuine. Goddamn.
Is this a poem? If so it definitely feels genuine.
Here's one of my own about erections again. Obviously I like the phrase lascivious cerebration.
Lascivious cerebration inspired by conspicuously breviloquent skirts sends liquid cruor to my engineer of life;
Discomfiture stirs at the gaze of the cause
Maladroit shuffling as an impetuous retreat from amused titter
Contemplating sepuku I bemusedly leak from unsettled organs
wearing shame as an overcoat
Thanks, i just wanted to know if it was something i should continue with, it's not the sort of subject i could ask my friends for opinions on. I agree with you on the word physicality and i'll read up a little on structuring, thanks for the input.
A gaian peace of mind
Here's where we begin and
what we come to find.
Love became a fear
And began to divide
Dissonance over time
We'd be dead if we were righteous
So instead we go on like this
A proud and laughing edipus
At the way we treat our mother
kill our brother
Just to live another day
With some sense of comfort
To feel a loving embrace
To think that we may belong here
Inside this one holy place.
Is there any particular reason that the structure gets so hectic after the line
>So instead we go on like this
It's mostly five and six syllable lines and the ones with eight, and then the last few just seem random.
Also I said after "So instead we go on like this" and not "A proud and laughing Edipus" although they both have eight syllables, because the emphasis in
>at the way we treat our brother
doesn't match the meter of the previous eight syllable lines. It's out of place if you want to end it with an -ous rhyme like the previous ones. There are reasons to do something like that but I'm wondering if you meant to?
If you did, good job, I like it. Otherwise, not bad by any means but the last few lines seem rushed or something. 6.7/10 overall in my humble opinion
There once was a jannie
With a very hurt fannie
The 4chan's nan,
He gave many a ban
But one day they said
let's lop off his head
And jannie was killed on the spot
But jannie did not rot
He came from the grave
Oh so brave
And shitposted while sucking cock
And now they they only mock
That's not to say it's an ill befitting rhythm for the content. Just sounds clunky to me and I can't see a clear purpose for using that rhythm with that content.
If I were writing a poem about butts personally I'd want it to flow off the tongue really easily, like a flow of semen would when loving a butt.
I appreciate that you actually employed a specific rhythm though and aren't just bad at flow lol
It recalls the harsh dales of my youth, the structure onto which the rolling, buttlike hills of essex were placed.
O thou! immortal seat of man,
wherein the contents of manzoni's can
reside, till fetching to the pan.
how dost thou jig,
both small and big,
There's sweeties in the van.
There are some parts with potential, but a lot of it falls short. It's seems kitsch and cliche when reading and felt more like a chore than a pleasure to get to the end.
-No unified rhyme structure. The first two stanza look to link into a joined rhyme, but I'm guessing you realized you couldn't keep the sounds up without sounding like a joke.
-The beat jumps around.
If you are going to structure using rhyme, you should go full on and keep in place a uniform metered foot or at least uniform sound count. Readers today don't forgive rhymes for being too cheesy, but if it is all unified and lyrical, they will take to it better.
-Poor word choice.
By this I mean filler words like adjectives and adverbs and prepositional modifiers. In poetry nouns are needed and verbs are forgivable, but nearly everything else can be thrown away. This doesn't mean your poem has to be mechanical, it just means you need to think it through more. Don't use similies where metaphors always work better making more striking comparisons.
-Reads too rigid.
Play more with enjambment, the position of where you break your lines. You can use it to place emphasis on certain words over others, drawing attention to the more powerful images and thoughts of a poem.
Naturally, these tips do not perfectly mesh with each other, and that's because the best advice to any poet is to play around and experiment what works better. Again, there is potential, and that is what I genuinely believe about anyone wanting to be a better poet.
Criticism: Really enjoyed it. The consonants hit well without being distracting. I wish it finished stronger. I'm a fan of telling people they're shit and that they should eat dicks, but the earlier lines we're well crafted and they deserve a better ending.
Content-wise, it's a bit lackluster, but the language and meter is doing good work. I enjoyed reading it out loud and hearing it, even if it was less enjoyable on a conceptual level.
Ends/means/etc: Sorry, but I didn't enjoy this one at all. It's too bitter. Clearly, you don't like the asshole these women are attracted to, but in the real world, they aren't going to care if he drinks energy drinks (which makes the conclusion less effective).
Liinshad: 2nd favorite of yours. I enjoy when someone takes the time to do as much as they can with something so condensed.
Nice work anon. Keep writing.
Here's one that I posted in another thread earlier today, but received no feedback (criticism is appreciated):
Perhaps I have wondered you
In shape and still unclear.
Though the mind, like others,
Is capable of spanning both miles and hours,
Still, I am unsure.
The vast; the unknown; the ever-present.
These questions permeate
My lungs, my being, my self.
Your wonder, too,
Remains unreached and unreachable.
Though your shape lay peaceful,
Though my hope is you dream pleasant,
Still, there remains that distance not traversed.
And in the quiet hours
Just before the birds begin to sing the dawn,
I am left speechless.
The need to transcend becomes tangible
and the next moments become fleeting.
Overwhelmed, I lay down.
Perhaps another time.
I enjoyed this. I was able to picture the images of each stanza.
Is the turn at the beginning of the last stanza intentional? To clarify: each previous stanza begins with the sensory: I think, I see, I hear.
Each is something you do unconsciously. You don't choose to think. You don't choose to see. You don't choose to hear.
Then, the turn, "I stay with you." Staying is a conscious choice, and given the three previous stanzas beginning with a certain passivity, the affirmation of "I stay" is that much more powerful.
Nice work anon. If you feel like returning the favor, here is the poem I've posted:
In regards to Ends/means/etc I meant bull semen literally. I know a guy who drank actual bull semen because of the protein, and actually did get rejected because of the fact. Commentary on ends and means, etc.
I appreciate the feedback, I'll keep it in mind during revision.
I'll get around to critiquing more in this thread if it's still alive tomorrow, I'll probably do yours first. I've offered most of the feedback in the last 10 or so posts and don't have the will to do anymore tonight lol
he always thought
but never did
he had composure
then he slid
he paced the world
with worthless feet
he chose to see
sat on his seat
he grasped a lot
but grabbed for few
he lived a life
and now it's due
No worries man, totally understand.
Thanks for clarifying my misreading, but seriously, who the FUCK drinks bull semen for gains? Makes the poem better. I mistook your disgust for bitterness.
On re-reading, I think you should leave that poem exactly how it is. I'm still in disbelief at his being able to rationalize "women like muscles, bull sperm helps my muscles develop," as if somehow his physique could mask the fact that he DRANK BULL SEMEN.
Fuck man, I need to go brush my teeth just thinking about this shit.
One more for the night to bump the thread and hopefully draw attention and much needed feedback to some deserving anons
I took this one a little more seriously than erection syntax and semen swallowing this time. Also the repetition servers a purpose, as does the switch in rhyme scheme in the final stanza. Enjoy, or don't.
Chasing a fire
A fire of love
Ever so slowing
Only to shun
Chasing a fire
A fire of lies
Ever so tempting
Only to shy
Chasing a fire
A fire of grace
Ever so lovely
Only to chaste
Chasing a fire
A fire of want
Ever so near
Only to taunt
Catching a fire
A fire of love
Ever so mine
Only to die
The men so high in their castles, resplendent in their grand array,looked down upon the earth and reflected this upon the day.
That men were so easy to be held under their sway.
Their minds never made, today's diamond is but tommorow's spade
Then a magi walked onto the castle balcony,and the wise men, having spoken with him for some time, were thouroughly convinced that the magi was right. For of course the men now realized, the magi had always been right . The magi then preceded to show the men now how the world should be viewed from the lofts of the tower. And with that, the peasants toiled, the soldiers died, the priests exhorted, and the magi was right, for the men knew he was.
i just wrote this one and i'm feelin kind of proud of it:
Your effervescent minnow ship
will clean my blackboard star
Nammu-minnows fling from fixed cross
for stolen silver bars
for the thoughts of sun-soaked angels
whose semitic smiles
spill the sparks below
and then the blackness spreads the death
and sunspots sink the ???
and then the sanguine spills Sangraal
and sordid spirits laugh
Belphegor bathes Sin and sleeps
with Nyx behind the knife
indentured angels spin the night
in endless counts for life
to paintings in display
from Hell they came
and uttered runes so grey
and then the blackness spreads the death
and shadows shatter ???
and then the saintly knight brings death
and splays the golden calf
Wit is looking
Wit is looking for the it's chance
It's chance to dance
Upon the palette
And savor in the flavor
Of your your acid retorts
To slip through the cracks in your teeth
While your dagger tongue lies in it's sheathe
To caress your lips like an eclipse
That hides your pain behind the rain
That is your projection of insecurities
Hidden by your scrutinies
So snicker all you care
Breathe in the thicker air
Suffocate as I anticipate
The day you choke on your poison voice
It's your choice
Sitting with my coffee
Under golden arches
This may be the last day of my life
The last coffee of my life
The last miserable day starts off not so miserable
There is a prevailing peace over a man who has come this far
Eternity is beyond this breakfast with hotcakes
An infinitely fine last meal
For a life with dismal account of fine meals
I suck at this
I like it, anon.
It's not trying too hard to be verbose, or to set up some intracite scheme.
It's just about something simple, real, and relatable.
Infact despite being about something kind of sad, it actually makes me feel happy to read.
You and I and George
Were Strolling through the park one day,
Then you took my hand as if to say,
"I love you."
Then we passed a brook,
And George fell in and drowned himself,
And floated out to sea,
Leaving you alone with me.
Once, I stole away
In the middle of the night
and because I was afraid
I left myself behind
Now the body feels empty
and the soul feels dull
Like there's nothing inside me
Like I'm now an empty hall
So again, I steal away
To my first and final stop
In the middle of the day
I pick myself up.
Incessant charity case indirectly chirping for milk of mother,
I’ve no job, and no cigarettes, the pauper cries
She goes out to buy a pack of the Marlo Borough’s reds.
Shame, regret, and the smoke blanketing the lungs, smother.
The first four lines and the last four lines sound like two different poems when read allowed, and the last four certainly sound better than the first. Fix the meter and rhythm of the first four to match the last and it'd be much better. "I cower" is awkward there. I enjoy the idea though
Glub Glub I live my life
Chasing air inhaling strife
Mocking glass reflected pipes
Why not rise; afraid of heights
Ascending bubbles sinking fins
Drowning spirits in stale sins
Forlorn lights in hurry
Useless gils and wide-eyed girls
Tapping resonance and swirls
Forgotten flakes to feed the fish
Now I starve; receive my wish
I think what people need is the skateboarding. It really comes down to how much gnarliness you can take in before you puke it up. At the top level you (really, (literally)) begin to listen to new strange music. (Its beautiful, (and one of the few remaining and quickly disappearing good aspects of life from the last century.?))
Either I don't get it or this is bad. Seems juvenile regarding syntax and word selection. Also, what's with the parentheses?
Not trying to be harsh or anything but this is a critique/feedback thread after all.
It's strange when ..
Jesus took the wheel, still yet Satan has the map
For the Shepherd leads Sheep. Unto darkness pathed
Strewn about through mountains night, marked alone
Out of sight, upon where darkness groans in anger
Growling even when air, it's filled with laughter
The sound of Deceit, Deepened concrete over series
Of Lies built upon a throne, the cusp, of Society
Mortality if you will, at it's finest out on show
Our Weakness used against us, portrayed on screens
By "Stars" twice our age in parts nothing is known
About except we were young. The character that is
A character so steep in Stereotype, we've lost way
Too much. Our time Wasted & Betrayed & Misdirected
Through filters of Shame & Abuse used to reign in
The People, like Cattle & the Noose upon thoughts
No longer free slipping tighter around the throats
Of Noncomformists daring to question systems both
Old & new meant to keep us, the Youth, distracted
And subdued to the point of Confusion, writing out
Our days in school, spoon fed a History primmed up
And Rewritten to disguise the truth about you, us
We'd forsaken what we need for wants Prescribed to
Blind us to a past of Violence & Lies so unclear
Than any well.
Except the one with no water.
This Well of Lies.
Edgy. Flow gets awkward after the fourth line. Seems like you had an idea and either got bored with it or executed it poorly and/or lazily. Has potential though, with revision I can see this being good
Well its more or less a broken thought, but its really taken out of context. Ots kind of stream of consciousness, and the parenthesis are like thoughts I didn't want to commit too. I probably should have gone into just a bit more detail.
Care to elaborate? I can see the purpose of juvenile syntax if what you're going for is a concept like being written by a kid, or trying to give your piece a juvenile or "childish" (not in the derogatory context) feel. But that's not what I'm getting from his piece personally.
not him, but I would say that juvenile syntax doesn't have to be "childish."
To elaborate: watch any interview of a grown man who skateboards. He speaks (and thinks) in syntax that is "juvenile." This doesn't make him a 14 year-old kid. The "juvenile" syntax, diction, etc. is part of skateboarding culture. I think he uses to many parentheses, but the way the ideas are broken into chunks that don't necessarily work together seems exactly like the sort of language I would expect should I ever meet Steve Caballero, Tony Hawk, or any other "older" skater.
If he's doing this intentionally, it's working well in my opinion. The problem is that many people use this sort of thing to mask a poor ability to write.
I want you to post everything you've written. I'm not kidding. If you have more of this, I want to contact you outside of the 4chinz and discuss your writing.
Someone very interested in EXACTLY this type of poetry.
I've never read much poetry, and certainly haven't written any since high-school. I decided to take a crack at it, but it turned out rather shit house. Oh well. Sorry about the formatting. I use notepad.
With glaring evidence written upon his face,
light glistening from the anguish of his guilt,
Did he drop to his knees and cried before his
The wickedness of sin enveloped and clouded
the clarity of my soul. Words alone
cannot elucidate how contempt and bitterness
can change a man and shatter him hole.
Your eyes see the Devil within my being
but at first it was not so.
Painfully slowly, like rain on
the rocks and wind through the mountains
is the the idyllic purety of our
childhood stripped away.
The kindness of our Youth, tempered
from each blow and knock withstood,
hardens into the strength of will
the defines manhood.
Or torn completely from our soul,
through tortuous and tempestuous journeys
it is removed. And with the
battering of time, do the devils lackeys
begin to encroach until at last, stripped
of the of purity and kindness
that is our youth Belial's soft breathed
voice whispers in your ear.
With guilded tongue and wicked mind
does the Worthless one turn our
I dont want to hijack a thread, butI am this guy and i have to say that's a pretty good point. The style is sick but it sort of discredits the writer.
But I think somewhere in there is the idea that a more free or laidback mindset could do people some good.
reading Milton I'm guessing?
Also, formatting isn't an issue so much as your punctuation. Unless the line breaks are because of the formatting issue (I think not because you can break up the lines properly in note pad), you're using line breaks instead of the correct punctuation.
Your verb tense is a bit off too (unless it's a typo):
>Did he drop to his knees and cried before his
>Your eyes see the Devil within my being
but at first it was not so
I like the images you create, but the form needs work. Not bad though!
In death there is great sadness I find.
However there is always joy,
Fleeting yet very awake,
But gone in an instant.
It is this I find,
That is sorrow
It is fine.
One day we too,
Will die and be gone,
And another will grieve.
The cycle continues now:
As we sleep another one dies,
Treading endlessly to Nirvana.
Need critique; is this shit? If so, why.
Thanks man. Always nice to receive something positive. And yeah, I'm checking out Paradise Lost.
I've really no idea what I'm doing as far as punctuation goes within a poem. I'm just making them all roughly the same length and going from there.
Thank you so much for the kind words!
Attached is another poem of mine. I've only written one more but it was a long time ago and I'm not very comfortable with it. I'm not very comfortable with poetry in general honestly, I usually stick to prose. Heh, I hope I don't disappoint.
how does everyone here write poems? i used to write them on my ipod notepad app, but i don't like the unreliability of technology, so i recently bought a hand-bound journal with thick, naturally made paper. i really like the feeling of the rough paper and it motivates me to write a lot more than a digital notebook did.
Oh, no, I'm afraid I've lived a relatively peaceful and privileged life. When I wrote this I imagined it from the perspective a prestigious poet/journalist going to write about a war. That is why the bombardier asks him to write a poem, he knows his reputation.
Poetry punctuation, for the most part, is the same as prose. The only major difference is capitalizing the first letter of the lines (unless you're being edgy on purpose or don't know the rules).
I write poetry; however, the punctuation is a mystery.
can be broken up and still properly punctuated as
Is a mystery.
I prefer more traditional forms, but for people using line breaks and such for stylistic reasons, there is no reason to abandon punctuation, especially when it informs how the poem is read aloud i.e. you don't pause at line breaks when reading aloud, the two examples above are read allowed exactly the same way. The line breaks are more for reading silently. Punctuation lets the reader know how to read the poem out loud.
we Play at being giants
stomping through places we don't belong
taking things that don't belong to us
wearing clothes much too big for us
we Fake it so well
people believe it
six foot or sixty
they can't tell the difference
we've been doing it so long now we believe we're giants too
but when we stand next to Real Giants
our cheeks flush
A field of green has fade to gray
The air is black
Fog descends and smoke uplifts
All been had
From is to was
Soon to be
Will never, passed
Can't and won't
Too late now
All finished last
I write everything on this phone on this board almost always
Makes sense. I'm actually going through what i spat out again and attempting to write it in blank verse. Although I'm a little lost about what stress exactly is within poetry. Perhaps I'll grab a book on the subject. I'm certainly enjoying Milton, so maybe learning a little more will increase the enjoyment.
Said Horus to Seth,
"Will you give it a rest?"
To which Seth did reply,
"The rightful king, am I."
And he smiled at the Gods that he greeted.
"This isn't right! Be I cheated?"
The young Horus bleated.
But now arrived Ra,
And with a "ooh" and an "ahh",
The tribunal itself were all seated.
By now Seth was quite restless,
A talent most feckless,
He loved the thrill of the fight.
So with a roar and a fright
And a fervour so bright
He challenged Horus to duel at midnight.
>Lughnasa (It means the Autumn Harvest festival in my native ireland's ancient celtic culture)
I love lughnasa, but I hate Mondays.
The subject’s lacking. Think of it as love
where the subject’s lacking. Think of it as love
ice collects downstream. Upstream
the music fades into its announcement
where the subject’s lacking, think of it as love
for a little while, a variation
the music fades in. To its announcement
the sun — wait — the sun rises
for a little while, a variation
woke me up at night:
“The sun, wait, the sun rises
for a little while” was later on “the air
woke me up at night”
sweating amid the upright pines, and a song
for a little while was later on the air
I turned in. To who I was, I pale
sweating amid the upright. Pines and a song
men whistle while they work become the paper
I turned in to who I was. I pale
men whistle, while they work become the paper
the subject’s lacking. Think of it as love
ice collects upstream downstream.
Face to the wall
Inclined to the peak
Spelunking your cave
Or so do we speak
A rhythm of rocking
Creaking and sorts
Udders and shudders
Loudly I'm sure
Quicken the pace
And strengthen the thrust
Blowing the future
Onto the bust
Dripping and dropping
Onto the floor
Grab you a towel
Don't stain, mi amor
Anal is great
Forget what they say
The scent only smells
But for a day
>Pines and a song men whistle while they work become the paper I turned into who I was
in a perspective
Structure all around
Cries and smoke fleeing
to an ironic horizon
Chaos floods a city's veins
Carved into time
Every so often there comes upon a time during which I am mistaken for a bee
Though it may seem an innocent misconception it is rather dastardly
Those plebians are black with yellow stripes, I born reverse
Is there really such a difference? What a thought, so perverse!
They bumble through the air with maladroit, oh so awkwardly
I float with precision, grace, purpose, a play for all the world to see
What's the big deal? are the cries of ignorance
You're two in one! say the misinformed observants
Oh what a life I live, with elegance and intelligence mistaken on a whim
Forever doomed, synonymous with repulsivness, bees are such a thing
today i read an article
of perhaps untrue origins
that beyonce may or may not be
what is wrong with you people
there are children in africa
given the lack of food
have simply reverted to photosynthesis
and lie in the sun all day
they have terrible sunburns yet
you decide to argue about the moral standing
of one women
you are a waster
of the resources
i hope the environmentalists come
and get your goat
ozymandias, lay down your burden!
your spiral of affairs, that rests
so heavy, and perfectly molded
upon your sunken shoulders.
let it slip, splash through the waters,
to rest in the silt, awaiting another
to shoulder your lessons, and shape
his back to seem a perfect fit.
Walk on into the future
your hobnails click-clatter along,
echoing into forgotten silence, the fate
of every artist who laid himself bare
and in doing so, looked himself a skeleton
identical to every other. instead, y’maker
Bushwhack a trail through the Andes
and find sanctum in the first silent
dawns of the frozen plateaus
might your shoeprints not stay
and might they not be the biggest
nor may they be the clearest
but might they always be the first
forsake yourself, for you
have chipped the rock into
a likeness of yourself so much less
than what you could become.
Now more than you will ever be.
You thief, scoundrel, doctor!
I am sickened by my nature
take blood from these rocky veins.
Carve a likeness of gods,
unto my god-crafted face.
And sign so delicately,
your narcissistic cause.
Then, perhaps, when maggots
play pea knuckle on your snout
might I stand above, a reminder
not of the man who did well,
but the man who did differently.
I don't really like it tbh, I wrote it in a minute because i like very quickly formulating verse and I love me some bucolic imagery, a lot of poetry is too abstract and separated from the world. A lot of my poems end up feeling somewhat broken in two, I think I have a first burst of inspiration for a couple of lines and then try and formulate a narrative from it and just mash an end on, which generally comes in another burst which does not gel with the first. I didn't like the last two lines, they seemed ridiculous and broke with the chain of the lines before.
This is fantastic
It can be a purer expression of thought than prose.
We thought of love as just a cuss,
has never brought no good for us.
Yeah, love was just another chain,
electric impulse in your brain.
So when you left, no tears were shed.
Another day, another bed.
But now that it has been so long,
I wonder if we both were wrong.
I must become a neckbeard icon.
Sperglord to the thousands who dwell basement-wise
The NEETs who burn cars at the invasion of their turf by rival dealers
And don't get laid for four years only to fuck a series of outside-loving normies (not driven out by their serious mental issues)
The basements and the peaks are very close
Evola in his apartment typing train bombings and NATO organisations
Changing Italian politics
The innovations that come from being a quirky recluse
Every step outside society enables the foundation of a new way. A new order, the beginnings of something if you can stay alive long enough to see it.
Usually ten or twenty years after you stop. Or have moved to Africa or a similar place as far from where you were born as possible.
These fountains of newness
Whose water floods out the past
These sculptures of ice painted with melted sugar
The basements decide where the peaks are and if they might be the peak
The mid-slopes accept this and the disturbed join the high and low camps
It is being the fucked peg that enables you to choose to make a society where the fuckedness is normal
Or to abandon society or live half in it with any number of identities
The indeterminable eyes of a criminal without criminal mannerisms
One who knows how they're made and makes themselves
I seriously consider becoming a jaguar every day.
What does /lit/ think of this poem?
I am that kind of Jew.
My Hebraic nature will not stay under wraps,
pipe down or seem more mainstream for your convenience,
is neither conservative nor reform.
My soul doesn’t fit in a power suit.
Is not a religion
It is lusty and dark and different.
It is other
It is rubbed to shining, glistening with olive oil,
Smelling of sweet almond.
It is wrapped in swaths of heavy fabric
repping the shtetl
thuds in my blood.
It is proud, head thrown back, chest spread, in a warrior stance
Rings through my veins.
I am that Hebrew.
I am that kind of Jew.
I believe in rigorous intellectual exploration.
You can thank my atheist parents for that: heaven knows I do.
Also true: the heart wants what it wants.
The rhythm of sacred dances circle through me unendingly.
My DNA is a hotbed of collective memory.
The ancestors whisper up through the vessel of me, they
Bless me for my willingness to exist inconveniently.
I am a Jew.
I am that kind of Jew.
I am that Hebrew
who had kindergarten playdates cancelled
on account of “our people killing Jesus.”
The kind who had swastikas scratched into her second-grade desk
with the sharp end of metal compasses.
Who had not one but two different high school boyfriends
get beaten for dating a Jew;
One by his stepdad and one by his best friend,
So please understand if
I am deeply saddened
But wholly unsurprised by rampant anti-Semitism,
by the hot breath of hatred against the back of my neck.
I am a miracle.
My existence defies logic
As well as the wishes of countless
who’d like to see me wiped off the face of the planet.
I am the product of generations of prayers
I am the product of a bravery I can’t begin to imagine.
The fact that I was born Jewish,
The fact that I breathe
Is proof of this.
And I am more than just this.
I was born for just this.
I will die with Shema on my lips.
'might my heart be x' has connotations of wishing your heart is x, or hoping, or willing, with a possible interpretation of maybe my heart is x in the right context.
'my heart might be x' is definitely first of all like "maybe my heart is x, who knows, teehee". But if you're leading into it with a cause e.g. if you give me a sight, my heart might be full, then it works as a possible effect of the cause.
I posted this in another thread but it didn't really take off. It's mostly automatic with a bit of editing; it's my first poem and written for an intro to poetry writing class.
The Best Cup of Coffee I Ever Had
so it's like
I wake up
on some sort of couch that folds out into a "bed"
and it's super cool or whatever that my cousin and her boyfriend let me sleep on their spare
and I'm sure the thing looked a hell of a lot more comfortable
on whichever street corner they found it
but I wake up
with a knot in my back the
so I waltz into the kitchen
and find my cousin
and her boyfriend
and a plate of sausage that got cold waiting for the eggs to scramble
and eggs that got cold waiting for the toast to toast
and toast that's getting cold in the toaster
waiting for me
things are going pretty good at this point because I, like, never wake up to breakfast
and they're about to get better because I hear
"coffee's on the stove"
so here I am
waltzing some more
and I find this moka pot
this tiny moka pot
this tiny moka pot that could barely hold enough coffee to fill a teacup
but breakfast is just about frozen at this point and the knot in my back is growing to
and I need some hot something
so I pour every last drop of Joe out of that moka pot
fit for a Hobbit on a diet and not much else
and I open the fridge
just heavy cream
(did we have casserole for dinner last night?)
okay so I'm like thinking, you know,
if I cut this here coffee with about a cup of that there heavy cream, maybe
it'll be enough to get me through the morning
and so I do
and this coffee is, like, the color of a pair of faded khakis and about as thick as molasses
and speaking of molasses
speaking of molasses
there is no, like, normal sugar
just brown sugar
(in the fridge
to keep away ants)
so I go to pour some in my drink
and the so-called-"sugar" is clumping
the way it does
when you put it
in the fridge
but I'm too tired or stupid or something to realize it
(hey, man, be easy on me, I haven’t had my coffee yet)
so anyway this chunk of brown sugar as big as
I kid you not
a walnut, maybe a walnut-and-a-half
crash lands straight into my java
nevermind that I'm crying over the lost thirty-or-so drops of coffee
fifteen drops coffee, fifteen heavy cream
but now the whole
is about as sweet as a honeycomb
so I guess we're equal parts
and brown sugar at this point
and I'm twirling my spoon clockwise with my right hand
my steady hand
praying I don't spill any more than I already have
and my breakfast is forming ice crystals at its corners
and I sit down
and I sit down
and let me tell you
let me tell you
let me just say
Shit, that was some good coffee.
If you worked it out a bit more, for sure. It could use a bit more flowery language in some spots, particularly the bits about lying in the sun. It needs to sound a bit more devastating and harsh. But the opening is pretty strong. I might change
>what is wrong with you people
to something a bit more like
>are you serious?
>is everyone serious?
or at least some sort of play on the simplicity of the idea that people are missing the big picture.
Could I get some thoughts on mine?
So, i spent a bit of time changing stuff around. It's probably still bad, or worse than it was, but I'm starting to really enjoy writing it.
Whilst I never really share anything I write, I'd like your opinion on it. If, after reading the beginning, would you continue on? Or slowly put the book down and backout of the room?
With the breath before my last I give to
You a gift of knowledge, though by design
it shall make Fears true and truth feared, fore'er
replacing my legacy of sin with
The dire warnings of the damned, to the damned.
With glaring evidence written upon
His face, Light glistening from the anguish
Of his guilt, The Faustine man dropped to his
Knees and faced the detestation of the
Crowd. Tho body spoiled through neglect, his clothes
In ruin, without fear his voice rang forth
With guilded tongue and wicked mind does
The worthless one, beguiled by Satans spell,
Turn our pursuit of happiness into
The idleness of apathy's soulful
Neglect. Creating a darkness which soothes
The pain evil causes, allowing us
To heap terrible woes and evils 'pon
What should, for not the darkness, be Christ's shrine.
What man amongst- O! The voice of outrage
and looks of villanous contempt appear
so easily in the frightened sinner!
What man amongst, I say, sees the world through
Eyes of sinlessness? As the blind man sees,
I see. A darkness so great that crushes
all and consumes the soft voice of souls doubt,
fills instead my mind with wanton thoughts or
the desire to neglect my duty.
What man amongst knows not the pains I know?
The wickedness of sin enveloped and
Clouded the clarity of my soul. Words
Alone cannot elucidate how the
Contempt and bitterness, piled upon
The soul through long years struggle, changes men;
Shatters them. Your eyes see true wickedness,
The Devil writhing within my being,
But at first it was not so. Painfully
Slowly, like rain on the rocks and wind through
The peaks, is the idyllic purety
Of our youth stripped from us. The kindness
Found in childhood, tempered from each blow and
Knock , hardens into the strength of will that
Or torn completely and rashly from our
Soul, through tortuous and tempestuous
Journeys, tis thus removed. With the batt'ring
Of time, do the devil's lackeys begin
To encroach. Until, at last, stripped of the
Purity and kindness that is our youth,
Belial's soft breathed voice whispers in your
Cheers. It's supposed to be a bit dark and weird, it's supposed to be a speech warning others about sin through inaction.
I'll have to work through it a little more. Or just give up and start again. I'm going to blame Milton though. I never touch poetry, but that bastards got me all toey for it.
I'm not so crash hot with poetry, but... whats the point of your poem? It reminds me of the time I went to my friends house, another mate was there too. It was really strange. They were making sense, but leaping from one subject to the next without any real links. After about 5-10 minutes of confusion I realised they had taken acid and it was just starting to kick in.
I probably wouldn't read much poetry like it, it's not my sort of thing, but it has some fun images in it.
oh my god that's really funny
It's for a poetry assignment for class but it was about the best cup of coffee I've ever had and I figured it'd be a funny thing to write about. Thanks for the help!
It wasn't so funny when they gave me two caps so I swallowed them down and they started giggling. They were tripping balls and only had one.
Man, I wish I could write a poem about that night. It was summer, so I was standing on a tractor tire looking at the long brown grass sway in the wind for about 2 hours. So pretty. And the night trees looking like coral.
oh man I'd read that.
Go smoke a cigarette or something. Get away from the computer and music and people and everything. Start writing about it and just don't stop till it's done. And then post it here.
I'll give it a go later on, maybe. But the problem is that, whilst I remember the night quite clearly, my brain seems to have placed a filter over everything I witnessed and felt. I've rationalized it all. Acid really seems to qipe my brain completely clean. It's like experiencing everything for the first time. Even looking at the prawns that were defrosting in the sink was supremely enjoyable. I remember all that but, as I said, i've rationalised it all so it's gone.
I remember sitting out in the backyard, late in the evening, and I was getting cold. So I just moved myself nearer to the garden light and I felt so warm. After touching the light, I knew it wasn't emitting any noticeable heat, but still.. Much more comfortable. And then the pizza arrived and I raised it to my mouth, after being so hungry for so long, the light sat behind the pizza and it was like the clouds parting and God's light shining behind Jesus', who stood with arms open.
Powerful stuff, but probably completely impossible to capture after the fact.