These are awful mate, honestly. Is this just a trollfag thread? I'll try one and you can say it's shit too.
My love, my dog. Without you, who would be there to snuffle by my bedside wet nose as dawn calls I sigh, not another morning scrambling for switches because it is winter, and the light is thinner than cold fugs, these that I see black fromm the black window while my coco pops go crunch.
I guess this is the 'realest' poem I've ever written. Or at least have written down.
On a rejuvenating evening close, Sitting alone, and drinking the same Old crusty bottle dry, and my head Ringing with tired cries, I'm stricken dead By dancing rabbits bouncing on their toes.
Their lofty elegance parting an iced sea, Camouflaged for a moment, until, "There! Right past the fence! I saw them! Come and see!" And all returned were the snores of a bear.
The rabbit's tracks allowed me to stay close. I followed them 'til the trees were the same, 'Til the snow covered up my ravaged head; And then I found the rabbits, frozen dead, With blood stuck to their fur for me alone.
And weeping vanished to fierce roaring growls That thrashed the merging trees loose of all their Tender snow, snow that shadows what I see; The voracious, beady gold eyes of the bear.
For my playwriting class we all brought in a small piece of writing that had language we found interesting. We got in groups of three. I brought in the first verse and refrain of Emily by Joanna Newsom. One guy brought in a small part of The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain. One girl brought in a Philip Larkin poem. Then our instructor made us write using the style of the piece we brought in and write from the perspective of the speaker as if that speaker wants something from one of the other two characters. I did this and changed Emily to Eleanor because using the same name would be extra lame.
The frog and old Smiley Webster all say that The bread of the birch is the base of the belly's beloved And the whimsical rhymer hoards the riches of Kaisers As Eleanor sleeps none the wiser but whispers to me That that man in the bar is a liar, a liar, a liar Spinning tales of old tadpoles trapped drowning in fish bowls Who never jump out of the fire, the fire, the fire So I recruit Larkin and use both our voices to pull good old Eleanor back to good choices Our lyrical boldness will bound the now-hopeless With bricks as they sink in the river Drowning in dampness they'll mildly panic in stoic acceptance, their efforts invested are sunk costs like ships on Lake Huron Me and you, Philip, my God what great teamwork We just put quite a stir of a play on
To Pretend It’s 4:51 am on a Friday night and I should be sleeping and I can’t Not because I have insomnia but just because it’s getting harder.
And I’m sitting here now in front of the computer and I can hear the clicking of the keyboard as I’m hitting the keys Too hard And I wish it was because of anger but it’s just the frustration because it’s getting harder and harder and I can’t do anything about it and I can’t make it stop and I can’t make it go away or shut up and I can’t make it and I can’t.
It’s getting harder. It’s getting harder to pretend It’s getting harder to pretend that I’m having fun when I’m not to pretend that I want to laugh that I’m still funny on the inside. To pretend that I am interested in what people are saying, to pretend I have something to say to pretend that I still think it’s worth pretending.
It’s getting harder to pretend that I still care about vinyl and headphones To pretend that I’m still an audiophile, or that I still enjoy hiking and swimming and music; To pretend that my hobbies still interest me or that I want to find new hobbies Because I don’t, I don’t want to find anything but I have to because the opposite is Worse To pretend that I feel the difference, to pretend that I care, To pretend that I give a shit what I look like, or sound like, or what people think, To pretend that I’m not just a bystander in my own head Paying rent and doing chores But living in the basement and staring at the same four walls peeling And pretend that I don’t see the same walls every time I go outside.
To pretend that things are still pretty and girls are still attractive And the ocean is still vast And the mountain is still imposing and not just the same old shit I see every day The same peeling walls that I’m staring at And I can’t hear anything over the deafening silence in my own head.
And people say to seek help but what help can I get When I don’t even want to get better I just want it to stop I want the walls to peel away and eat into themselves and House to crumble and the silence to just go away
And every day it gets harder to pretend that I’m the same person that I was Years ago, Or that the person is still somewhere inside, Or that there is a person in there at all
To pretend that I can get excited or angry or sad To pretend it’s not getting harder to breathe To pretend I’m still funny or that I still remember what funny means and that there are other reasons to laugh except not to cry
Harder to pretend I still have goals and ambitions Dreams, wishes, desires, wants, needs, To pretend I care what comes tomorrow or Today, To pretend I’m excited about the things I want to be excited about
Do you know how many times I've stared through you and thought This is the end But I've felt the weight of what that meant and thought I'm too young to die So I turned away and when I faced you again You thought I was silly And life was just plain But today It was so gloomy all day today The snow was meant to come but never came What's the point of winter without snow What's the point of you and me But I'll turn away And you'll never look up And we'll spend the rest of our lives With each other Because we're meant to be
You won't like to hear it but I'll be honest as possible. I've read enough to know if a poem is atleast somewhat decent or absolute shit. It's like, just, my opinion, dude... I know... But still. Don't get mad if it's shit. Not everyone was meant to be a poet. It's as simple as that. Some of you just haven't put the time in and somehow believe you're a genius even though you don't know what a stanza is. Or, well... anything about poetry, really. This isn't your diary.
>>7690433 Yeah I skipped it because it's too short and also shit. There are shorter poems than yours, of course. But they actually convey something, anything. Yours was like a mashup of pop culture quotes and ''vibes'' concentrated into 6 lines to form a plebian ''diary entry'' type poem.
In this particular artform, It's safe to assume that the juice isn't worth the squeeze for you, and It likely never will be.
>>7690436 Okay. Come back in 30 or so years when you believe you've seen everything.
I don't want you. I want what you represent, a gleaming display of the muses of myths. your strength lies in your effect on those who meet you, and this power is the sweetest honey to your lips. Those lips, extended beneath your nose, pouting in expectancy. I will make solitude my bride, and my heart will beat as it has since i was born. Look at me, my heart pumping just from your touch, I feel like a little boy when you laugh, My mind boils when you flirt with a man. It is jealousy that i feel, and I hate myself, for my knees are bloodied by my devotion to you. I hold in my mind an image of a girl, you break the mold and twist it round my neck, strangling the words before my lips express them...
Panic is the last bastion of the man without a choice between bad and worse In early morning I shield my eyes from the bright sun. When the truth of day can shine free, my weakness keeps me from the image of the grass bathed in an almost motherly warmth Our fragile existence balanced by but a few coincidences we accept our life as a gift. yet we are spoiled children. our gift is thrown in the dirt and spat upon by the very people who depend on it. Dancing on coals above a lake of ice wasnt the best idea, it seems.
>>7690474 You can't ''work on it''... This is not some fucking high school project. You can't just ''wing it'' You don't sit around and force yourself until you think of something to write. Why do people think poetry is like some sort of songwriting circle? This is not a fucking ''creative writing'' class. You will not be able to consciously outdo the greats who have came before you. Some of them spent 50 years mastering their craft. You don't just get to decide to be a poet one day and off you go... Well, you can but you end up writing shit like you have posted.
>So how am I to make it day to day, First line is dull and doesn't even sound okay >if only pushed by the thought that somewhere, What is being pushed? My face into the palm of my hand? >in some universe Le Universe, is so grand... like woah, has anyone ever thought this too? >There is a version of me, Lol. I've seen this in so many other places. Films, poems, books... it is almost like it's not even there at all
>with you >and, there, I am happy. ?? Shit. It's shit. It is honestly like a childs attempt at their first poem.
>>7690512 Well then if that's the case why even have these threads? It's called constructive criticism for a reason. I'm not trying to "outdo the greats," why would you think I'm trying to do that? I'm trying to express a feeling in a certain way.
As for your comments
Yeah I don't like the first line, it's strange and I agree, so I changed it.
The second line has been changed as well, but it means that I am being pushed, what's keeping me going essentially. I changed that line to be a little more direct, and convey that point in a better way.
The third line doesn't mean this universe, it means that there is an alternate universe in which I am with this girl, because for everything that is possible there is a separate universe in which it's happening etc. etc. I'm sure you know that. So I changed that line to clarify a bit more.
And the fourth can be changed to be more eloquent if you think that's the problem.
And what's the issue with the last two lines? you just said they were shit. What makes them shit? I've changed them a little bit as well.
I know "the greats" have spent lifetimes working to become as skilled as they were. I'm not trying to surpass them, I'm trying to improve through reading, writing, and through criticism just like I'm sure they did.
>>7690534 >I'm not trying to "outdo the greats," Then what the fuck are you doing? >I'm not trying to surpass them If not, then what are you doing? Seriously? I'd love to know. If your aim isn't to convey something in a way that hasn't been done before and is genuine... then what are you doing writing poetry? Write a fucking diary.
As for the rest of your post: I don't care. I gave my opinion as someone who has read alot of poetry. If you think poetry is like high school then ignore my opinion and continue on. While you're at it, you may aswell sign up for art school and buy ''A Dummies Guide To: Poetry'' Maybe I'm wrong but I'm willing to put money on the fact that you: 1) Middle class 2) Relatively comfortable 3) Average intelligence 4) Boring 5) Damaged self esteem 6) Like hip-hop 7) Have never read poetry
>>7690553 >if you've written any, can you post one of your poems? Implying I'd post my hard work on the internet, for free, just so that it can be read and forgotten within two seconds due to all sorts of different reasons. I would never cheapen my work like that. Also, I don't need validation where as you clearly do.
>>7690586 >Then what the fuck are you doing? I enjoy writing mate, however it's not what I'm planning on doing with my life. I would like to write, and I really enjoy poetry but as of now I'm not trying to be the very best.
>If your aim isn't to convey something in a way that hasn't been done before and is genuine... then what are you doing writing poetry?
I never said that wasn't my aim, it is, and just because I'm trying to do that doesn't mean I'm trying to surpass anyone. It's not a contest.
>Implying I'd post my hard work on the internet, for free, just so that it can be read and forgotten within two seconds due to all sorts of different reasons. >I would never cheapen my work like that.
You're a pretty pretentious guy.
>Also, I don't need validation where as you clearly do.
These threads aren't for validation, it's for constructive criticism.
>>7690628 The first one was much better than the second. The second was so whiney and obnoxious, to me at least (no offense)
>I will make solitude my bride, Cliche and a little too edgy for my taste >and my heart will beat as it has since i was born. Duh. Cool heart idea but make it something better than that >My mind boils when you flirt with a man. It is jealousy that i feel, and I hate myself, for my knees are bloodied by my devotion to you.
Little too middleschool-y, but I get what you mean
>I hold in my mind an image of a girl,
>you break the mold and twist it round my neck, strangling the words before my lips express them...
>>7690839 How am I to endure earth's revolutions around the sun, if there is only one thought that motivates the very cells in my body, the truth that in some alternate universe There is a version of me, and a version of you
>>7690911 I understand where that's coming from. I guess it's just something that resonates with me.
It's just a tragic thought you know? That the woman that you are completely and utterly in love with, (if you can't be with her) is with you in an infinite amount of other Cosmoi. And there you are happy, but it's not this universe. That's what really gets me, and made me want to write this. Because you just happened to be in the one universe out of and infinite amount, where you're not with the girl you love. Know what I mean?
>>7690947 i wrote a short poem around the same time as those others, actually the same day, the same hour. i still feel like it was the best thing i had ever written. it's called Unrequited.
She looked at me for a moment locked in time eyes, emerald gilded sunspots through shattered glass, this ore a boon, alloyed spirit held at length, winds of change spewed from Eden's maw, eyes now further than the stars littering the empty sky, those eyes, now sultry soil.
>>7690866 I actually really agree with you, thanks.I didn't put any effort into that one but it sounded so perfectly portrayed. But it truly isn't much of anything other than a very pointed expression of my life. There's not much else going on. I'm glad you pointed it out
where are you? - that black blob whose curling waves whirl childhood's oceans; speeding creation (across the page) in ruler, metre, line. Like a double couplet gull ferrying time inch by inch, rhyme by rhyme, trapped - at this end of mine.
Lonely street lamp in the rain A Street light’s gold glower Does the suns job forlornly in the small hours shower: A steel light clerk who mourns lost mornings with flowers.
Flat pan metal slopes down. The sad chrome petal with the cloud split crown When sky drums his fingers on my mercury hound
However, as the beams touch each drops skin Is taken in and split The spectrum cut up Swims so thin No longer cluttered Red past green Doing the breast stroke Wearing a rainbows grin Then the lamps lost dawn blink in the squint of an eye The briefest gift of a firework from the kind city sky.
I feel a drift of swans An ebony flutter in the lungs The doctors say they’re black geese And I can’t breath for their dead ponds. But I think that relief That sensation of passing a silk sleeve And I mean to my briefs Is just worth our not getting along
>>7690512 so you don't think people should be poets then? everything good has already been said so there's no point in trying? you've got a pretty defeatist attitude to art making. It's not about being the best or outdoing the greats anon. The whole point of these threads is to critique and offer tips on how to improve their poetry.
At my school there was a kid named Paul He had a limp and had trouble walking the halls Sometimes he would stumble and then he would fall Laughter came quickly with a thundering gawffaw Soon after, his weak cry of pain turned into a bawl I think it's unfair, because he wasn't his fault Nobody helped because nobody cared at all He wasn't bright, and was prone to brawls Also, he might've spoken with an exaggerated drawl He had a picture in his wallet of his mom When he saw it helped him remain calm "Mama's Boy", that's what we used to call Paul
Through the darkness sprawling across the tattered walls, you had been my beacon of hope. Your voice called through the fog, shivers crept down my spine. Through and through, you are my angel. Preconceived notions broken, seeing the world from inside the shattered window paine. Falling in my dreams, but you gave me new ground to tread in my waking life. Static channels previously scrawled off as unimportant now shine with a kaleidoscopic glow. Will these lessons turn unconscious? Our roads converging was of only a delightful misstep of fate. From this moment, my heart will open it's chambers for you and let your blood steep in mine. I welcome the day we embrace, you will always be met with open arms.
>>7691941 Another one of my poems: I had lost all hope when those words echoed and pounded between thoughts. The worms you buried me in are suffocating me, and dirt clots my vision. Those familiar notes had still crawled along my every nerve. My body is in the present moment yet I am far from this space; the jaws of discord have swallowed my shell. A cloud of despondency hovers above me, enveloping me completely, descending. There comes a point where the pain is to be expected and you shut down completely. You become submissive to the darkness that is ravaging through your mass.
We sit and eat Teriyaki Chicken Kebabs, while watching My parents’ dogs. 'What should we do now?' she asks. 'We could spend the evening writing poetry to each other,' I say. 'I’m so exhausted, I just want to watch TV,' she says. 'That is OK too,' I say, and together we watch HGTV.
Later in the evening, she asks me, disbelievingly, what kind of poetry I write. 'I guess realist poems,' I say. I have never let her see my poetry. 'You should write me a romantic poem,' she says.
I am taken back to the Middle-East in colonial times, When it was full of adventure, and pyramids, and tombs, and effendis, And Sol Bloom and the Streets of Cairo and Maurice Jarre. You could wear khakis then, and their pressed seams would remain immaculate, Their soft but stiff fabric unsullied by sand or dirt or the decomposing detritus of ancient mummified Pharaohs. Such wonder, such romance! But now in their place are grubby terrorists with self-made IEDs.
She yawns, and I pour the rest of the wine into our glasses. Tomorrow we will need to get up early.
Arnold Gypsy, eyeless, misty Kissing feet of Passionate Trust thy station, fold it crisply Save unfurl in session set
Question not thy waking dreaming Fix thy face against the storm Hear no evil beggers screaming See thy love escapes not form
Form nor function bleeding unction Succor not who succor thee Touch succint thy social suction; Knowest not what gaiety.
"Five shots, back to back to back." "Jesus, I'm not looking to die tonight." "Get up, it's almost time."
"I'm saying there's no point in Mixing the drink. Higher cal. Stop, he'll just spend it on drugs." "Get yourself something to eat." "So it's a basement show?" "Yeah, New bands, cool people." "I don't know. People who go To these things. They're not real. They don't believe in anything." "What's there to believe in?"
Exist beyond perception lacking 'scendent agent through the mist Feel thee not thy sinew cracking? The coming of, in-fi-nite bliss.
In darkness know the basement chasm Sound unsound the Word anew Sink thee now in soulless spasm On among the peerless few
Who do not see, who cannot know The vortex come, thereabove When souls are falling like the snow Sink thee with thy concrete love.
"The bassist is good. Are the shades supposed to be Ironic or what?" "Nah. Pretty sure he's blind. It's Like, their thing."
"Pope me a beer, man." "It's on me. You're pretty good." "What does good even mean? Talent is cheap, IPA isn't."
>First two parts of a 7 part longer work. Planning on fixing the dialogue integration and adding a couplet to the rhymed sections to make it a sonnet.
I want to tell a story, a short one that requires a bit of poetry. I spend the poem setting up a figurative rapture.
Arnold, the bassist hipster, is both physically blind and figuartively blind to truth and objective beauty. At the moment of rapture, he is blind to the beauty. His inability to see renders him a martyr, left out of the gates of heaven so that others can go in.
The idea of the blind man being an inadvertent sacrifice for the sighted by way of the light of rapture is something I'm trying to communicate, and relate it to the modern age.
I thought of the first few lines after finishing a book in the park next to the Flatiron building. It was summer, then. Kissing feet of passionette refers to Christ as the Passionette one, as in his passion, which is why it's capitalized. Arnold is pursuant of the same path, kissing feet. The station is supposed to be the true colors of Arnold's psychotic soul.
I thought of the first stanza and wrote through the 4th that day. It was inspiration.
What time is it? The time to stay alert. So many times I have drifted away into my own little, more personal, space of mind. Yet don't we all? There's nothing more menacing in this life than time. If stress doesn't kill you first, time will. Time is an age-old enemy, always there, waiting to pounce at every second of every day. These units of time, time controls, time is the blinking soul that harbors the void.
The days come shorter, the nights wane longer, the mornings dark like so should be. Days colder come, embracing bodies not unlike death, its arms cold draped beneath, beyond. Winter; reverse the clock, all this life in primal pen. Living things fight more, for warmth, survival. Luckily these things do also adapt.
Adaptation is sacrifice, one thing must fall so that another may rise. These are the opposing forces at work.
Throats churn chocked, sore and nose run clear. Still much left for fear. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing quite painful as painful is an attempt at controlling what can't be quite controlled. Rise! Rise, Aeolus' current! Lakes run red and pale, these tastes so bitter. Cool and coated pain seeps out my grasp, fall into helplessness return. Unstoppable this force, this river swelled from deep mountain cavern, not intellect nor power such as God could hold you, not my tears. They rave, they rumble. Defeat.
But soon will come again a time of warmth and comfort, a time of spring, soft and somber. Soon come summer, fall and winter once more.
Perhaps time may also be a friend, a friend and enemy, a singing sibling to men and women; brother or sister to them all.
Sometimes we take what anything we have, what all we praise, for granted.
Water and eye contact are not the same. The pure and cold and practical versus the deep abyss of personality which takes up such mercurial forms. Who are we to be a type? The only ones who can. All living things need water, to my knowledge, but I was surprised the other night to see a coyote leering at me. Its eyes were water. My stomach was water. And the air was sticky with it. But there was no volume to that experience, no depth with which to measure pressure. There was only eye contact, and that strange lopsided expression, and my steady hands on the patio table. I cannot feel these moments. They cannot float forward through time to save me, sinking and sinking in my own water. They were never real, but for the strange substance of graphite. Waves of lead that all but we will never understand, much less read, and will never the wiser return to the sea.
Ambitious drifts of snow still cling, Somewhere between a street lamp light And waffle house, to greying roads That sparkle; melting gold from lamps Are blurring lines, and smudging out The borders drawn on cobbled streets Left sprawling, carelessly, adrift.
La Grande Place never looked so sweet As when we laughed to nothing jokes, And ran like madmen, wild, to dives, Just barely eighteen. Manneken Was laughing with us. Still he grins, Though echoes roared in smoky rooms Have faded from there long ago.
If troubled houses beckoned us Return, we never heard their calls. And maybe, somewhere in those streets, The carefree boys still laugh and run.
I see your eyes watching me in my dreams (never far from the room I reside in, generating their own illumination) and I miss you more than usual.
What visions our love inspired! and I have tried my best to forget them.
I've given them all up, you see; I've done things I never would have, when I was with you. I jumped into the Abyss headfirst to jar your existence loose, tumbling sharp crystals of you internally, naturally, desperately yearning to wear you away into stepping stones but struggling to keep your edges raw.
I want to find you! And tell you I'm sorry that you forgot I told you I'd help you with anything.
I may be a Fool, a zero, but I believed in us. You were and are mine. I'll never love another. You are the beauty of the universe to me and the secret soul of all music.
I won't do it! I wish I had the strength to kiss the ground you walk on. I'd dive through magma and tundra to be more than just a ghost of the past to you.
You'll see! I'll give you my once-distant heart and a candlelit night-- fingertips caressing hair-- will be all that stands between us.
I fucked him while thinking of you again, you nigger. How dare you lay this electromagnetic curse upon my wrought-iron heart! For years I wandered, growing rust, nigh inert. I didn't ask for restoration, I didn't long for salvation: I did not see Hell. For no reason at all you sank me in an e-tank, removed my crust hands-free, made me a temporary slave to the current. How filthy the water and steel plates become! I was not aware I'd developed such an overgrown patina! Your static pulse ate through to my core and revealed a long forgotten shine. And I glad for it: I see that all other paths terminate in reverb, in vigorous wrenching of puppet-strings, in the release of a putrid last breath.
The script is concluded: your part played out admirably, my dear. I am eager to send you the advance copy. "Not For Distribution". My turbulent heart has been welded, hard-wired, fused, to yours! Look, look! I have torn myself open to show you, for I have discovered there is no happiness to be found in all the world when I deny this truth! I am yours, I love you, I love you. My capacity for passion has never been met with so little resistance before. Resistance? Nay! You make me forget the meaning of the word! There has been no resistance, only damned insulation. And yet, even inhibited, you'll leave me bruised. How I ache for your lashes.
Pain is pleasure, and pleasure is pain. Any catalyst and reaction leaves me longing for more... but some experiments are exquisite. You are exquisite, a treasure, a magnum opus of humankind's development. I would wish to place you in a museum, climate controlled, for the masses to admire... but I am selfish, and I would rather keep you locked away, a secret soul, a secret mind, a secret body.
A berry blew up his own tsar Whisper cranberry generated char Blasphemy ensues, definitely not a brawl A dimensional strawberry born into a haul Fingered self-me of fame and small Vile pre-pattern'd Victoria sits She's gigantic from half the angles Frantic tales she retold, knits The windsound melting into rectangles A first person shot a second, before he divorced wits Blueberry tantrum fused into a "now he slits" Another gigantic self now unquits
Isle Isle Isle A file I refile A pile old and senile Drinking half the Nile Reconcile, own denial Dial the phone, please, Kyle Lie to yourself, be immobile Not by a long shot or a mile Hostile is my style Lord Belial been waiting for a while
>>7691705 im not that anon but i seriously doubt whether art is either a valid or a worthwhile pursuit for those who do it as a hobby. to be an artist is to create within a tradition. hobbyists like you imply on 4chan are not artists because they do not know the tradition. art is perhaps not about outdoing the greats (because this is almost impossible), but it is about being the best (in terms of your relation to your capacity and to your contemporaries). all-or-nothing; pursue it until you are the best, or don't pursue it.
i get the sense that so few people here read poetry seriously. you see it all the time: "I dont read but i like writing it....." these people are trying to create art while knowing nothing about it
Seargant Johnston didn’t quite make it out of the crater where he died.
In the damn observatory, up against the window, and elephant had thrown herself, into the river and was stuck against the window. Half submerged, it’s unclear how long the elephant has to live. A man, John, decideds he must do something about it, everything he can do about it. There is no way to get the elephant to float out against the current and the debris that make up the damn. Almost accepting defeat the man looks out through the window, past the elephant, to another room in the observatory. A little girl there is signing to the man to try and open the window. Opening the window would destroy the damn observatory, but it might give the elephant a chance to avoid drowning to death. The window is open and the baby elephant looks at the man in a sad and happy way and asks, “have you ever met my mother?”
The man is now in an airplane many thousands of feet above the sky. He is thinking about while he chooses a song to jump out of the airplane to. The hatch door in the back of the little plane opens and all the man has to do now is jump. He waits an additional 45 seconds, timing the jump to just before the lead singer goes into a beautiful solo and sings with energy and pru.
The man is outside of the airplane free falling to the ground. The ground is at first not approaching very quickly and the man feels like he has quite a bit of time, which is good because the man has never jumped out of an airplane before. He has a parachute backpack which is not adjusted properly. The man must hold the backpack in a way that will ensure the parachute will open above him. He is looking on the left and right shoulder for a straps and decides the left strap will open the parachute. The ground is beginning to move in very quickly. The man pulls the strap that he hopes will open the parachute and it is unclear weather he is slowing down now or not. In any case the man is moving in more of a slant and not straight into the ground.
He passes either just above some trees or through them and into a field. He is too focused on the ground. The man lands, still in a slant just outside of a crater, with his head propped against an old ammo box like a pillow.
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