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Poetry critique/rate thread
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post you're poems :)
i can't you repulsed me
The fat man's drenched hat crumpled in a shivering fist
He's lost the whole house from around him
Every single shingle shattered into atoms
Only he remains, standing circumcised on torn earth
Where his living room once was stripped to his skin
With a wet hat in his right hand

Umbrella inverted and undressed
Stuffed in the top of a trash can
"right as rain" spokes reach
Grabbing coats and poking pocket books
Its dress is torn to one last spoke
It pours a sliding sheet of rain over the side, over the side

The cracked earth cow-skull dirt in a no-cloud blue sky capsule
Leaks out the ozone's bald spot along with your brand new closed curtains
A dozen frozen roses and cozmo, the thumbed cat

2 women walk up to a penny
One says, "oh look a penny."
Then the other one says, "oh, it's a lucky one."
Then the one goes, "no it isn't."
And they both walk off
We are poems
But I must be goings
my box is made, the pills erect, it's one cut cookie syndrome
the pill that's huge and swallows other pills
it's jar bottom right below me, and not a spot of cork above,
why can I barely see exactly where the loop is marked?
it cuts in, I cut out, pidagurpidagle says hello,
and hunts the pilot light within the heater monolith she prays to

art museums make me want to kill myself,
I understand now why pidagurpidagle pulls on the door
even when she knows it's locked shut.
people surround themselves with pets
to deny the fact that they're alone, most of the time
"stop the world, I want off."
easy access.

are you scared the album will end before the doorbell rings,
and you'll be left to greet your guests
with a tied tongue, cold lunch, and spent wick candle?

looking for an explanation everywhere except in
as I stuff my face from dirty pot,
and greasy spoon, and sweaty peas, and buttered rice,
and the water's running. I think ribs like rosebush branches.
flies in eyes, the corners of, and sally struthers don't be depressed.
I've made it to the mystery of mona lisa's mouth.

the streets smell like beer and exhaust this christmas.
don't be depressed, but no one wants to rent movies
to an out-of-towner without a credit card.
did nothing today, but walk a blind man to his bus stop.
Why would I post my poetry here when I'm going to have it published?
So at least someone might read it.
ey /lit/

I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained.
"Roll me one,"
She asks the kid who doesn't smoke.
"Roll me one,"
The first few times it's a request, until that nuclear winter of a woman sets in.
"Roll me one,"
She stops asking.
"Roll me one,"
She repeats, dismissing the ugly, the bent, the limp, the loose, the tight, the ones who
burn too fast, too slow and especially the ones with paper sticking out over the filter.
"Roll me one,"
She says, throwing the deficient ones at my face with a flick of the wrist, like a smaller
calibre slap.
"Roll me one,"
She says through her teeth while I smoke the rejected, having been told not to waste her
our tobacco.
"Roll me one,"
She says in bed, smiling, staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.
"Roll me one,"
She says, giggling, while I fumble with the papers, not yet a condom wrapper. "Again,"
she says, inspecting the firmness of the cigarette, her head tilted to the side,
disappointed in my whiskey hands as if they were a whiskey dick.
"Roll me one,"
She orders between sobs, and again, and again, until the smoke detector dies of
"Roll me one,"
She whispers, waking me up from my spiteful sleep in the hallway with a poke of her
pinksocked feet. But after all those years, after the thousands of cigarettes I had grown
something like a spine, likely a tumor.
"Why don't you roll your own?"
She purses her lip for half a second, making sure I notice, and deploys the answer like a
precision strike, having long hoped for a night to come when affection could be
"Because I like watching you roll them for me."
I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained, like a dog, by a bitch.
And I thanked her.

>implying I'm not a once in a generation talent.
Oh my god that was actually good

Do you want a little crit?
small calibre
her-- our tobacco
spine (likely a tumor)
not if you're posting sherlock gifs you twat
thank you.

yes, i'd like some critique. what would you say could be improved in those lines?

Keep thinking that, Champ.
literally go back to tumblr

your reaction gifs aren't welcome here
Those ARE minor changes to your lines

(I'm terrible at critique)
Post yer word diarrhea so I can make fun of it pl0x

( i am open to being impressed if it is good )
Oh! Sorry, I see it now! Yes. I thought I had the same dash. Small calibre is much better. Thank you, anon.
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>literally go back to tumblr

Ah yes. There's a good ol' chestnut.


I already explained here: >>7576973
So many people
trying too hard

making poems
using fancy words
i wouldn't have to use the good old chestnut if your reaction images weren't such cancer

None of us have to do anything, anon.
do you have a folder named 'eyeroll gifs' or
You're welcome, will you crit one of mine?

You say "tick-tock" like it's someone else's fault
you've been staring at the second hand for months.

You say "tick-tock" like you think reminding yourself
of the stacked deck will make it any less potent
when deployed against you.

You say "tick-tock" and I wonder
when you'll realize you're mocking yourself
for your failure to rise
(as a swirl of feathered smoke,
subject to the whims of a breeze)
from your urn.
Let me lie, lover,
I don’t want to halt your
heartbeat or injure your
swollen gaze.

I know you wear a
heavy coat to keep your
body on the ground. You, who
is pulled to the stars by
idealistic notions of the
Real world, and
How This is Supposed to Work.

But I’ve been caging the
truth of my love behind
flimsy feelings and false proclamations.
Your predisposition to cliché
romance has kept my love’s prison
well-guarded and its structural strength
was designed by your hand.

Choosing to chase me
back to the first night is
what drove me to our last.
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great question, anon. intriguing. what type of psychopath would actually go and do a thing like that?
sure. disclaimer: just my opinion i'm just some guy don't take me too seriously.

>subject to the whims of a breeze)

i think you don't want like a singular subject here. i mean, i know it's not really a singular, but i feel it would be better without the 'a' article. to the whims of the winds has a cute rhyme in there but i don't know if you're going for that.

also i think the second stanza is too long. both literally and the thought it's trying to express. maybe reword it? the first stanza has the stacatto rhythm going for it but the second doesn't, it just kinda winds out like a long breath.

i liked the first and third stanza a lot. only other comment is that i find it hard to perform. i was reading it aloud a couple of times and couldn't fit the right tone. that's not criticism, i'm just curious how you would read it? i mean your demeanor and your cadence and your tone.
when they could have a thigh roll folder
i don't put anything past you you psycho

>implying i don't.
Thank you!! I get what you're saying about the second stanza, and the breeze line. Will work on those things

Read aloud, the first two stanzas coming out in a rushed exasperated deperate avalanche and the third calmer, more confident.
While I'm training troops in parachutes how to act frou-frou
So when their sergeants return from butterscotching Mr. Lynn
They can do the Charlston while I paint
The face of Private Fontaine on his enemy's face
And do the same to him until the ballroom's filled
With soldiers wondering if they like themselves
And all are forced to forgive and forget
you'll be disappointed

I rewrote mine with your advice, better?

You say "tick-tock" like it's someone else's fault
you've been staring at the second hand for months.

You say "tick-tock" like memories of the stacked deck
will make it any less potent when deployed against you.

You say "tick-tock" and I wonder when you'll realize
you're mocking your own failure to rise
(as a swirl of feathered smoke,
subject to the whim of a blustery day)
from your urn.
blustery day is great. second stanza flows a lot better. i feel kind of weird about deployed as a verb there but it works with potent so i don't know what to think. are you gonna make it longer?
Thanks. I might have expanded on it, but Mr Ticktock apologized for his stupidity and I don't have the feels to keep going any more
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that's good. but god i know the struggle

>mfw not having enough feels to write anything good
I've been writing poems based on posts on /adv/ lel. Example:

I'm sad because I technically missed out on sex last night.

I had a couple of drinks, took my night meds (they basically knock me out) and smoked a j with my bf, then we went to bed and I fell asleep in between kisses while cuddling. I woke up this morning with cum dripping out of me and my bf told me that apparently he started fucking me, I woke up for like a minute, then fell asleep again.

But now I'm sad that I missed out because I was super horny last night, I was also just super tired.


I'm sad because alcohol,
the Ambien walrus, and jazz cigarettes
were able to woo my consciousness
so deeply that my boyfriend's
caresses and eager rooster
were unable to rouse me.
what do these mean
anyone still here?
Looking for a critique
walking right by me
i know you saw me, slouched on concrete.
do you only want to look me in the eyes
when we fuck?
or would that, too,
be in excess:
you giveth, and you taketh away.
what kind of luxury can we afford?
Serpent's seduction
Temptation pulses the heart
The flower blooms once again
In black
Bite the apple of sin
Drink the wine of fealty
Serpent's blood
Inking the contract
Of my soul
Smolder my passion
Within the fires of exploit
Serpent's revelation
Shedding the spurious skin
Beholding the razor flesh underneath
Bite me in my humanity
And suck up the pumping fervor
Remaining with vehemence of anger
Scorn your reflection
For in your eyes it is only
Your antithesis

its about my ex lol
Alone but not without company
The bleakness and beauty subtly overwhelm
Blinding lights, noiseless sound, unending darkness
This is very good, thank you for sharing.
I dreamt something,
While the world was awake,
A passing of time
And none to dissuade
Because reality made
No difference here
In what I'd imagined
Was called fear.
And that reason,
That mode,
That idea let forth
Forfeited myself
To an unknown course.
Oh craft of my mine,
er of my creep. Thou
the mine deep.
Diamonds crafted to shine.

items fell to earth,
and in the big and strong void
falling from my being who stays dearth

la espada who came to amar
I saw a leaf drop slowly from a barren tree in the middle of a waning city of cross-connections and goodbyes.
It seemed to me, the last soft sigh of winters frozen clutches, withered and dead to the boughs of its spindly sleeping soul.
And finally, on the suns coaxing whispers, it had snapped its furled veins and the last leaf, that had hung on so long, finally made way for a coming spring.
And on its wafty decent, it opened its paper wings and instead of a hoping glimpse of summer, and instead of a long-dead maple sprig, it was a bird dipping from the branch it was playing upon.
And I thought of all of life in a few seconds and I thought of you.
Self indulgent to the point where I was cringing a bit, as far as critique the whole thing feels pretty artificial you seem to straining to be typically "poetic" which always is felt by the reader. I'd suggest writing it without the melodrama, it may be less appealing when you lose the smoke and mirrors but if something still remains it will be a lot more honest and ultimately more interesting.
I'm no poet.

We seem to fool ourselves into thinking all thoughts have value.
Endlessly, thoughts and "insights" are written, said, and created in bubbles of like mindedness. However, these bubbles, by nature, are very frail, and so the next generations to inherit our triumphs and sins are, by nature, frail.

Perhaps we want them to matter, we want to believe the pain we experience from an initial rejection isn't just a growers pain. Like children, we wish to be the center of attention, in some manner or another. And so, instead of taking this pain, and learning from it, we appear to break down and desperately pull out our wands to blow new, bigger, more spacious bubbles.

It seems as though everyone needs their own bubble, in some way, shape or form, yet at the same time we antagonize the safety of our bubbles, as though we want them to pop. Is it because we seek conflict? Or are thrilled by the idea of stressful change?

So, in the end I'm no poet. I have my own bubbles. I think we all do. I'm no poet, and I'm no wordsmith, but I do know one thing: that it feels like I know nothing. It hurts sometimes to feel so small, but all I can do is live. If I were to try to write a poem as honestly as I could, it would be the bastard abomination of a variety of mainstream, generic literary works mashed together in an attempt to fool someone on or below my intelligence or literary exposure level.

So I'm no poet.

Are you?
I like this, but it lacks true spirit to me. I think you have a bright mind, but need to personalize more.
Do you mean spirit like emotion or spirit like uniqueness?
both. neither.
on our perpetual bus ride home, slowly,
we were all muzzle moutheded and
rushing ice cream to the fridge at the crib.
it's the same old new moon,
gagging on the abc so on
that our colons have for us.
now back to the bus:

enter three blacks. a couple plus another;
his half finished hair:
white yarn extensions of herself.
his face painted rainbow
and bags on his hands
turned inside outside inside out.

the couple, in the bus belly air of punched out time,
squirm with a static-starting laugh.
they laugh (ha ha ha ha ha),
standing for some nose-bitten high school status,
sandblasted heterosexual samples on a slide of glass.
don't they know you can't make somebody
on the verge of such self discovery
feel uncomfortable?

this whole busload of hydrogen, carbon, and secrets,
umbilical doorbell to a-frame attachment, property
rights, poker face of the globe maker's daughter,
the whole empty zipped whore house secrets, secrets,
all coming out of its face.

full-faced mask with
bottomed eye holes.
step out of your face
and back onto the carbon
based bus you're on.

we got off the bus
at 29th and Broadway,
same place we got on.
it kept going.
nothing happened.
we wrote it down
to give you eye holes.
fuck the blindfold.
this is a good one
that's funny mane
Thank you, darling
Consider a fall,
Trees swaying quickly
bent rest on their knees before
the little rivers of a foreign coast, I
Have swam in those seams

Forest burning and twisting the sound
like a hundred feet rushing towards you
where is she?
she is walking somewhere, I see
between gaps in hedges
I see her in the light on the floor
on one facet visible
reflected image
In a shy corner, yet not a part of it
scoop the ashes into your hand
and lead her home to mother
don’t worry now dear, this won’t hurt.
This is the only good thing I've ever read in a poetry thread. Reminds me of Gass.

but it isn't poetry

decent short story I guess
that means a lot to me anon. thank you.
Dude that's definitely poetry. Read more poetry

I've read far more than you will read in the rest of your life.

It's a short story with line break. It does not have the density of poetry, nor any consideration of poetics. It's garbage as poetry, because it isn't poetry.

But as a short story it's okay, if not a bit trite.
That it was more of a short story than a poem was my first thought when I read it too, but it can pass for a modern narrative poem. Whatever it is, it's good and not really worth making a fuss about whether or not it's "proper" poetry.
If you grew up with white boys
Who only look at black and Puerto Rican porno
Cause they want something that their dad don't got
Then you know where you're at

Mortaring your earholes shut in a rush with wet coke
In a Starbucks bathroom with the door closed
On booze, I'm left in residue and confused
Like the first time you used soft water
Down on my luck, caught unaware
Like Houdini when the last fist struck

Sucking dick for drink tickets
At the free bar at my cousin's bat mitzvah
Cutting the punch line and it ain't no joke
Devoid of all hope, circus mirrors and pot smoke
Picking fights on dyke night
With shirlies and lokes and snatching purses

Doing Elton on karaoke and forgetting all the verses
Blowing kisses to disinterested bitches
Playing lead lay in a bad way on Broadway
Sending sexy SMS's to my exes new man cause I can
On the road trying to break an old van
Eating pussy for new fangs, I am, what the hell
Using Purell till my hands bleed and swell
Missing Mel at a Motel 6, I'm unwell

It feels exciting, touching your handwriting
Getting horny by reading it and repeating poor me
Intently staring at the picture of your feet on the sticker
At the R. Crumb exhibit, I wonder who's sicker

Jerking off in an art museum john till my dick hurts
The kind of shit I won't admit to my head shrinker
Not even in a whisper to my own little sister
I just act like a dick and talk shit when I'm with her

Aught six, I'll say the Friday before Easter
Was not good, I cried to myself in the pisser
And with you in the front row at the Silver Jews show
And you act like you didn't notice, my fear of the bear
At Showbiz Pizza when I saw six was overwhelming and not dissimilar to this

At Jacob Han's on tour I wake up
Hung over on a hardwood floor
From a dream about how your dress
Hangs off of your little breasts
I'd rather be dead than call this poem
"How I lost your respect" but god bless or get neglected
And I'll see you when the sun sets east, don't forget me
I can definitely see what you mean, but it's musical qualities make me disagree. It works as both, in my opinion.
I won't stop bleeding out
and i cant say i hate it
because atleast i see action
Disorganized and distracted
An ambitious man’s nightmare
Why have I been inflicted
with this cross to bear?
Knowing names and lists,
definition of a dilettante.
It takes quite a lot to insist
that this isn’t what I want
While I may be young for now
I’m deep in regret
But the answer
Wow, get off the internet!
In my internet searches for factual knowledge and more
I've become unfortunately associated with fetish porn
While developing kinks along the way
I begin to rely on it more and more every day
It's funny how some things can be so perverse
When their context is in reverse
The systematic shiver of a sharp inhale rackets along while the charring ember murderously consumes itself
A curlicue of molten flame diluted by the weightlessness of the soft breeze that whistles it away
Grubby receptacles needing and craving coaxing the failing sustainability of the burning soothing stub of ash
And flick it away to whisper out and cool and lay, crushed, its useless scorchen self.

Everything suspended, I can touch the clouds of cotton
>I'll see you when the sun sets east, don't forget me
Don’t I see the old home over there at the base
Of a triangle not overcrowded with space:
‘Twas there I first breathed on the eighth of December,
In the year of Our Lord the month after November.

I’ve been told it was snowy and blowy and wild
When I entered the home as a newly-born child,
There wasn’t much fuss, nor was there much joy
For sorrow was poignant I wasn’t a boy.

I felt quite contented as years flitted on
That I to the coarser sex did not belong
Little dreaming that ever the time would arrive
That of female attire I would be deprived.

By a freak of the lustful that spreads like disease
Which demanded that females wear pants if you please,
But I stuck to the decentest style of attire
And to alter my “gender” I’ll never aspire.

During that hallowed century now dead and gone
In which good Queen Victoria claimed to be born
From childhood her modesty ever was seen
Her exalted position demanded when Queen.

She set an example of decency rare,
That no English Queen before her you’d compare
Neither nude knee nor ankle, nude bosom nor arm
Dare be seen in her presence this Queen to alarm.

She believed in her sex being loving and kind,
And modesty never to march out of line
By exposing those members unrest to achieve,
Which pointed to morals immorally grave.

But sad to relate when she bade “Adieu”
To earth and its vanities tainted with “rue,”
That centre of fashion, so French in its style,
Did its utmost to vilify decency’s smile

And mock at these garments which proved in their day,
At a glance-who was who-and wherein gender lay,
But alas! Since the death of our great and good Queen
That attribute “Modesty”‘s ne’er to be seen.

It wasn’t long after till modesty grew
A thing of the past for me and for you;
Last century’s fashions were blown quite aside,
The ill-advised folk of this age now deride.

The petticoat faded away as we do
In circumference it covered not one leg but two,
Its successor exposes the arms, breasts and necks,
Legs, knees and thighs and too often-the —.
bump, decent for a /lit/ poetry thread desu
My dear, my dear, I know
more than another
what makes your heart beat so;
not even your own mother
can know it as I know,
who broke my heart for her
when the wild thought,
that she denies
and has forgot,
set all her blood astir
and glittered in her eyes.
A lot of the pieces in here are noticeably written by teenagers/young adults. This isn't. This is well written. It's simple enough, and doesn't try and show off. The writer (you) is more or less invisible, which is a good thing. Keep it up!
Suspended on a petrified strand
from the highest branch of a pine tree is an aged pine cone
swaying its last before the fall; it drops
through the thicket of rustling branches below,
hits with a muted knelling thud the frigid, sodden
slope of its grey knoll that sends it skittering downhill
into the torrential gushing current;
it floats at first, then is amalgamated in the water,
and carried downriver to be buried in the Adriatic.

The general sees this—
it’s early winter, the tenth of January, 49 BC,
and Julius Caesar with his legion is camped in the borderlands,
on the northern bank of the scarlet cordon,
the moat between provincial anarchy and
the fountainhead of scholarship and industry and republican power,
a city of white marble pillars never tarnished and high aqueducts
festooned with the most florid art of the provinces.
a city inhabited by Vesta, Mars, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus,
who armour it with a cuirass over its toga
and place a dagger in the sinister hand
to extort tithes from thralls to Pax Romana—Roman Peace.
Piss on your peace. Caesar carries a javelin to shatter this Pax Romana.

Another pine cone, flesh fortified, has reached
the moment of the fall.
It sways with the wind till the strain snaps
its spine and falls like a rock from the sky,
rolls past Caesar into the river,
and hence to the Adriatic Sea, leaving no trace of itself behind.

From the trees, the river, the very earth underfoot
Rome with elemental voice declaims in the imperative:
Julius Caesar, you bald-headed whoremonger, advance another step,
and the fury of Rome will roast your insubordinate flesh inside your armour;
reforge history, melt your name and titles off from wherever they are inscribed.
Advance another step, Gaius Julius Caesar, consul, triarch, general, governor,
and your memory shall be damned, and your body flung into the Adriatic Sea.

His fingers are clenched around the hilt of his sword;
if he looses them upon this river-lapped embankment,
the soil will absorb the clangor of his surrender,
and his spilt honour will ooze into the river
and be carried to its Adriatic grave.
Living hence will be the burning of a long taper:
intolerable years as patriarch to an intolerable batch of Julii,
growing old and wrinkled, seeing succeeding Marches
and Aprils as harbingers of decrepitude,
and frequent pilgrimages to the mossy riverbank
where his naked sword had once been dropped.

The Rubicon, red from the mud,
appears a bloody slaver’s whip stretched across the countryside.
He readies his die, and stamps with the first step of revolution
his fears against the floor of the bridge.
Being honest is no means of survival, avoid your inner-feelings like the plague,
This is what it takes to comply with the images this structure will accomodate,
But things aren't what they seem when they're partially hidden behind walls of pretence built for peace of mind.
The barriers between us are forever maintained by our acceptance of the roles others choose to define.

In a world of competition life's portrayed as a contest where we're forced to live by making gains at others expense,
But no-one's really gaining when perpetual conflict's the result of our relationships based on pretence,
We don't need this cultural cosmetic division it upholds the self-interest on which the system feeds,
A deconditioned consciousness of mutual respect is the only way to cure this cosmetic disease.
prepared for the buttrape

Do you believe in a passing shower?
The way the rain flits and flickers across your brain?
Indecision’s cloudy mystic power,
Casts its web, bending the tracks for the mental train.

A thought may you grasp from a long lost age,
Smeared by the faint hum of witless chaff.
A novel notion for a naïve sage,
One well befitting an epitaph.

Waste not, want not: can it so be drawn?
Simplicity but mimics the truth.
In the basin of knowledge, divinity born,
In the minds of the chosen the proof.

To disseminate fact then becomes quite a terrific task,
Akin to one pouring out sweetened smoke,
One needs only to falter, put a chip in the flask,
And then, may well we all rightly choke.

The line it is dashed, a-break, break, break,
And fear is the devil of doubt,
But rest not our head, for the river runs yet,
Lest with babe we are too bundled out.
You have zooeys face
Dunhams body

In on Bowies ace
In the blackhole im nodding

Prauding. I am proud but ainwant you to know. I cant sl unt yo do
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 moment
of sweet beautiful psychics
they were only for me anyways
I close my mouth quickly around the escaping smoke
lest it take a part of me with it
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was hamlet a manlet
i once read on a pamflet
he had man tits
and his friends called him
'ham bandit'
when i tried to verify
this with a device
connected to a wi-fi
all I could find was
he used neatly stacked dimes
to reach for a shelftop wine
to tell u the truth
i find it rather obtuse
it was all just a ruse
to keep myself amused
while my toilet's in use
what do you think, /lit/?
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Also shilling my shitty twitter.How do you get read?
cringe desu
This is really great coming from someone who almost always hates what /lit/izens write
it's like you took every edgy teenage cliche and put them into one poem
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Nü-metal lyrics tier, holy shit.
Tried this as spoken word, worked really well. Nicely done.

What >>7577012 said, except for the tumor line, that works fine.
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>Why? - good friday
fukn cunt :^)
"On my chest, there lay breast."
As the sky crafts a certain sorrow
I crunch along the snow
The sounds around me bite my ears lightly like a lost lover or one that you never had
on erratically patterned wood floor
i make my request
wired swine staring down
silently wishing it were a constellation
exit creates a construct based on "how may i help you"s
as i laugh inappropriately laugh
i realize my name has done me no good
not him, but if you like why?, do you like reaching quiet and hymie's basement?
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It's a distance
You can't quite see it
When you were here
Then you left yourself
Standing there to deal
With any situation
As you moved away
Staring blankly at the moving
Clusters of thought, you drift
Surrounded and bombarded
Worried, inactive, dull

It's an art gallery of
Explosive, boring paintings
and useless thoughts
Building a bubble
Between what's in front of you
What's in your thoughts
Sit paralyzed by a lack
Of motivation
Of emotion
Of awareness
Perhaps an abundance of all three
Leaving you full and heavy

You know, there's things to be done
People you have to talk to
Tasks you need to complete
You don't quite care
You're jetsam
Letting the day carry you
Motions, you sway between
Knowing what to do
and actually doing them
You finish the day on schedule
It's exhausting, so it's over

The hours pass in seconds
Look at the clock
When was the last time you looked at the clock?
You forgot to check what time it was
The clock keeps moving at the same speed
You're slowing down
You worry about it
You forget to look at the clock
and You've slowed down again

Then it's over
You're back
How are you?
You've been away a while
Was it yesterday?
Yesterday felt like a lot
Similar to other days
It was a perpetual yesterday
You've had your fun
Time to wait another month
but you're here for a little longer
and you forget to enjoy it
as much as you should
Here's a poem I wrote called "The Jizz"

Spurting out of a dick
Onto a woman's face
She moans
She wants more
But that's all the jizz he had to give
She frowns
He frowns
Everybody is frowning
She takes a tissue and wipes off the jizz
"So, what are you doing this afternoon?"
He awkwardly lifts his pants, suddenly uncomfortable
"I was thinking I'd go and see David."
She looks at him
One bit of jizz remains
Just above the eye
Somehow she had missed it
He thinks to himself
"Should I tell her about the jizz?
Or shouldn't I?
Wouldn't it be funny if she went out with jizz still on her face?"
He chuckles to himself
"What?" she says
A part of him wants to tell her
He wants to tell her all about the jizz
But he says nothing
Nothing about the jizz
I wish I could have written this as satire, but I guess you can't beat the real thing.
Anyone want to critique this little poem I wrote yesterday? >>7583653
>Every single shingle shattered into atoms
I didn't like the sound of this at first but it's actually clever
There are no shadows when it comes to you—
only nightscapes. or should I say: it is night in that part
of the world where your shadow falls obliquely like a shroud,
your shadow whose weight is the absence of thought,

all thoughtlessness and wingflutter, whose surface
is smoother than the edges of night, each finger a wingless
butterfly sharper than shoulder blades where caterpillars
blossom into song. your shadow whose forehead

is the biblical wilderness the messiah prayed in
for forty days and forty nights, adorned with thickets
and traitors, deer and despair. whose mouth dismantles
planetary systems and detonates stellar clusters,

whose breath is submerged in ethereal moonlight,
whose breath is moonlight, whose face is moon with lips
of moonrock. night falls when you close your eyes,
my love, and nothing stirs except my heart.
develop the girl's character more
also more description, this looks like a crappy flash fiction spaced to look like poetry
sup, /lit/, made a poem about synesthesia, used space imagery as well. here are a few (unfinished) verses. Any suggestions??? i need them badly

The closest sensation I can muster
to synesthia is looking in your eyes
and ------
is when I hear the tone that amplifies
your bouts of laughter
or sorrow,
for me had the acoustic potency,
the emotional propensity of the big bang
it cannot be heard anymore,
but its repercussions
are still apparent and unfolding

Maybe that’s why
you can’t help but see
the universe in everyone
including me.
You made me believe that
contained in my dying eyes
are the colours of birthing nebulae,
orbiting around me, a “green-ish”
spectral halo only you can perceive.
But dear, when will you ever see
the pulsating colours,
the infinite universes, and
the mind-bending astral beauty
I see in you
>I can muster to synesthia
I know it's "closest to" you're going for but this is awkward af
>is when I hear
>for me had
Tense makes no sense and grammatically "for me had" also has no subject here

But more importantly yet: "poetry" doesn't consist in pressing backspace every now and then. Read some poems, figure out what that whole "rhythm" notion is all about.
thanks, senpai will consider rhythm and grammar. how about the idea?? the imagery??
Really bad. I am a grill, I have a passing interest in space, I had synesthesia as a child, and that poem is awful. Try it again as prose to capture all your ideas, and then turn that prose back into poetry.
got it. Bad how exactly?? But I'll try to capture all my ideas first. thanks
>The closest sensation I can muster
>to synesthia is looking in your eyes
Awkward. Why are you trying to "muster" synaesthesia? Anyone who has experienced it (naturally or as a side effect of drugs) knows that it is something that punches you in the face, not something you muster. What did you mean to convey by suggesting you'd TRY to conjure up an uncontrollable sensation?
>and ------
this line is useless
>is when I hear the tone that amplifies
>your bouts of laughter
>or sorrow,
that should all be one line, and try more interesting words than "laughter" and "sorrow"
>for me had the acoustic potency,
>the emotional propensity of the big bang
Good, I liked these two lines, did you know the big bang is pretty much retired as a hypothesis? Where is the period at the end of this sentence?
>it cannot be heard anymore,
>but its repercussions
>are still apparent and unfolding
I caught "acoustic" tying in to "percussion", that was clever alongside the word "heard"

>Maybe that’s why
>you can’t help but see
>the universe in everyone
>including me.
This felt like the first idea you conveyed, the whole first stanza was empty for me. Don't rhyme "see" with "me" tho
>You made me believe that
>contained in my dying eyes
expand on this, how did she "make" you "believe" this? Why are your eyes dying?
>are the colours of birthing nebulae,
good contrast between dying and birthing but again, boring words
>orbiting around me, a “green-ish”
why the quotations?
>spectral halo only you can perceive.
perceive and believe OK, spectral works nice with nebulae colors since the color we see in space images is artificially added by artists as I'm sure you know, I like this bit, it has potential
>But dear, when will you ever see
do you know how many people have written those seven words in that order?
>the pulsating colours,
>the infinite universes, and
>the mind-bending astral beauty
good ideas, boring words, again.
>I see in you
Thank you so much! Will keep this in mind!
Literally just wrote this after coming back from a walk, please don't hate, I've never wrote a full poem before:

Soulless blocks of grey littered
The vast stretch of green fields.
Sheets of shining white glass
Fillled rhe now decadent curves
Of once heavily laboured land.
In the far distance lonesome
Cattle grazed life away.
Upon this scene of tired
Ulster lay a single cut
In the expansionist
Cloud of dark and green whispers
And in it sat a little fellow:
A blackbird of truthful voice
Whom sang sweet melodies of
Playing children and dying men.
This harbinger of joy spoke
And for a moment I thought
That not all in this world
Are blind to the beauties of life.
But as the sun declined,
And the moonlight ascended,
We both returned to our affairs.
I have to make stool
Earlier I ate hummus
Roasted garlic, mmmmm
All the small and wavy branches, bushes on a front yard lawn
Had to choose which way to topple, crippling from the snowed upon
And even in their brash dividing, choosing valiant right or west. And even with their whispered shrieking still they failed their only quest.
A house lies bare.
Staring with eyes ablaze
Unable to evoke the thoughts in mind crazed

He creeps forward
From within his slaveship shell
Beckoning to me
Remove from shackled-tied hell

Luridly egregious
Sobbing now all that rings ears
Please, sir, send help
Please! Get me out of here!

At that moment I knew
I, too, would end up
As a languid-settled-near-carcass
Suffering beyond reach
And those who would come
Would also realize that a light
Could never breach
The hell man hath maketh
Through his own indolent deeds

So I sat back contented
With a lesson taught unto me
Caught between 5’2 and 5’4
i find myself lost in a siren’s eyes
and a seeker’s words
i could almost taste it
beautiful golden brown coating my eyes
a sweet inebriation
a sensual nervousness
a shame i expressed it like this
Sunlight pouring across my skin, reflects off of me
Illuminates you.
Room shattering presence, the dust can’t help but
Twinkle its appreciation.
For a moment I wither, your tinsel veins remind me of love. You are silvershine,
Almost poisonous, completely therapeutic.
The universe can’t help but scream for mercy, as your hands brush across your
Glowing morningface.
Unprecedented command of every entity,
Impossible until now.
nice one
not bad for a first time desu but feels soulless

kinda feel like you're just imitating a poet and not doing your own thing
My mind in continous suffering and moping around

I'm dying by thee

Just let me die now, set my soul free

Come lay down with me and see that this life

Fullfilled with misery can't bring you no light

Just give you some hope, makes you pray, to whom?

Don't matters he surely bandoned us for sure.
And then i repeat, by shouting these words:

¡Oh, mercy, please kill me i don't stand life anymore!
Did this one one afternoon just some time ago.
I usually like to write down exactly what i feel, i have over 60 notes in my celphone.
I'm put off by the abrupt change in rhythm in the fourth stanza - something about 'and those who would come' and 'also', especially in contrast to how wonderfully the 'As a languid-settled-near-carcass' flows. I think that the change in rhyme and length is enough to stress the stanza without the jarring change in rhythm that those lines bring.

I enjoy all of this except that 'i find myself'. Something about that just strikes as cliché in contrast to the vividness of the other lines. I wonder if a simple 'i am' would be better. I also wonder if some clear break between 'and a seeker's words' and 'i could almost taste it' would be beneficial. I'd suggest hyphens, but you're avoiding punctuation, so perhaps line indentation.

There's some lovely imagery, but potentially powerful lines like 'the universe screams for mercy / your hands brush your morning-face' seem muddled among unnecessary phrases like 'can't help but', repeated earlier with 'the dust'. If the repetition was some intentional tone of the speaker, I'd stress it more with a line break, otherwise I wouldn't be afraid to just isolate your best phrases - think Pound. I really like 'silvershine' and 'unprecedented command...'
The thick smell of sleep fills the room,
half illuminated by the gap between the blind and the window sill.
Soft light casts shadows on every crease of the mountain of duvet,
two lover’s heads buried beneath it sleeping,
as the rain outside falls on the window and hammers out a muffled tune.
Here I am, drifting in the darkness,
with all my lonely friends
watching the all around madness,
until the orange road ends.
I don't meet people
I meat people,
grind them up into chorizo
eat them up, that's my steezo
I spelunk the padunkpadunk
and then get down in the funk
Fuck the ladder, I broke the rung
someone test, they get they're bell rung
stick your hand in a hornet's nest
you're gonna get stung.
Not even the best, you'll contest
you're just a guest in the game
But fuck your opinion, you human stain
I've got minions getting dragged by the pinions
of auto-philosophy, fuck off outta my dominion
I'm a colossal G, bangin on pots and pans for free
don't look at me, just give me your money.
All artistic mediums are equally good except music.

the end
Hey this is a really good poem!
The repetition is good. When I first glanced at it I didn't think it would work well, but it really added on and felt like time had passed when you said "after all those years". It struck me well.

As someone mentioned earlier "something like a spine, likely a tumor" could use a little work. Maybe try not using like? e.g. "The spine I had grown was a tumor" It just feels a little too conversational the way it is. But otherwise great poem.
The sun still east of its meridian, but I may yet
reflect on youth, and I suspect draw dreams up
In full fog of orange glowing days
when I am too sick to leave my bed, and when
it aches my back to kiss a child’s head
That pain is not yet mine except to see, thus
to know as far as I should wish, love’s measure
But the fog already quickens, the oak of late autumn
dappled with crinkled remaining leaves:

There is my smallness at Papa’s waste,
Here my long walks by little creeks and longing
There is her golden hair in ocean breeze
There is the new-mountain air’s taste
Here my bloodied knees
Brother, sister, friends, lovers, strangers thronging

A thick, damp August wood, thickets and thorn full between
The pines creaking like night doors with rush of wind
All drops, all wet, all gloomy veiled blue from afar
And I, beyond a poorly-kept path unable to wander
Am relieved, sighing, to rest in this unexpected
clearing, and am startled to see
What a curious thing to see, old friends
How fresh your faces after all these years
Coming as you do, out of woodwork, to greet me
Coming cold, all green things lay down brown
And sink into the unknown soil
guys, please help

i really want to enjoy poems, but i can't seem to be able to. i have tried to read them aloud, but it just doesn't seem to help.
i did enjoy a few bards but that's about it.
So weak, I keep you ball and chain -
yet idol me (out of lust but not)
and my decisions are weak
by you yet you forgot?

Here here here is the season
of my fault - the reason of
all taught nought and there
- gone - long -
what did I do wrong?

And hang you from your hands
so drag the hair of knees
above sandpaper bedsheets
and oh but it is these -

End this hell of mine
End this hell of mine
For I am gone
End this hell of mine

Pathetic and every verb
were I not here with this
curse - were you not blind -
were two and two behind

Everything is wrong
End this hell of mine
End this hell of mine
End this hell of mine

Were this four or more
were this chance divine
god - she who I am -
glory to hip like kind

End this hell of mine
What is wrong
I am a foul creature
and foul is this song

I am free at last
a bird set free
for what is past
is what has made me

Foul shall I be
like Satan accursed
this past of mine is gone
and for it the best - the worst.


Keep reading, and keep searching for poets you enjoy.

This is no matter of Emperor's new clothes. Nor does one need a special eye. Poetry is because man is, and there is no greater density of human being, as far as literature goes, than poetry.

We are so used to other kinds of text that poetry confuses us. We have to learn, slowly, how to read it: then we may disappear into it and find ourselves.
thanks a lot for the message. i do enjoy poetry at times, but i feel like my scope is so limited due to me missing out certain meanings a poem might have, which makes it feel less rewarding in some sense to read poetry.

Loved it. You are next Byron.
I've been waiting, waiting, waiting by the side of the road,
but I'm beginning to wonder if I misread the bus schedule.
I haven't heard the rumbling salty scrape of a snowplow.
My hot feet sponsor a liquid cold, creeping in via pin-holes
designed to provide ventilation and ward off sweat
when the Earth tilts us closer to the nearest star.
Unlike the Sun, I don't think the bus is getting closer.
I don't think it is coming at all, any more;
no one answered the ringing at the Portland Metro Station
when I puffed on my sausage fingers until I dared
try to redistribute that heat back into my smartphone,
signalling the touchscreen to make a pleading call--

Wasted energy.

My sneakers now surely encase chunks of frozen pond
propelled downriver by petrified men
poking viciously with long wooden poles.
My teeth ache, exposed to crispness by lips
cracked into a smile I don't have control over
any more than the movement of my puppet legs
(with their fumbling block of wood feet)
which bewilder me, cause me to forget
where I wanted to go when I started out!

They say that cold helps babies' brains develop faster
or better, or something, but I'm sure the opposite
is true today for this young adult. The molecules
in the air are slow, slow, slow, and so am I.
Every stumble takes more out of me,
converting snowflakes to dampness with pumping blood and sweat.
I fear I will freeze like the fresh powder
that melted into my shoes when this all started.
Whatever my mission was when I entered this whiteout,
I don't remember it now.

My thoughts skate and skim and swerve
whirling, opalescent, entrancing
the conductor is in hibernation
autopilot, take me home.
God made us free.
This life is a life of choice
Where each co-shapes himself in God;
In this choice lies Satan symbolic
Whom God created to lure our choice.
After death, all choice is reconciled;
Sin and good deed must redound whence they came.
Hell purifies that the wicked may enter the Light;
Such is the Mercy of God.
The angels have no choice;
They dwell ever in the Light of God
Singing the Glory of His Name.
We are as angels who fell, that we may rise again
Creation in our wake.
metal song/10

nice trips. ok poem. doesn't really explore any new ideas

i liked the first 3 lines, the next 3 sucked,
>they get they're bell rung
made no sense to me, the ending is good too I guess
once upon a time by dick was covered in fecal
because i was vibrating in the anus of all the people
until i couldnt anymore
so now i mount a dilio fastened to my floor
and hope the deedle don't smell like the fecal
Keep this thread going boys!
pls crit >>7593934
Hey /lit/, do you think this thing's salvageable? It's the first part I'm thinking of calling Life of Phlebas, dealing with the "stages of age and youth" that Phlebas the Phoenician famously passes in The Waste Land. This first part has some vignettes from his early boyhood: feel free to point out blunders both poetical and historical (i.e., perhaps the Phoenicians would never have realistically have travelled as far inland as the Dead Sea). Also, if anyone knows what the actual Phoenician name for the Dead Sea would have been, I'd be much obliged: right now I'm just sort of corrupting the Hebrew name.

The sailors grasped at oars and cut
The Waters. The Waters, which Abi said
Were not the same as Mehwet’s waters,
Those stillèd waters without creatures light
Or dark; these Waters were not those, and they
Not these. On these were borne sailor and
His cargo, which gleamed with precious tin, and
Those profound creatures, knowing the way
In light or vespers, and life was all about.
On those of Mehwet,
None was borne.

Here, the gulls were screeching,
And, in th’ wind singing,
Young man, old man, new-born, new-grav’d, bumping carts, bumping thumping water girls,
Were singing a song, a Song of Sur,
(For that was his city, and Abi’s city, and Abi’s Abi’s city),
And joy was in the heart.

There, the men in the south were different men,
Not men of Knan. But they would have
The dye and gleaming, lovely bronze of Knan.
These men, with different face and different tongue,
Lived by the Sea, which was no Sea of Sur
(For Abi told him later, it was dead
And with more salt than all the curèd sheep of Sur),
And would have the goods, and give the goods.

A silent shore
Two shadows meet
The tongues of lands

The sun was setting
A camel broke a leg and was killed.
Abi says
A day is like a life in God’s eyes

A silent shore
Unknown men in unknown tongues

The sun was setting
A day becomes a life

Far from shore
A silent sea
The ship was broken
To swim is like to float, here

The sun was setting
He who was living

It's the first part of a poem I'm thinking of calling Life of Phlebas*


Too easy, quite simply. If you address an old topic, you must address it in a new way, with new words. The lines here are pretty enough, but it's stolen prettiness that they have.


Some, I predict, will like this, but it smacks too much to my mind of Pynchon: too much tumbling, hurtling verbiage and not enough simple lyricism. Phrases like "My hot feet sponsor a liquid cold" might be acceptable if they were balanced by sensible phrases and intelligible thoughts, but they aren't, really. And what, anyway, is the message here? The confusion of modern living? Boy, that's new. You've sort of got the opposite problem of the guy below you: too much disjointed verbiage, and no compelling or consistent idea behind it. You have the ability to turn an interesting and strange phrase, but it must needs be applied elsewhere, or at least somewhere: right now it almost entirely lacks application.


Not bad. I'm assuming this is an excerpt from a longer poem, however: it doesn't seem to work on its own, and so I don't feel I can rightly judge it. One small complaint: cut out the phrase "after all these years." Something THAT cliched has absolutely no place in a serious poem. But all this really provides is atmosphere: the substance lies elsewhere, or else this lacks substance in its current state.
I feel apart and took my mind with me. i have been barely sustaining
My pain just marinating. i fell apart and took my mind with me. just a
Ghost cloaked in lies with a broken spine. i fell apart and took my mind
With me. just an unrecognizable creature caught under an avalanche
I fell apart and took my mind with me. my presence unnerving. im a
Shadow always lurking. surrounded by death. even the towel rack
Reminds me of the handles pallbearers grip tightly on the way out of
Church. what they use to lift you up into the back of that hearse. i see
A woman tighten grip on her purse. can’t be offended. she doesnt
Know my intentions. she imagines the worse. around here. the
Conditions severe. around here. you tightrope between detachment
And fear. between the shattered fragments of existence that collapse
And appear. never changes. just exacerbates depression deeper year
And year. pain weaving in. pain weaving out. heartworms. sharpturns
Sparsewords. scarsburns. i spent a long time dying. dont wake me up
Yet. public executions. you’ll never see me upset. forcefed myself with
Blow but now i settle for sedatives. no longer in the street. i belong in
The crevices. positively negative. popular ive never been. hard to be a
Person when you lack the metal requistes. emotionally deficit
Consumed with all the wretchedness. not optimist or pessimist. my
Politics are in exodus. spouting countless fountains out while drowning
In the brine. my lifes the foulest algorithm science can't define. they
Trap you in these systems that are phallic in design. because they fuck
You in the mind. boy. they fuck you all the time. i fell apart and took
My mind with me. being strung up at the ligaments with cultural
Derivatives. i fell apart and took my mind with me. pronounced dead
By a nemesis. a doubt with a benefit. i fell apart and took my mind with
Me. just a cluster of atoms thrust deep in a chasm. i feel apart and now
Your mind is with me. smoke in your eyes. the worlds a joke in disguise
y caminé por las ruinas del día
ebrio y sin un lugar a dónde ir
sentí tu perfume en el metro
sabía que no estarías ahí
no habría nadie a quien abrazar
es al hora del holocausto
hoy todos olvidamos por un momento
y quien olvidaba recordó por un momento
mañana seguiré respirando
y dolerá más que siempre

You're a good reviewer. Did you post anything here?
>might be acceptable if they were balanced by sensible phrases and intelligible thoughts, but they aren't, really.
In the future I will try to turn fewer lines into nonsense during the skeleton draft stage. I admit I do get a bit carried away sometimes
>And what, anyway, is the message here? The confusion of modern living?
I guess, it was supposed to capture the progression of a person goes from "civilized human doing human things" to thinking more like a dumb animal due to environmental factors they'd tried and failed to prevent in human ways
>You have the ability to turn an interesting and strange phrase, but it must needs be applied elsewhere, or at least somewhere: right now it almost entirely lacks application.
Thank you! This was all very constructive and much appreciated
I dump milk into my tea,
and looking down
on the clouds, I feel strong—
a god of this ceramic hemisphere.

The stretch of a fisheye lens against
the bump map of dew
lays the texture of the day. The world
shrink wrapped tightly. Plastic shining
in response to a yellow sun, which
serves as the axis of this polaroid,
tilting forward as they walk
so close together.
Their feet drag through the thick grass
like the finger of a bored child on a velvet
pew, painting in shades of wet green.
Soft earth molds to arches in feet. Soft
hair gathers to tied ribbon, bow arching overhead.
Overhead a prominence arches in its
own vastness, trembling, deviating from the Z.
Universe is sketched in squiggles.
The milk slung into the air puffs and diffuses,
hiding the theatrics of the corona.
Fingers wriggle playfully, braiding like notched rope.
An awkward smile jerkily climbs up;
flesh wavers like smoke or jello in that gust
that puffs up the clouds.

I trace small circles in my tea;
my stirrer my compass
guiding the winds clockwise.
I feel warmth as I swirl.

Screams twirled as air from the Scream’s world
unfurls in a streaking sandstorm grating a million
filaments from skin, exposing a vermillion
scaffolding, surrounding the prime architecture.
Hands that were once braided rope became
a chain-link fence. Trimming off rust the
great lathe smoothes femurs into polished
ivory. Cirrus spirals with the stabbing axis.
Their ribs hung on one another as the turning
sped up. The centrifuge pulls limbs towards
the edges, pushing their ribs through like a
folded slinky. Grinning at their closeness,
their bareness, the couple crashed to the ground
facing away from each other like the product
of a symposium.

Yeah, I posted this:

It may disappoint you.
I'm not qualified to critique

I woke long after the sun arose and past
His peak had staggered. The finches hunched in pairs
On the chill branches, and trucks and mowers purred
Resignedly, as though their tasks long done.
I stretched, fell through the door, and began much too late.
She said: "I will not keep you"
and she did not.
She said to me: "Gyges, you have a choice.
Do what no man should do,
or go under the earth"
the oracle told me it was no choice at all,
advice I talk to heart.

With her bronze roof and her year of sunsets,
and a dark year of sunrises, I would have stayed.
My men whispered home,
and we went under the earth,
our first house, under the hills.
Red clay. It felt like home.
And on her bed, head by my head,
seen only in the light through her indoor orchids,
it felt like home.

The hot August, sweat and skin
made melting of our lips and necks.
And we tossed the blanket away,
shed our single skin,
and I went under the earth.

"Get a boat and return to the earth you left your love"
and the king of men told me one thing: "Don't trust women"
I came up from out of the earth to bury what cannot sleep
my friend, in a black suit,
and my grandfather, the wild man,
who once stole my name and gave it to me,
my friend, in a black suit I cannot sleep, and so returning
the dream of home to the cave wall.
Kalypso made me mourn
And the sun never set.

Look here:
Her bed is on the floor, her guitar in its case.
She told me time was the enemy.

Almost returned in December--
my dry hands in a snowbank--
and that's it, except for a little close talking
wrapped in a standing blanket.
Our tongues are no good at talking.
I don't know what I just read. It was disjointed and not at all clear. But I enjoyed it!
Hey anon's I was reading a Ben Lerner essay

Surely Lit/ loves Ben?

And he mentioned an experimental poet whose language reminded him of the his days as a debater.

Apaz in high level debate (then) the deal was to make so many different arguments your opponent could respond to all of them, and so they counted as "dropped arguments" and you got a point.

bcus of this the arguments were often completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated and seemed more like "a full-bodied glossolalic ritual"

anyway It made me think of 4chan. So let's do a poem that some how reflects the prosody of 4chan!!!!

I'm a lil stuck for actual ideas though

here's the essay

couldn't *
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Are they for real with this warning about the envelope glue???
Awaken from my slumber
By sweat and fear from a vivid dream
A metaphor that snuck in from reality
I was stabbed and cut and almost died
But I didn’t and pain and suffering are worse
Day beaks and I question it for a curse
Will today hurt me as did yesterday?
Then I remember time is just to convey
Yesterday, today and tomorrow are one in the same
Another misguided escape
Surely a fool of sorrow
Will be optimistic about tomorrow
A trail for depression to follow
Right to sleepy hollow
Where dreams oppose their birth
I toss and turn back to earth
A trip paid by sweat and fear cause that’s the worth

Not terrible, but not especially interesting or original or mellifluous either. Keep writing–


Still waiting for the buttrape.


Cheer up, anon.

>wired swine staring down

liked this line
A teeny tiny tap of the middle C key
resounds in the echo greedy cathedral–
mice chirps bubble up from the walls
and a cloud passes, dimming stained angels
and the opera's phantom grins lightly alone.

Locked doors swing open with consecutive keys
struck by a man wholly behind himself
with a fervor unlabeled by human tongue.
Atria–air is cleared here and there–breathe red wine
and an empty audience congregates, transfixed.

A final chord struck digitally:
three ravens land on the donning cross
and squaw in toe with time's tintinnabulation
terrifically tearing down the organ's heart's focus
dilating the funeral eve's aperture to peace
causing blur to burn to a corneal crisp: will of the will-o'-the-wisp.
Anybody? Or is it quite below critique?
Only tell job interviewers what they want to hear–
no more, no less.
Don't tell them about your recent diarrhea
or losing your virginity to a prostitute.
Don't tell them your father didn't love you enough to beat you
or that your third grade choir teacher once touched your no-no place.
Don't tell them that they smell either–
no, don't tell them that, no matter how much they remind you of pig parts festering in the sun.

Instead, tell them you're a good worker,
and that if they don't hire you you'll use your computer science knowledge
to turn them in to the FBI for mass distribution of child pornography,
and pirating Billy Joel songs.
for me personally, nothing in your short description made me want to read it at all
on the goddamn nose
I see a man
Holding his love
Wrapping his arms around her
Protecting her
A blanket wrapped around her legs
Symbolizes him,
keeping her safe.
His head leaned forward,
pressed against hers.
He has a stake stabbed through his eye.
He is mortally wounded
(as physically as wounded)
He fought for her
to protect her
-to win her love-
and lost.

I already know it's awful please suggest me to make it better
Thanks, anon. I'm glad you liked it.
I don't know if it's worth keeping and working at. As it is, it's completely incomprehensible.
she has brown eyes
eyes that love even when she doesn’t
eyes that invite you in
just to stay a while
just to make you feel comfortable
they may distract you
they may pierce your heart
they may make you love her
even when she doesn’t

made some edits to this

As the sky crafts a certain sorrow
I crunch along the snow
The sounds around me bite my ears lightly like a lost lover or one that you never had
on erratically patterned wood floor
she sits there and looks away with faint glow
leaving our potential, i make my request
one lamb wrap with no tomatoes to go
my exit creates a construct based on 'how may i help yous'
i still remember that wired swine staring down
silently wishing it were a constellation
that’s projection i guess
as i laugh inappropriately
i realize my name has done me no good
Do YOU know what it's about?
i poo poo in the morning
i wee wee at mid day
i post on chinese forums
my friends all call me gay

i read meditations by marcus aurelius
i understand half the words
i am 12 years old
i only drink milk that curds
Is german okay as well?

So sprechen wir..

Was man früher hat geschrieben (einst)
ist heut(e) allgemein verachtet,
geblieben ist nur Schmerz und Gold,
sacht beschrieben durch den Vorgang
der beherzten Schummeleien. Heimlichkeit
Und so schreiben wir...

So belebt der tote Henker
den gestürzten Schatz der guten
gehenkten Gerechten im Rauch
der See, voller Sturm und doch, seht,
die Wahrheit wird als falsch vertan,
verleumdet, missachtet - so haben sie´s getan.

So ziehen sie durch jedes Land,
nicht nur sich, auch die Gefahr,
die sie proklamieren in Schrift
und Tat und grauenhafter Gunst,
den Mördern und Lügnern, die,
so sagen sie, Heiler seien.

So sprechen sie von Gleichheit, doch,
die Lämmer, sie ächzen, unter
den Lasten der Erneuerer.
So wird versprochen falsches Wort,
von Besserung und neuem Rat,
was sie nicht bedenken, das ist unsere Tat.

So bitten wir, pass auf auf uns,
sie haben Böses vor, doch wir
verzeihen und vergeben bei
Reue, Scham, Einsicht und Aufbau.
Denn so stillen wir den Hunger
der Toten auf´s Gebot.

So wollen wir nicht richten, so
wollen wir nur warnen vor dem
Umstürzen durch die Geblendeten,
durch die belogenen Lügner.
Nein, wir werden nicht leiden
unter dem Gewicht der Rotfaschisten.


Sodomite, a mineral, gathering blackly
Forgotten sediment that settles lowly, underneath
Or maybe (sodomite) like a dusty little bedbug
Of antediluvian lore of yore

SODOMITE, or, in words you might as well have said
"Behold the mighty cockroach."
Redundancy in underfoot discoveries.
Hidden inconsistency inherent in the categories.
Trim the blurry edges. But make sure they still fit you.
One two three four five
Then seven more syllables
At last, just five more
It's: somdomite

Die Sprache und Kadenz sind zu altmodisch, hetzutage schwer solche Formen ernst zu nehmen. Es wird ziemlich früh klar dass hier um ein politisches Gedicht vorliegt, deswegen sind die "Rotfaschisten" zum Schluss völlig unnötig, das ist ein unschöner, ideologisch aufgeladener Begriff, mit dem aufvordernden Ton gekoppelt wird eine stumpfe, rechte Banalität vermittelt. Setzte einen historischen Kontext mit Verweisen im Titel und Vers, dazu versuche statt mit Wörtern, mit sprachlichen Bildern deine Intentionen zu vermittlen.

Geht es hier um die Flüchtlingskriese? Wenn ja, dann lass es einfach sein und leite deine Energie auf einen Facebookpost in Fließtext, hat die gleiche Wirkung. Wenn du darauf be
>>7597377I read this twice. I liked it the first time but didn't like it the second.
You lost me with the hidden inconsistencies. Is that a reference to the closet? I liked the bedbug line.
The end just felt unhinged. I feel like that was on purpose, but its comes off as a pretentious profundity that was lost. The first stanza was cool and overall was ok
For me,
The thought of two thighs
Too thin to fill
The fracture of
Blue wool dress!

Star of despair
In the cornea of contrast!

Help you.
I want you to be what I need
In order to fix myself!
A bear stuck his head inside a jar,
Found he couldn't get very far.
Spent inside it most the day,
Couldn't find his friends to play.

While inside the jar he thought,
"Is this really all I've got?"
Walking around in this fraught,
He got the jar stuck inside a knot.

Inside this pot, inside the tree,
He started to wish he could be free,
Shimmied out with both his knees,
To a faceful of SWARMING BEES
Yeah, mostly. I wrote it when I was really exhausted, and I'm not sure how to fix it without just starting over.

There's some other bits that are mostly bad that I neglected to post. I think I'll gut this poem and keep some of the images. It's too close to home anyway.
This is one I started, it's not done but I have the last stanza (its not posted).

See the prince of lilypads
with stilts and armoured goldfish lads
a shining burst of coal and glass aperched his foolish head.

And hark the bullrush mossy queen
atop her seashell submarine
the windows of her jellied fins melt in the seaweed bed.

Can you catch the antelopes
who scream with glee but melt with mopes
the chattermonkey stablemen make sure that they stay fed.

The little crickets chickadee
they're calling for a mutiny
the tortoise with his nervous beak is sure we'll all be dead.

It's a reference to the different ways we've classified sexuality over time. A 'modern' sodomite is usually thought of as a gay male. But it used to mean any non-procreative sex, which would technically include hetero sex with contraception. Additionally, the distinctions 'gay' and 'straight', along with the focus on feels and being born a certain way are fairly modern. There's been a shift from condemning acts, to condemning proclivities. A shift from performing one's sexuality in private with a partner, to wearing it as a label that doesn't actually say much about the person beyond surface assumptions.

Thank you for your comment, I appreciate it.

That's what I was worried about, but I knew if I tried too hard to make it more coherent I'd lose the meaning without ever posting.

Thank you for your feedback.

really cool writing, but the rushed timing (if it's intentional, which I gather it is from the periods at the end of each stanza) seems a little too fast. with a last stanza to slow it down it might work better, but as it stands I'd see if you can afford an additional pause per stanza.
Thanks. It's meant to be a little frenzied. It's supposed to feel kind of like a child dreaming. Totally nonsensical but somewhat meaningful. I was a little worried about the tempo which is why I'm having trouble with continuing. I feel like the rhythm will get boring if I continue with the it througout. I was thinking of changing up with beat sighlty in the middle and then reverting back at the end.

that sounds fine too. the tempo problem only really stands out because every stanza is the same. you might even benefit from changing the rhyme scheme in the second stanza or something to that effect. a few word accuracy choices you might think about are stitled, windows, scream, and beak. they're all fine and I haven't put a ton of thought into them but I feel like there are better words, something to think about.

Attack dogs with back jaws
Like a rack of slimy daggers
Necrotic skin under black gauze
Packed in a wide bite wound. The jagged
Opening of the body to expose bone
Is a new, un godly orifice
Blasphemous and artificial

Death, with your hell-hounds,
You cheated me.
Of my last breath. My deflated lungs
Unbound blood and grimy tongue
Belong to the ground now

Defeated organs and surrendered brain
Succumb, become a worm buffet
Never to beat or bleat again
Carry the soul over. Through the irreverent skin of the atmosphere.
It's quiet.
Actually it should say stilted armoured goldfish lads. It reminded me of the fish messenger in Alice in wonderland. Windows isn't very original but I can't think of a better image. She's meant to be using jellyfish as a submarine so I was aiming for their translucency. And scream can be shriek. Beak is one of my favorite words lol. I dunno why.
bump for all the uncritiqued poems (incl mine)
Well which is yours?
The white blank sheet
is a stab to the poet
The first stanza
works the medicine

The second is the depression
the third is recovery
the fourth is nihilism
and the fifth is the body

from who makes it all worthy
'till the very last verse
where the poet looks up
and see the beauty of it

P. L. L. R.
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I'm interested in seeing what you end up with after reworking

Here's one of mine lads, just finished it, is it as bad as I think? I fear I might be burning out after a few weeks of intense creativity (and mind, intense doesn't mean good)


This particular clump of plasma performing thermonuclear fusion
is denial, a cup of spilt milk. It is resolutely devoid
of company eager to absorb its precious spawn
(the flaming bouquets of photons)
who, in turn, yearn to radiate aphrodisiac motion,
inspire atoms to sentimental plays on passion.

And here, this chunk of elements braced into crystalline structure is
innocently mistaken for sticky clay studding a riverbank
between kingfisher nests. It was found meandering the plains of existence
(wasted matter without purpose, adrift and desperate)
wishing for a chance to indulge in lust, in vengeance,
in sinful behavior of any nature. Loneliness is not a sin.


Relaxation is tragedy on the cosmic scale.
One must never stop to reflect,
not even in the eternity required
for your primary thoughts to commit apoptosis.
One must think, and think, and think,
like a mosquito smelling flesh and skin and blood,
like a comet in orbit of an object with great mass.
In order to reach your ultimate destination
one must attract a churning rat race of buffalo concepts,
broad-shouldered with sharply cloven hooves,
ready to stampede the first red flower that blooms within their territory.
One must commit genocide on mediocracy, on stagnation,
on dimensionless concentration camps among the stars.
One must turn one's face into the lashes
take the agony as ecstasy, with relish on the side
and ask for seconds.

> Surely Lit/ loves Ben?

the novel freaks like him for some reason, though I read some of his two novels and had to put them away, poorly written and nothing at all new. Felt like MFA material.

As for "poetry", he's basically Ted Berrigan pretending he's doing something new. And Ted Berrigan was garbage. So far Ben has yet to say anything interesting in his essays, anything new, anything that shows he's worth that MacArthur then again, he certainly deserves it more than AE Stallings... totally off the mark prize. the only correct people they award it to are authors and poets well past their primes. They never predict well.
>stealing cLOUDDEAD lyrics
that's low, man
here's something shit I wrote while depressed:
an infinity spreads itself across the stars
open-legged in its brazenness it flirts with nonexistence
it seeks itself in its reflection
by self-reflection it seeks hope
and dopamine, the sweet release
is hard to come by these days
perhaps it'd be easier to cease
my whining and my callous ways
the fog descends, the mist, the haze, the clarity of the situation
and I realise I am already dead
I will spend ninety years or fewer rotting
my body departing past my head
a million flies line up and queue
awaiting their vulture's meal
to decompose and cause decay
recycled into something real
perhaps then I'd be beautiful
perhaps then I'd matter
Splattered across the wall behind me
legs splayed open
the first incision
the last
the only
the one that matters
a coda not a crescendo
a coded message in a bottle to be left five hundred years
to be discovered amongst the rot
it reads "I tried but I am not
strong enough to immolate
my past and current situation
to forge a new future I'm not
strong enough to make the cut
I don't fit quite right."

I am dead already do not mourn me
i have left this physical form an outside observer
out of body experience complete internship done
ready for the end but unprepared for the real world
a sixth dimensional rift opens
i see dead people in the mirror when I look it cracks
into a thousand constellations more beautifully perfect than I could ever hope to be
intercontinental stargazing out of a high-class plane window in economy class
my head in the clouds my head full of brass
ricochets rattling in an echochamber now repellant of anything but stagnation
the metal rusts and it's replaced with hollow craving
the self-destructive demiurge losing power over the state of mind
increasingly unpleasant and chaotic the combos compiling in kind
unpeeling and hurling over myself
I feel less in control the more I try
I'm scared to die but also to stay alive
my catch-22 is based on which pain is too great
one a cure the other treatment
the room heats up in accordance with the preservation of motion
the bullets spray out the plugs undo
seems to be all I can currently do.
Yesterday I went to replace my cat
There was nothing. But the man
Who looked down the less droopy side
Of his face and across his empty store
Said he didn't know what he was
Doing here either. There was nothing.
Damn son, that is pretty good.
Through the bottle I see the flame
Lashing out around itself as a leper would:
Baseless, aimless, hopeless.
I take a strip of wood and push it
In the glass, to see the flame approach
Like a beggar, hoping for a touch that lingers,
But instead the flame lingers and
Fades into nothing
Worked on it some more

This particular clump of plasma
performing thermonuclear fusion is denial,
a cup of spilt milk. It is resolutely devoid
of company eager to absorb its precious spawn
(the flaming bouquets of photons)
who yearn to radiate aphrodisiac motion,
inspire atoms to unscripted acts of passion.

And here, this chunk of elements braced in crystalline structure
is innocently mistaken for the rocks and sticky clay
which construe a riverbank studded by kingfisher nests.
It was found meandering the plains of existence
(wasted matter without purpose, adrift and desperate)
wishing on its neighbors for a chance to indulge
in lust, in vengeance, in sinful actions of any nature.

Loneliness is not a sin.

In order to reach your obligations
attract a churning mass of buffalo concepts,
broad-shouldered with sharply cloven hooves,
ready to stampede the first red flower
they see blooming within their territory.

One must always think in exponentials;
be a mosquito smelling flesh on the breeze,
avoid a lynxy comet's dwindling orbit.

One must never stop to reflect,
not even in the eternity required
for your primary thoughts to commit apoptosis.

One must be a savage in dimensionless
concentration camps among the stars.

One must turn one's face into the lashes,
take the agony as ecstasy, with relish on the side--
belch, and ask for seconds.

Relaxation is tragedy on the cosmic scale.
Take out "As if they were a whisky dick"
My e gf says leave it in but take out the condom wrapper bit.

It's a good piece tho
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I'm not too keen on the pseudo-archaic style

>in th’ wind
>curèd sheep
for why
I'm sick of it now and I think it still sucks. Someone plz confirm or deny my suspicions.
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Who’s beauty not unlike Persephone,
Stood as an immortal picture
Of spring’s transients and promise
To return below for she and death
Were two and one entwined

The creeping foreshadowing that all end as her
Served only to highlight the rawness of youth
The youth she wore so candid about her
As though to remind all the old of a wasted life
And the young of longing for a life not lived

Trying too hard?
Why do you use so much swearing in your poetry? You look like twelve year old kids trying to be cool, stop. It's not pretty, it's not cool, it's not even useful as there are many other words you can use to describe something. If you just want to cause repulse, then kill yourself because dadaism is a shit
It's shit.
trying way to hard. unreadable. completely reconsider everything.
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do poems have to use convoluted wordings, and make no sense what-so-ever?

>pic related, me while reading most of these literary abominations
Only Hate is True
Trust not the walkers of power,
trust not the meager beggars of the rich.
Trust not the trysts of lovers,
trust not the bleakness of cement Earth.
Trust not the sound of human progress,
trust but chaos,
trust but the scream and the throng of smiles
which decorate it.
Fizz Bop Pop
Beep boop BOOP.
Eyelids: guillotines through my own,
ink black line of demarcation
Spanish-Portuguese usurpation,
native lives cut by unknown knowns

In a yellow office a man moans,
eyes closed to cracking
,nitrogen sapping tired bones
atramentous lives spread across thighs.
Dotted is in designations of time.

Blindness in truth
lies in youth
idealistic follies dappled chartreuse.
From throne they go
in rusted armor
to conquer lands and mold
the rough hewn land
into alabaster and gold
I was on a website once where you just moved random words around, anyone who was on that board could move the words. These are two I managed to get before some faggots moved them around:

>The love within or yonder falls soft

>He lost her in his arms, scorching her in the abyss of his love.
first is alright, second is cliche
doesnt make sense and is really janky and seems ungrammatical in places
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I stole a poem from one of these threads a couple of months ago and my professor said it was incredible and wanted me to join this special poetry class and i just said "i'm not really into poetry" the look on his face was of contempt and sadness

i feel kinda bad. sorry to the person who i stole your poem to get a good grade and sorry to the professor who i lied to.
she fucks like a savage

mingling grunts with cunt flume and
when the moment timeless looms,
drools frothed jewels over
meek my stuffing
merciless her smothering
wanting done with me;but
clench! lest breath

gain sovereignty over trauma and
the agile pink of (Hare Rama!)
her meniscus
misstep in sound synchronous
with bruised and bruising breasts like
wallop intowhat
of him?
dingy dank of anal rim;there
tongue spelunking, a most unwashed
and defunct
brain nigh
deathquenched in a
balene gyroscope, miming the
from a wrinkled pucker,
which even spumesmoothest fingers
can not pry

should she decide
that now the eros ultimate’s
against her thighs,
reticent to grant her womb repose
yet I chose
to stay and found, counting
how many gray nipples in the pounding’s
there were

she fucks like a savage
mingling grunts with cuntflume
miming the Thames from a wrinkled pucker
and I love her
both horrible
Haikus are easy
I like counting on fingers
Am I just stupid?
Ctrl+ V
What was the poem obviously
I think I'd like to be a god.
A heavenly apple in the tree
of life. I'd like to be a
forbidden fruit. An admired
red. It's not so much I hope
to be unattainable, no.
I'd like to be blessed more
than I deserve, and more skilled
than I have earned.
To Be Fair

I examined the cool scales
of the shattered crystals
of the hood of the beaten
car. The hood was smashed
from various needles. I
walked around the needled
car and wondered if it had
seen better days, and saw
the rear view mirror wink
a cracked eyelid as it
wondered the same about me.
I'm a stickler when it comes to women.
I like all kinds.
I like redheads with red bedspread,
and I'm fond of any blonde who responds.
I like brunettes with crew necks,
any women who do sex
I recall small girls and tall girls,
and ball girls and call girls.
I've seen Susie and Lucy,
I like all of them you see.
I like chicks who smoke,
and I like chicks who don't.
I like bitches and good girls,
I like snitches and hood girls.
I'd like to think I'm a stickler
but I suppose that i'm not.
I'll fuck any girl when they give me a shot.
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Way to trip balls faggot. This is some self indulgent bullshit.
>implying self indulgent is an act I should feel guilty for
>implying ego death is the only way
When its that obvious, yes.
Also that should be written "self indugence"
regret is gazing
staring into the sun
truth is light
that unbounds the soul
an exaltation
into blinding reality
Meet Me in the Margins
The cracks fall to you,
their hospital white and
school grey colors fall over.
The in betweeners. The nobodies,
those not hellbent nor addicted to success's drugs.
Those doomed to the cracks of not living off of tomorrow.
Those doomed to the margins,
I'll see you there.
>typos critique on typo
>Must've have been dropped as a babe, the poor thing.
Stay quick Nigga
It ain't over yet
>Desperately seeking apostrophes
And tacks another useless feeling, splashed across the white white page,

And no one cares or notices or sees the Crazy’s not on stage.

And someone laughs at things they think are funny though they’re never said

For no one cares or cares to care the thoughts that haunt the Crazy’s head.

And nothing no one says is true, and all you think is deemed a false

And life and being, holding space is measured with the throbbing pulse,

That no one ever cares to feel, or notices until it bursts

And no one knows it’s what’s before, and what you felt before that hurts.

And every line is just another ‘and’ upon a white white sheet

And someone sane will tack it up and smile, mocking your defeat.

And lists are long and days are pointless, face the facts you’re in your cage

And all that’s needed now’s you’re Crazy, splashed upon a white white page
There are way too many dogs in this room.
Twisting, turning descending, up the roof,
A road, then a river, changing it looms.
Spins on the wall a sun, a flame aloof.

Laying there palate a taste of yellow,
Search for answers, the Chalice, sanity.
Now longing for sights normal and mellow,
All is now one, eyes hold no vanity.

The clock takes time, the ego does return.
Epiphany paid for, bought with mind’s pain.
Never again need reality burn,
But still Wonderland calls strongly again.

Enter once more the psychotropic tomb
Searching amid kaleidoscopic doom.
i like these ones, keep it up anons
Soul of the mind, key to life's ether.
Soul of the lost, withdrawn from its vessel.
Let strength be granted, so the world might be mended.

So the world might be mended.
Wrote this two years ago I think. Inspired by the part in Xenophon where a community commits collective suicide.

Here's a little one I wrote in history class last month. It's nothing special but then I did write it in under an hour.

"Richard le Breton, son of Simon le Bret
was a noble knight from Somerset.
Though his actions may have been absurd,
commands from a king were all that he heard.
So, to Canterbury he was wende,
Seeking the archbishop's end.
With Tracy, Morville and Fitzurse,
soon Beckett would be in a hearse.

The pious man was knelt at the altar,
but from their orders they would not falter.
With a singlet violent stroke,
head and sword were together broke.

Though he sought to serve king and nation,
his efforts would only result in excommunication."

Don't focus too much on the grammar and stuff; I read it out loud.
Another dreary day. The rain
slips out from the sky. Noah
is out sailing
in the puddles
with his arch.
Better strap on your boots,
go collect drowned worms in a can–
bait em at the fishhole –
hook the trout thru
the lips,
gut ‘em and invite some rainy day girl
over for supper
Meh nothing special but i liked the tone and imagery until the rainy day girl. It was cliche and didn't fit the scene.
>Search for answers, the Chalice, sanity
Change that line "the chalice" bit doesnt fit that well

this might be the worst poem I've ever read
I'll go ahead and say I tried way to hard, but opinions anyways. I wrote this back in highschool about my crackhead uncle.

Memories, days of old,
cast a fire inside my soul.
The trials of time have been unkind,
Now I color the darkness of the cold.

I Fly!
How high I rise above demise,
the depths of death remains below.
Embraced by piercing, broken skies,
Sanity is my only foe.
Willful woe or forlorn vain?
I dread harken that beast and hope it slain.
The demon's eyes approach my door
I fucking hate cats! No more! No more!
Quite Eliot-esque
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He tries to extend the night; postpone the looming morn,
staring at a blank white box, excising a crucial letter-
feeling lost, failing to post, better
to never have been born.

I like this anon. Nice use of crack. You never say "fall through the cracks" even though the germ encapsulated by that cliche grows into something not cliche. I try to do that a lot, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it's a good technique to make good poems, but falls short of great.

I can't write a critique without reference to myself because I'm. A raging narcissist. Of my time, you'd think, but not.

you poem reminded me of one I wrote called "We dregs"

Why would I lie?
What use could it be?
Oh, and did I mention,
Your mom got with me.
My Name is Lazarus of Bethany

My name is Lazarus, of Bethany. I spent my death peering
through the cracks in a tomb.
I liked the sleep. I liked the dark dust–
no, I did not care, or even ask to be raised
from the peace of death–Jesus wept– Martha wept
as she removed my damp wrappings

of linen. In the night, we burned my wrappings
and I could not stop peering
into the smoking fire pit. Still, my sisters wept.
They (and I) thought I was lost to the tomb.
Even as we added branches, and the fire raised
the flames still smelt of fabric, and the dust

of death. In sleep, I still smelt dust;
In my dreams, constricted still by funeral wrappings.
In the morning, when I was again raised
from a kind of death, sleep, I faced the new sun peering,
covering eyes against harsh light. The tomb
upon the hill was open still, where Jesus had wept

and had pried me out. I too then wept
not for Jesus, or my sisters, but for boats of dust
built, scattered round river Lethe like floating tombs.
Ss I poked the ashes of my burned wrappings,
In the distance I spotted converted Jews peering;
down at me, the good souls who had not left for the Pharisees. I raised

my arms, and waved back to them. They knew I was raised
from dead– I was the man for whom Jesus had wept.
Animated again, brought to life, spent peering
into the emptiness of death–the Kingdom of dust–
that had healed my rot– I can still smell those wrappings–
and how sudden light burned my eyes from the darkness of the tomb–

Now, life is death again, and I sleep in my tomb.
Resurrected every morning, yawning, raised–
blankets and furs slide off like funeral wrappings
after chilled Bethany nights. When my sisters wept,
thinking I was rot, decaying bone, disintegrated dust;
they should have known that one day we will all be peering

towards nothing but our own funeral wrappings. Yes, they wept
over my tomb–misplaced faith– amazed as I was raised;
I am sorry Martha– Sorry Mary– it is into dust–that we are peering
i like it but i think "better to never have been born" should be replaced with something else
wordy archaic mess and u a coward sempai
way too many cliches
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Some lines come across as clunky (e.g. Still, my sisters wept.
They (and I) thought I was lost to the tomb.)
but overall I'd say it's pretty solid. The style really works well with the context of the poem, and it really seems to examine the humanity of holiness in an effective manner.

Mine is pic related.
only wrote a few poems before so plz no bully

"Do not be worried of such foul play;
This world began the moment it ended,
It’s much worse to stay
Than have our sojourn rescinded"
Hi Last Poet on Earth : ^ ).
I am someone who agrees and knows enough about poetry to know that this doesn't fit most (more than most) definitions of poetry by a lot of poets. Yr right bb
>I enjoy all of this except that 'i find myself'. Something about that just strikes as cliché in contrast to the vividness of the other lines. I wonder if a simple 'i am' would be better. I also wonder if some clear break between 'and a seeker's words' and 'i could almost taste it' would be beneficial. I'd suggest hyphens, but you're avoiding punctuation, so perhaps line indentation.
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The years here end and start cold.
Your rocket captain hair-do
was on end, pricked up like me.
Bet he thought I kissed a boy.
He comes home from war a king
you say Honey, wipe your feet.
Your money, Your place to stay,
while makeup smears my dumb face.
I'm just beginning to write poetry, so I don't know much about what makes one "good". Any critiques would be appreciated.

Light bellowed, wide eyes.
Open Windows, darkening mind.
Face reflecting, a mouth dimming.
Eyes projecting, this fading thought:
Nothing is hidden, nothing is lost.

The face within the light
Eyes behind in twilight.
The disconnection worsens.
The worn mask, worn too tight
Facades we try to fight.
Transforms another person.
If anyone's bored I could use a poem related to

Home Runs
Free Food

for some cards for kids that hit home runs

A chatting couple toss their talk, leaving
skimmed words to flit in air like rocks

On waterskins. The pleasing ripples of speech
declare their ease in swimming flourishes

your poem is bad, read more poetry.
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The mirror cannot speak my form
So now I go to brave the storm
Through frozen air and gray abyss
Find answers in the nothingness
Answers for my drowning mind
Pelted by torrents of time
Limping towards whatever lies
In bright divides of stormy skies

For light is filmed by foggy screen
Of turgid gas and windy screams
But cold cannot dissolve resolve
That question which my mind revolves
It must be solved - and now, at last!
The zenith of the mountain pass!
Yet right before we past the cast
The turgid sails and aching mast
The splintered spine and pain amassed
Of sails commanding last avast
Threw me out with conquest's casque
Lest I be crushed in mast's collapse

Some brave the storm by binding hands
Some silence it in marching bands
Some stand by nations to stand tall
American all play Football

When sunlight was to me most near
Fate dragged me down to black nadir
Descending into deadly sea
My eyes enabled soul to see
For glass of mirror does neglect
What ocean surface does reflect
Myself! My answer, after all!
The answer to "am I a ball?"

This is anti-art. Its clichés are intentional; I wanted to take the stylistic and thematic staples of poetry and caricaturize them to retardation, reducing art's search for meaning to "am I a ball" (a question we will never know.)

This analysis is also a parody of its medium.

This addendum is a parody of my own pretentiousness.

This one is too.

At least I can assert without irony that I genuinely hate myself.
The Elephant lost its ivory to the hunter
And in its place wove this-
Words from the reeds, of the spring and the plain
And fine cords, and leather like glass
The water of the lillies was its ink
And in reeds wrought hunter's tongues

So spoke Yobaran
you hit lots of home runs
heres some free food
so you won't starve to death
Well, shit you're too late man, but it's better than I could do
This was good until the fifth line or so. Ignore all the praise.
Glad someone else agrees,
The shadow of a nightmare looms over me.
wherever I go,
I am too much in the sun.

With even
an attentive stare,
I can’t seem to see.
These dreams
stop following me.

Words are little coffins,
I can burry them there.
The cemetery
is just
a little bit beyond despair.

The trance, I think,
has always been there.

But at least,
I can forget it all
with a simple blink.
Found this: https://www.flickr.com/photos/36312196@N05/15911285903

Wrote this (english is not my first language, so the vocabulary may be poor):
That woman, or being
With twisted wings
Gazed at me
And said: “Ease… Ease my pain”

“Stop the rain,
that flows in my face
Cut this length,
that won’t go away

Stop this folly
That came and brought
This Unexpected Change
Which now I got

Save my soul
Save my son
I gave him all
But now he is gone…”
>post you're poems
>in /lit/

Jesus Christ
No, anon: you ARE your poems. A man is but the sum of his creation. Art art thou and thou art art. Embrace the vapor, taste the vapor; do not think the vapor, for the vapor must be felt. Ride the wave and smell the grave for life is but a passing phase.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of nice meme.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of nice meme
This was after a breakup:

Eyes closed you reappear
cold prodigal fingers
through the seams, the ribs
whispering the old spiral

And she said Let's go to bed
The hands touched for
a moment, like clockwork
and fell apart

And there was nothing to embrace
not a damn thing
not even the bitter root
ripped from the earth

The roaring extinguished
and only the soot
to mark the occasion,
I don't remember you at all

Waiting for some criticism
It's up there
go read elliot. The poster may have his rhythm, but nothing else.
Tide along the shore,
Like Werner Herzog's Bloom,
Sitting in the Sea,
Don't ever leave.

Don't ever,
While I,
Live and breath,
Look to storms going inland.

Hearth warm face,
A soothing place,
Smoked glass spiral,
Chest left rosy,
From contact with a loving god.

> like clockwork
Using poor comparative tools should be a bannable offense.
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This was when i had a crush on a qt boi and i wanted his penis inside me ;3~

Everything in proximity to you is beautiful.
Your innocence; unaware and blind.
Still unmarred by the grotesque world outside you.
The comfort you find in yourself is what I most love.
You're are as close to solitude as I.
I can no longer be by myself without you in my thoughts.
I crave for your attention like a fiend craves for crack.
This is probably all an illusion.
You might be someone I deeply despise.
But the idea of you is the only reason I chose to go on.
Prove me right and set me free, time is all I would need.
Prove me wrong and be the reason my heart finally breathes.
> like [something]
No thanks.
Nice meme indeed.
A cuckold's tragedy.
Reformat the paragraphs into something more coherent.
Loose the pretentious ending.
If you're a guy, you have no hint of subtlety, when I read your poem I can see righ throught you and what I see is uninteresting and dull.

If you're a girl, go read some Marie Uguay for inspiration. She wasn't a flawless writer, but she did an astonishing poem about passionate attraction. Maybe it could inspire you to do more than this pile of transparent shit.

If any sexes: You sound like a fucking kid. Sharp up your dictionary.
I collect the dead cockroachs from below the opaque refrigerator and sprinkle them like crutons in my salad. If you check the windowsill a few Lizard carcasses can usually be found drying out in the sun. Fuck the grocery store, why would I buy cow when I can scavenge on the remains of a recently expired toad? I crush rats and make them into sandwiches.
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When I hear the rain a comin' down it makes me sad and blue
Was on a rainy night like this that Flo said we were through.
I told her how I loved her, and I begged her not to go
But another man had changed her mind so I said goodbye to Flo.

Alone within my cell tonight my heart is filled with fear
The only sound within the room is the falling of each tear.
I think about the thing I've done, I know it wasn't right
They'll bury Flo tomorrow, but they're hanging me tonight,
They're hanging me tonight!

That night he came and took my Flo and headed in to town
I knew I had to find this man and try to gun him down
As I walked by a dim cafe and I looked through the door
I saw my Flo with her new love and I couldn't stand no more,
I couldn't stand no more.

I took my pistol from my waist and with a trembling hand
I took the life of pretty Flo and that good for nothin' man
That good for nothin' man!

I think about the thing I've done I know it wasn't right
They'll bury Flo tomorrow, but they're hanging me tonight,
They're hanging me tonight.
Bumping for the uncritiqued poems
Is this about a tranny?
This isn't good. You should start by writing one small poem every day, with a simple or flavorful idea that substantiates the aesthetic of the work. Don't use 10 dollar words for their own sake unless it is somehow coherent with the theme and form, and it hardly ever is.
You need to read more poetry. You have to keep writing for a couple of more years to be decent.
Is in middle school and listens to a lot of Black Flag
Reads like what would be the worst Tom Waits song
Hit up some more of the uncritiqued
Critique the ones I critiqued first and I'll move on to others. It's more helpful that they have multiple opinions and I was kind of a dick.
Six octave hair tied back
Walk like red star singing
Don’t believe no symbolism
Until he take pants off
Not find object analogue.
To him I speak like Russian
Desolate street dancehall crackle
here made wire speaker, coiled like conch
culled like conch, make a pearl ring.
Just word no reference speak.
We hand in arm, late night silent
or laughing, knocking on the concrete
wall, dancing under suburban neon, home
and hungry, don’t know what to say.
Don’t break line speak fluid, like
I drank engine lube to help along.
Misfire staccato pirate talk, steal you
language don’t conjugate. Passenger pidgin.
No true poet. Leather all around Severin fuck
the language. Ride in Burroughs boosted
through the glass elevator. razor ribbon.
Media hero culture dance with handgun.
Blow your skull off culture shock.
Pervert hero. Is cut book yet or did
the blade slip? I’m as sharp as your
scissors—haha yes lesbian barber joke tell it
louder friend please. They’ll love us in this town.

I'm so confused. First you talk about ' you' then 'he' so there's that. Also is this about David bowie? Learn to express more clearly before trying to be eloquent and losing any meaning.

It's just not don't well enough to give over what your pretentious ass is trying to imbue. Instead of being ironic it's almost childish in its attempt to be ironic. I dunno. You're trashing overa rhyming scheme that, when done well no matter how classic out simplistic, can be quite beautiful but you clearly just view it as plebesque .... Therein making you sound immature

Not a fan but either way your love breaks have massacred the poem. It's stilted and doesn't fit the content. Also it's just too cliche

Use maybe.
A sentence.
Pretentious yes.

> the opaque refrigerator

Have to agree. It's a bad song and you're not delivering it well
You're trying too hard to be esoteric. Poetry is, as most forms of writing are, a form of communication -- don't try to wrap an idea up in padding to make it seem like it's too big and powerful to be conveyed plainly. Just say it; critque and analyse it; find a unique way of communicating it.

Or carry on the confestionalist vein of thinking your experience is important enough to carry the whole thing.

Your lines feel a lot like they're being written to conform. Like, iambic tetrameter couplets are the rules, but we shouldn't really be picking up that you're trying to follow the rules, you dig? And your lines very much convey that they're being written with this rule in mind.

Just with the first stanza, only a few lines explicitly make mention of what's already been said, once with answers and twice with the storm. The rest sort of hang there, related only by the fact they rhyme. The lack of flow from line to line makes it come across as disjointed. Other ones fuck with standard sentence order to hit the rhyme or rhythm. It's ugly where it should be beautiful.

The type of poetry you're going for is like dancing in chains: the key is to make everyone forget that the chains are there at all.

Nothing I can really say about this one. It feels like it's trying to make some point -- It's deliberatly framed as a hunter speaking, and the poem climaxes on the elephant making a tongue --> voice for the hunter who took it's horn -- but it's either too short or vague for me to grasp.

Or I could be an idiot.

This is Hemmingway like in its "the twist is suffering children" ending and shortness. I kinda like it as a response. Good job.

Le Hamlet quotes :^)

Pick someone else. Shakespeare's worn out by now. And he screwed a black woman while pinning for a fuckboi. 2 lewd 4 art

Maymays aside, your use of formatting isn't as fresh as it once was, and isn't giving it the emphasis it should. Like, I'm not able to properly invest in what I'm reading because the sentences dangle and cliffhanger me just to give a few words undue "look at me: I AM IMPORTANT" import. Stop that: deviation from the norm isn't when it is the norm. Save that shit for when it's needed.

Otherwise, it's good enough. Until I turn to the subject matter, in which case we're back to plaid "darkness is all I am" teenage angst. And I know it might not seem that way to you, but believe me, it is common as air.

Which might make for a more interesting topic: why are all these people so convinced that they should convey their despiar through poetry? Hit that shit up, senpai. You've got the talent for it.

Nice numbers.

'Bought all I got, really. What's this meant to be about? "I saw this woman who looked in pain. She was. The end." Fascinating. Top notch stuff.

Find a better subject matter or find a better insight into it. Presentation of a problem is the start, not the end.
>The muscular one, and bid him whip in kitchen cups concupiscent curds
O-oh my. H-he wants to dirnk his cream~ Nice, both in terms of homo-lust and alliteration. The jerking action of the "kuh" sounds really sells the third line. Fucking great.

I don't care if you didn't intend for that to be about masturbation. I'm fujoshiing it up right here.

I like this. There's a great conveyence of tone through language choice: I'd say Victorian, but that's because I'm a pleb who associates "strict old timey" strongly with that era.

>Let be be finale of seem.
If this is intentional and not a fuckup, put something round 'let be' to convey it properly as a phrase. If not, fix it.

Enjoyable. 8/10. Nice.

I can't tell if you're using capitalisation in lieu of punctuation or just fucking with your keyboard. Either way, use periods. There's no sane reason not to; no reason at all not to, actually, outside of being pernickety.

You convey a sense of loss effectively. Enough that the second stanza is just forming an echo chamber for the first. I'd anaylise them both for parts you could swap out for something new.

The ending's nice: I can't tell if you're lying or not. Abrupt, however, and out of place with its stanza. Either fit it in or make it its own line.

Stacking commas like that makes it difficult to tell what the sentence structure is on first pass. Which might be your intention, but seriously, the largest problem modern poets have is making their shit vague and hoping people will find the time to sit down and unravel it. They won't, especially when it doesn't seem to have that much worth in unravelling it in the first place.

Not that you've got it bad, but you do have it. The overall impression I'm getting from this piece is "I am comfy right now" and that's after three readings. First thoughts were "bitch likes the sea". Maybe there's a deeper meaning in there, but I honestly don't give enough of a shit to find it. And I'm amongst those who's writting more than a few words on this.

>Your innocence; unaware and blind.
That's not how semicolons work, you fuck. Colon that.

Your ending is, honestly, overwrought. And out of place given the rest of the poem. Which is odd, given that most of the poem is mainly unrelated lines about "how I feel right now", but you manage it.

Otherwise, this>>7611408

I concur: this is a fucking song. Either go to /mu/ or stop this shit. Repeating lines outside villanelles, setinas and other formalist masochist porn is lazy and adds nothing substantial; it is a waste of words.

Story is sound enough, I guess, as a barebones structure. Not long enough to have much impact. Kinda drole.
>Walk like red star singing
Do you mean star as in, popular singer or star as in stellar object? My first two reads had me thinking the first, for gods know what reason. Maybe swap with slut, to grasp attention.

Personal thing, more for reading ease than anything, break this up into stanzas, pls and thks. It's hard to keep my place and long enough that I find I need to.

You're deliberatly surpressing articles, I get it, but then you sometimes let them come back. Here's a comparison of when that has impact and when it doesn't, respectively:
>fuck/ the language
>the glass elevator.

First gives an irony to it: the language is being properly adhered to in a slur upon it. Good stuff. The second is just... present. It's kinda a waste of impact.

I like this, overall, but the unfocused natrue of it makes it just that: unfocused. Like, it feels like it's an immigrant's impressions, and the last s on that bears all the significance. Which I like, but at the same time, makes it hard to grasp what it's going on about at the very same moment.

If I was going to bitch about something, I'd probably bitch about the premise. Whenever you're addressing something, keep in mind the important "why should people give a fuck". I find it interesting enough that I do, but it's a very small fuck. Find a way to make it both larger and more common, if you can.

it's a famous poem dummy. the emperor of ice cream.
Well, darn.
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this is kinda a story but, it doesn't deserve its own thread.

It's shit tbqh. Couldn't even go past the third paragraph.
> Doesn't start off with "Down by the gravel side" as a reference
> Reasons given for character being implied in the plot are too simple
> Short sentences fit for thriller genre, or to get into the head of an antisocial, bland maniac. Not your shitty YA novel
> Vocabulary goes from one type to the other without much reason
> You're not able to bring the characters from point A to point B fluently
> etc.

I'm >>7611111

Thanks for answering. The fact is, I didn't knew where I was going for, like I said, just found this picture and tried to express the feeling.
>What's this meant to be about?
Well I started with nothing, and suddently tried to put some context: there is this woman, that turned into this "thing", and the poem is her pleading for help.
I recognize I didn't make a consistent narrative in it.
Short one, and I'm ashamed to say that I put a lot of time and effort in it, althought I'm a begginer.

The autumn, this year, have a deep blue air
No sadness, nor fear, could impede her stare
A union of solitude and peace, is Sara by the Window
While the sky is mute and fierce, and this pale light glows
> have a deep
*Has a deep
> peace, is Sara by-
*peace: Sara, by-
Yeah sorry, english is not my first language so it's been like a training too.
Long, delicate, curly brown hair,
Wrapped round her puffy cheeks
And covering her already old eyes:
A wistfully stroll; demanding but gentle,
Each step seemed so deliberate
As you left for the last time.
Autumn, we were children for a whisper,
And in that sweet, subtle sound,
I could just make out shaking, trembling,
As you dampened a silent terror.
"No one will remember me" you cry
In grade school terror. It seems I do
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This is the worst shit, kill yourself my mane, sorry
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I do like hymies' basement! Haven't heard the other though
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Pull the trumpet out of your ass boyo, this isn't a faygs game shitspice
>At the free bar at my cousin's bat mitzvah

it was going good until it's just some privileged kike, sorry i'm sick of reading shit by rich white males
The dark and orange light will cover me
As clothes no longer do, yet fleetingly
Shall it escape at the softest word whispered.

I drag my finger up inner curves of her thigh,
Stealing my breaths at the smooth and wet skips it makes,
As does she, between the sniffs and whispers like
A lonely cat. "I'm just so sad all the time,
And it hurts that you're gone and not here with me,"
She says, one hand around bed-rails, in my hair

The other. I nod and hum some comfort, sure
Of her pain and the smile her face once shone for me.
Work on rhythm, read your shit out loud

Keep writing, the subject matter feels a little cliche but ultimately if you practice with it that should be fine
Poor rhymes. Never use poor comparative tools too.

Jack and Jill
went up the hill
so Jack could lick her candy
but Jack got a shock
and a mouthful of cock!
Cos' Jills' real name
was Randy
I have seen a meme, and it’s late at night
I try to fall asleep, but something doesn’t feel right
There are strange images invading my dream
I am not the same, now that I have seen a meme
A single meme is all it took
It grabbed my attention like a fishing hook
It soon escalated from a simple habit
And turned me into a massive autistic faggot
Despite all this, I do not regret one bit
That I now spend every day browsing through Reddit
For although my life is crap, it seems
I still am able to browse dank memes

Here is an incomplete one I began writing yesterday:

Much you have sung about the skies and sun rising.

The leaves have swept away old muses.
A myriad days crowd behind the horizon.
Much you have sung about whom other chooses,
No doubt a pithy waste of breath.

If one sitting beside a window should see
In our stead to the light that conjoins nothing,
Then how should we - plague tomorrow?

If man´s flesh does truly wither
If the rumours have been true
Then one could be buried
(Under a gravestone higher
Than the cathedral spire)
And hid away from time eternal,
For time eternal where dark slithers draw.
Keep writing mate.
Je suis un fils déchu…

Je suis un fils déchu de race surhumaine,
Race de violents, de forts, de hasardeux,
Et j’ai le mal du pays neuf, que je tiens d’eux,
Quand viennent les jours gris que septembre ramène.

Tout le passé brutal de ces coureurs des bois :
Chasseurs, trappeurs, scieurs de long, flotteurs de cages,
Marchands aventuriers ou travailleurs à gages,
M’ordonne d’émigrer par en haut pour cinq mois.

Et je rêve d’aller comme allaient les ancêtres;
J’entends pleurer en moi les grands espaces blancs,
Qu’ils parcouraient, nimbés de souffles d’ouragans,
Et j’abhorre comme eux la contrainte des maîtres.

Quand s’abattait sur eux l’orage des fléaux,
Ils maudissaient le val, ils maudissaient la plaine,
Ils maudissaient les loups qui les privaient de laine :
Leurs malédictions engourdissaient leurs maux.

Mais quand le souvenir de l’épouse lointaine
Secouait brusquement les sites devant eux,
Du revers de leur manche, ils s’essuyaient les yeux
Et leur bouche entonnait : "À la claire fontaine"…

Ils l’ont si bien redite aux échos des forêts,
Cette chanson naïve où le rossignol chante,
Sur la plus haute branche, une chanson touchante,
Qu’elle se mêle à mes pensers les plus secrets :

Si je courbe le dos sous d’invisibles charges,
Dans l’âcre brouhaha de départs oppressants,
Et si, devant l’obstacle ou le lien, je sens
Le frisson batailleur qui crispait leurs poings larges;

Si d’eux, qui n’ont jamais connu le désespoir,
Qui sont morts en rêvant d’asservir la nature,
Je tiens ce maladif instinct de l’aventure,
Dont je suis quelquefois tout envoûté, le soir;

Par nos ans sans vigueur, je suis comme le hêtre
Dont la sève a tari sans qu’il soit dépouillé,
Et c’est de désirs morts que je suis enfeuillé,
Quand je rêve d’aller comme allait mon ancêtre;

Mais les mots indistincts que profère ma voix
Sont encore : un rosier, une source, un branchage,
Un chêne, un rossignol parmi le clair feuillage,
Et comme au temps de mon aïeul, coureur des bois,

Ma joie ou ma douleur chante le paysage.
> de hasardeux
> scieurs de long
Qu'es ce qu'un "long"?
> Capital letters
If your second sentence is just a continuation of the previous one, then there is no need to capitalize the first letter of the said second sentence.
> M'ordonne
*M'ordonnent, because they are many to order, not just one.
> fontaine"...
> mes pensers les plus secrets
*mes pensées les plus secrêtes, don't fuck with the french language, come on.
>> mon ancêtre
You were talking about ancestors as a group so far and now you're only talking about only one of them. Which one? Otherwise, keep it plural as it was.
>don't fuck with the french language

point in case why English is superior
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124 KB, 816x816
Do you even know what poetry is? You just sound like an arrogant high schooler who wants to show off that he's french
Can anyone give me advice on writing in meter? Its the unstressed and stressed stuff that get me, I repeat the word so many times trying to figure out the stressed syllables that I second guess myself and start saying the word differently.
All his "mistakes" are completely acceptable under poetic license.
hasardeux can lyrically be spoken with audible "h" (think homard).
The "ordonne" isn't even a mistake, because it refers to "tout le passé".
I know this is /lit/ but there's a limit to pedantry you senseless fuck.
scan poetry until you get it. you know shakespeare will be in iambic pentameter, so mark all of the feet and you'll get a better sense of it.
This is about jenny, my first bang.
Jenny was tall, handsome, she did the chores good.
Jenny was my first bang.
Jenny in her skull had good ideas, cuz she went to school.
She was smart as an ox and sharp too, and in the saxk she was, you guessed it: good.
Jenny was modern and unreal but her breasts were the real deal.
Jenny was my first bang.
How shall I say it?
I shall declare it:
She was my everlovin sweetie pie.
She was my sweet handsome dame
and on
new years day
she took me to see Fast and Furious Full throttle.
Jenny was also my second bang.
Jenny was good to me.
Jenny had a heart of pure gold...PURE GOLD.
Where did she get it?
Jenny was smokin hot.
Hot lava, times ten.
Times one hundred.

*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Paul Walker.
Very nice, anon, it made me want to go outside and run through a forest or something. Now that's how you do romance.
Google Suprafixes and read them out in your head to get a handle on stress. Produce is one: To proDUCE is a verb, but PROduce is a noun.
the thunderous waging sea
roars of darkness to the vigil candle
there lies the heir fighting the waves
on a boat destined to disappear
no despair
I just made a short prose in spanish, the language of wetbax.

Ay putas, que hacen con mi vida?
Si las tengo por que no las puedo amar?
Que lujurio por sus cuerpos?
Soy un puerco y muero por esas tinieblas que llamas pecado.
Un perro se muere y me hace feliz, al fin puedo reir.
El poema se acaba y tengo mucho por decir.
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