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
>>7576882 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.
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 asphyxiation. "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 weaponized. "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.
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.
>>7577075 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.
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
>>7577950 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?
>>7577976 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.
frustration: 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
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.
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.
>>7578700 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.
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.
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 i-don't-want-to-say-soul 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.
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.
>>7580998 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
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
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.
>>7576867 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.
>>7576867 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.
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 m.i.a they were only for me anyways I close my mouth quickly around the escaping smoke lest it take a part of me with it
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/?
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
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
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 "David?" 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
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.
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
>>7588932 >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.
>>7588932 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.
>>7588983 >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 WHERE IS YOUR PUNCTUATION; IS THIS A QUESTION OR A STATEMENT
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.
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.
Languid-settled-near-carcass 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.
>>7591132 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.
>>7592106 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.
>>7592110 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.
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.
>>7576998 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
>>7593566 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.
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--
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.
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
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
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
>>7576867 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
>>7594263 >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.
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, waving, 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.
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
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 Unholy.
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.
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
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.
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.
>>7597833 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.
>>7597856 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.
>>7597768 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.
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.
here's something shit I wrote while depressed: an infinity spreads itself across the stars open-legged in its brazenness it flirts with nonexistence yet 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 cross-examination 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 introspective literary masturbation seems to be all I can currently do.
>>7576867 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.
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 Eventually Fades into nothing
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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 discus’ wallop intowhat of him? dingy dank of anal rim;there tongue spelunking, a most unwashed fucking and defunct brain nigh deathquenched in a balene gyroscope, miming the Thames 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 blur there were
she fucks like a savage mingling grunts with cuntflume miming the Thames from a wrinkled pucker and I love her
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.
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.
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.
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
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"
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
>>7604394 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.
>>7592515 >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. Thanks!
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.
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
>>7611144 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 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.
>>7611398 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.
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.
>>7606674 Is this about a tranny? >>7609958 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. >>7610927 You need to read more poetry. You have to keep writing for a couple of more years to be decent. >>7611354 Don't. >>7611459 Is in middle school and listens to a lot of Black Flag >>7611640 Reads like what would be the worst Tom Waits song
>>7576867 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.
>>7606674 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.
>>7609958 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
>>7610927 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
>>7606977 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.
>>7609958 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.
>>7610854 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.
>>7610863 This is Hemmingway like in its "the twist is suffering children" ending and shortness. I kinda like it as a response. Good job.
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.
>>7611199 >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.
>>7611203 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.
>>7611354 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.
>>7611398 >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.
>>7611640 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.
>>7612959 >>7612959 >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.
>>7613981 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. Rework.
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
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
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.
>>7576867 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
>>7576867 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?
Perhaps, 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.
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,
>>7617133 > de hasardeux *d'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"... *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.
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.
>>7617191 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.
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.
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 NO DESPAIR CRIES THE HEIR FOR THE DARKNESS HAS ALWAYS INDEED BEEN FRAGILE TO THE LIGHT
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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