/Critique/ Thread

To be honest I imagine most material that he gets is so terrible I wouldn't read it for less than $200 per hour.

give it a rest m8
ur wastin ur time worrying about this guy

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>>8422354
No discernible talent

that'll be $1079 :)

>>8422340
thread is dead as Op love life

Beach games
For two players:
1) The players take turns in throwing stones, paying attention not to hit each other. To score a point the thrown stone must be prettier than the received one. The game doesn't take place on the beach but on a field of stones, and telling the opponent's stones apart results very hard, or rather, impossible. A match lasts two billion years and there's no winner.

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I'm assuming this is a real critique thread despite all the shit being slung at the better than food guy.
My grammar is probably a bit fucked, but I can fix it up while adjusting other concerns. The goal is to get this picked by Automobilia, a literary magazine with a car focus.

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>>8426259

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>>8426263

If anyone reads french, I would enjoy a (you).

pastebin.com/hv9btr3X

>>8423809
After death, all lions in Nereboth entered.

Ankles do"ing" anything like I never end.

Answer "da" fAking little incubus ass

that's all my mind can give me. smpn

>>8425659
i think this one was the best one.
[][][][][][][][][][:)]

Anyway,

pls cum back
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey

>>8426259
>>8426263
>>8426267
The syntax definitely needs work, but moreso the 'voice' of the peace. It sounds very simplistic with simple and repititious word choice that gives it a very highschool sound. A story like this should sound like you're telling it to someone, not like you're TRYING to sound like you're telling it to someone.

Keep working on editing the grammar and try for a more authentic sound.

>>8426259
I don't mind the voice. I think you should read it aloud, there are a few word choices in there that are awkward.

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I'm thinking of a flashback about Boxer with his fellow dobermen, what do you think?

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>>8426485
*ozone

ugh sorry guys, I'm in a shit mood and feel like being an unhelpful shit to complement it

what the fuck is worthwhile writing anyway, and who am I kidding if I say anybody gives or will give a fuck about what I have to say?

and I don't know if they heard or not in the first place, but why should I explain further?

I have to do things for the sake of it but that seems impossible.

Teenage perfectionists dash their dreams on shards of angst and
Ask if it's really worth cash to feel like this

A friend of mine who knows Cliff says he has a mean heroin addiction, probably spent all his jewtube bux, running low on $$$....

>>8426485
Fuck off you fucking pencil tapper

>>8427040
>friend
normalfags leave NOW

>>8422340
cheap chip cheeping
twit twit its twits
twisting and sweeping
beceause they beeping beeps
being beeps they beep the beeper beeps
beating beta' betamax
as he baiting beta baits
being alpha
beat beat alpha bait beta
bit by bit he beat-beating betas
beat by beat beta losing bits
killed to bits
beta is no longer close to vasco the guma
beep beep he is the jeep

I began to fall, my reality had become a void, in an instant I lay silent in the shadow of purgatory. The air was thick like fog, for a short moment the void became fantasy, and I danced in a warm and conformable dream, in an instant the light vanished, my ego decayed.
My essence faded, slowly consumed by a dormant figure – one that was faceless and hollow. A silhouette of form quickly became of flesh.
Before me stood a woman, nude and without eyes; suddenly I became surrounded by an inescapable shroud of primal desire, my vanished ego replaced with selfish and sickly hedonism, a hunger no man has felt, no starving child or man without cause.
Had the excessive drinking sent me into another delirium, had the opiates induced a nod so deep I where neither dead nor alive? Was this place of emptiness a middle ground between my life and death?

>>8428183
sounds like my saturday night senpai

>>8428317
Sounds like a lovely weekend

>>8428183
I really like this. Before
>"Had the excessive.."
I was reminded of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.
I really don't like that line, delete "Had the excessive...dead nor alive" and keep the last question. Definitely one of the better things I've seen posted in one of these threads in a while, despite its short length.

Here's the first quarter of a flash fiction piece I'm writing:

We stood on the platform, our hands tied behind our backs by itchy rope that was too tight. Before us stood a hundred people, all of them waiting in anxiety. A wave of sweat rolled across my body, caged against me by the shrunken t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing—that we were all wearing. A bright green light flashed slowly, illuminating the faces in front of me; their mouths were twisted and misshapen, their eyes completely focused on us, on me. The sound of footsteps emerged from behind, and from the tall, green curtain walked a short, stout man. His eyes sat uncomfortably on the top of his head and he had a stubby nose that took loud, fast breaths like a pug. The girl beside me began to mutter some sort of prayer. Her words stumbled over one another as she shook like [a newborn calf]. I looked down at the people before us once again, and my eyes met those of a young man with platinum blonde hair folded neatly upon itself like an envelope. He had a jagged scar to the left of his left eye that ran down the length of his face and he seemed to be about the same age as us. The corner of his mouth cracked a devilish smile that mouthed the words, “I win.” It could have easily been him up here, on this platform, shaking and sweating, silently begging for a quick death. Touché, I thought.
As the man made his way to the front of us and to the podium, the emerald lights stopped flashing and in their place shone a white spotlight that forced my eyes to the floor with its brightness. I tried my best to put on a bold face, to feign courage, but by the [] smirks on the faces of the men and women fortunate enough to make it past 20 it was obvious that my attempt had failed. The man adjusted the microphone before him and, taking a sharp, deep breath, said, “Welcome all, to this our annual rites ceremony.” He sounded as though he’d had sand dumped down his throat, the way it creaked and stuttered, “The men and women whom you see before you tonight have been chosen by our ever-prudent council to be this season’s offering to this our graceful mother.” His eyes meandered to the dirt upon which the audience stood and lingered there before returning to the crowd, “From the soil stained by their vigorous, youthful blood shall there rise a plentiful crop. And as there has always been,” he bellowed, gaining confidence, and the people before him replied—though with an air of duty rather than pride and conviction—
“So shall there always be.”

>>8428342
After reading it again I revised a few things:

We stood on the platform, our hands tied behind our backs by itchy rope that was too tight. Before us stood a hundred people, all of them waiting in anxiety. A wave of sweat rolled across my body, caged against me by the shrunken t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing—that we were all wearing. A bright green light flashed slowly, illuminating the faces in front of me; their mouths were twisted and misshapen, their eyes completely focused on us, on me. The sound of footsteps emerged from behind, and from the tall, green curtain walked a short, stout man. His eyes sat uncomfortably on the top of his head and he had a stubby nose that took loud, fast breaths like a pug. The girl beside me began to mutter some sort of prayer. Her words stumbled over one another as she shook like [a newborn calf]. I looked down at the people before us once again, and my eyes met those of a young man with platinum blonde hair folded neatly upon itself like an envelope. He had a jagged scar to the left of his left eye that ran down the length of his face and he seemed to be the same age as us. The corner of his mouth cracked a devilish smile that mouthed the words, “I win.” It could have easily been him up here, on this platform, shaking and sweating, silently begging for a quick death. Touché, I thought.

As the man made his way to the front of us and to the podium, the emerald lights stopped flashing and in their place shone a white spotlight that forced my eyes to the floor with its brightness. I tried my best to put on a bold face, to feign courage, but by the [] smirks on the faces of the men and women fortunate enough to make it past 20 it was obvious that my attempt had failed. The man adjusted the microphone before him and, taking a sharp breath, said, “Welcome all, to this our annual rites ceremony.” He sounded as though sand had been dumped down his throat, the way his voice creaked and stuttered, “The men and women whom you see before you tonight have been chosen by our ever-prudent council to be this season’s offering to this our graceful mother.” His eyes meandered to the dirt upon which the audience stood and lingered there before returning to the crowd, “From the soil stained by their youthful blood shall there rise a plentiful crop. And as there has always been,” he bellowed, gaining confidence, and the people before him replied—though with an air of duty rather than pride and conviction—

“So shall there always be.”

>>8426259
Narrator sounds like Holden Caulfield. If he's supposed to sound like he's in high school then you did well, if not you should really change it to make him more mature.

>>8428183
Pretty good, I like it. My critique would be the constant references to the passing of time, they occur too often and sound too similar too each other. Like you said "in an instant" twice and you use for a short moment in between the two "in an instant"'s. You should either change them to something less jarring or get rid of them altogether, unless for some reason the repitition and jarringness was done on purpose. I think eliminating most of the references to time altogether would be best as they simply distract from the mood of the scene and its mystical atmosphere which seems to be apart from time anyways.

>>8428394
Wasn't aiming for it. I'll need to do rewrites.
>>8426434
>>8426446
Thanks for all the advice. I'll fix it up soon.

>>8428362
i'm a noob reader so i can't judge the technical aspects, but is it on purpose that it reads like a YA novel? otherwise rewrite the cheesy dialogue, the cheesy protagonist and reinvent the cliched setting

sleep tight pizza

This is a period of temporal decay
What is beautiful settles at our feet
The rays of sun would shine freely
Through the trees
But there is no sun
Only trees
And spring is not a bastion of hope
For those about to face winter
It is coldness robed
In a cruel promise

bleed for you
the city laughs
the streets weep
as figures pass
outside my window
their faces pale
They cling to life
tooth and nail
"please try to remember"
we always forget
that everyone
has blood to let

>>8426259
>>8426263
>>8426267

This is a first draft or at least a first imagining. You've got a nice slice of life here but it needs to be refined.

Start again, open a new document and write the story from the beginning, feel free to refer to your old version as much or as little as you like.

>>8428533
>>8428534

Punctuation is always useful m8s.. I wouldn't assume that a line break is a pause; often it isn't.

>>8428534
>>8428522
Not very good desu

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>>8426846
slight update.. wasn't happy with the last line

>>8429092
Its better, Hope you keep writing. what you're writing seems interesting

>>8428533
>>8428534
Punctuation is in order, line breaks isn't a pause

Rip it apart


Burning embers shine so brightly
For a flicker then they die
Lasting an eternity
for a moment
Then goodbye

Who can say that their light's nothing
When it blinds such
Stupendously
If only my heart too could capture
Souls, if it'd then die still happy
I'd be

For fiery red my heart too bleeds
Pristine like roses wild neath the trees
You can't find them the leaves rustle too much
And the cry of the birds will enchant you so
You'll forget all about it like my heart too
Was forgotten by her
Who so long ago
Promised me the peace of the pastures
Where Caedmon lay when god sang to him
He wrote hymns while I write litanies
Demonic indeed guess that's why she won't touch me

And fiery red the embers still bleed
I flick them away ashes that they are
and I light a new one another one indeed
And sigh smoke eyed
What else is there for me?

>>8430417
Thanks mate. I'll keep trying. Btw, that poem is somewhat related to the theme of a competition. Worth entering?

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The First Critique

Two components of one story. Rip them to bits, please.

http://pastebin.com/whEXmGkN
http://pastebin.com/4VbamPrQ

>>8422393
That's a rare Bloom. Thank you, anon.

>>8431440
punctuation

>>8432502
1st:
*stragglers
2nd:
>He had drunk, and he was fallen down backwards, through an open window and out of the apartment and out of the heating and the pink wall-washer lighting and onto the dirt sprinkled with dead grass and salt to soak up the snow eight stories below.

I don't like this sentence. I know it's not meant to be elegant but come on..

Uh, they're good, I suppose, but veryveryvery DFW. Very DFW.


----


I'm not a bad man, lass,
just lonely, trust me.
I'll pay you grand
for some of your company.
Like the other men you know,
my urges are unquenched,
I'm desperate, insatiable,
the devil has my cock
in withered grip;
how dare he speak for me -
I'll deny him all his worth, my soul
will stay with me, just need
to seek another. And you sell
to me your mouth and twat,
you laugh at me behind my back,
that sad old man,
no friend nor lover.
Tit for tat, marra.
You're not better, you cannot live
for sin and live; I'm here
to save us. Put your tits
away, I want to speak.
Damn it, understand it!
You're my friend, my friend
above my lover.

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Been a while since I've been to /lit. Been writing outside my usual, collaborative stuff, but when I return to my own stuff and do exercises, I usually write about this.

This is a small extension of a larger piece I'm writing. I've critiqued pieces of that before.

>The Island
There is a place that is pure, where the sun warms and goldens the bare skin of young girls, as they adventure through the land.

Three square miles of jungle, fields, beaches, and sand, and a gigantic waterfall by a gigantic cliff, at the bottom a crystal-clear cove, where young girls swim, and sparkle in the sun. Glowing, sparkling bodies, thin and thick, matured with breasts or breast-buds, dark angles over rose-buds, or maturity yet to come, little blank frames, templates for future women.

But all smile, all act the same, all sparkling, all immodest, all naturally comfortably nude, regal in the water, or running across the fields, tip-toeing through the creeks, surrounded by the wall of nature.

In the open or in hidden parts of the world,
There is no matching the magnanimity of naked girls.

>>8432714
You write with a certain reverence that your subject matter just doesn't warrant, especially not out of context. It sounds tryhard at best, creepy (and not even the "but it's INTENTIONALLY creepy" shit that people in these threads love, just straight-up creepy beyond readability) at worst.
If you want to give your writing a mythical quality, read your culture's myths and use their language. Don't be dramatic for the sake of it: it sounds awful, especially in English.

>>8432653
If you intend to set it to music, we need at least a score. If you don't intend to set it to music, it's far too lyrical (and driven far too far into the American pop tradition).

>>8432799
A-are you saying naked girls don't deserve reverence?

Otherwise, noted. These writings are definitely going to be using a pseudonym.

>>8432813
They deserve oblique reverence. In the West, and especially in anything influenced by French (such as the entire English language), we write about such things with a little more shame.
Mixing high-strung language ("In the open or in hidden parts of the world, There is no matching the magnanimity") and obscenity ("of naked girls") sounds either juvenile or horribly pretentious and creepy or both unless done very well and very intentionally.

>>8432811
Uh... what the fuck are you talking about?

"Sky Burial"

When I die, give me to the birds, for I have always loved them anyway.

When raptor tongues have rasped white and clean the bones beneath, and carried away my flesh, wheat harvested with sickle talon, I will be free. And there forevermore live in the breath of mountains, the screams of rabbits, and the slaying of doves.

>>8432714
Agreeing with >>8432799 that was really fuckin creepy. There are several problems with it. For one, these "young girls" seem to not have brains. They move and act in random, animal-like motions. I think it would actually be less creepy if you replaced the girls with cows. For another, you hyper-focus on the fact that they are naked. It's like you're a lecher staring at these things (things, they're not people) from the clouds. If this is the opening of whatever it is you're writing, no one will read it. You seriously need to rethink whatever it was that brought you to write this part. If there's some kind of justification for it elsewhere in your story, fine, but it better be hella funny in its context.

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In media res; a wild child having a sugar rush after drinking sap off a tree

>>8432868
I like it. It conveys this very innocent yet orgiastic experience, and definitely has that primitive, pagan sense that it should, given the character involved. I enjoyed it.

>>8432883
Perfect, that is just what I was trying to bring across. Thanks for the critique, glad you liked it.

>>8432826
>>8432859
I had a response typed up but I guess it didn't go though.

Though I disagree with the idea that the subject is obscene, I understand the criticism. I think I went for the juxtaposition out of a sense of amusement, but also because I believe in every word I wrote. I guess I just be an insane perv.

The longer piece isn't as direct, but it probably comes off just as creepy. In response to an earlier draft of part of that work, an anon said it was "obvious what I was doing," so I decided to strip away the fluff and bring it front and center. Maybe not the best of ideas.

Or maybe after I die the piece will be uncovered and gain popularity as the ramblings of a madman.

Here's the first part of a short story I've been working on.

‘’I’ve been sick. My nose has given up on me. Onto greater lands I shall descend.’’― ''This has to be fresh... It's written right on the door; must have taken the guy some time with such a fancy font. This isn't a grimy gas station, this has to be fresh, one of the workers would have wiped it off... But what's the guy trying to say? It's probably meant to be weird, or maybe he wasn't all that well in the head....''― He dozed off; staring at the fluorescent lights above him― ''How fragile this world is, how fragile the mind is. It doesn't take much; before you know it, you're screaming, naked, and scared... no aid.''― The memory of the thought was there, the thought however dissipated into the heavenly glow of the florescent lights. He flushed the empty toilet, just in case, just in case, just in case. His mind was empty now; bouncing between the pleasantly sharp porcelain steps and the ambient buzz from above.

>>8432868
This is damn good

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whatever the fuck this is, go ahead and critique it. I wrote it when I was 11.

>>8434180
Anonymous 08/24/16(Wed)21:14:14 No.8434219 ▶
>>8434180 #
Here's some free advice, nobody wants to critique a piece of writing that you dismiss already (in order to protect yourself from negative feedback) by saying that it's just something you wrote when you were however many years young. It is just a lame as shit cop out. Take ownership of your writing or don't waste someone else's time with it.

>>8434227
i posted it because i thought it might have been amusing ya dingus

>>8422340
this nigger is so fucking ugly lmao

>>8434257
Critique threads are serious business, bitch

>>8422340
oh hey!
I actually watch your video on Michael Gira's book. Then I watched a few others.
I dunno if ur legit but you fuckin' cool

luv u

>>8434264
he's fucking cute, you watch your whore mouth you herpes infest cum bubble of a whore's creampie. >:(

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fuck waiting and revising it myself first, have at it (1/3)

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>>8434325
(2/3)

>>8434322
look at those crows feet and those sun yellow stained chompers. for a 40 year old man he can barely grow facial hair .

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Literally just started this a couple of minutes ago, it's an idea for a short story. Hope it works well. I want a good 10 pages out of it.

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>>8434329
(3/3)

Winds of Pentecost

SEEK OUT YOUR OWN
SALVATION
WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING

WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING

Mouth full of tongues
Earthquaking jaw

Eeeeeeesh Da’alada
Deeeeeesh Ba’al (NO!)

Christ’d! I am Christ’d!
My chest swells with
The breath of god.


I am empty (was I lying?)

To call it a door would be a lie on a magnitude greater than any she had ever told. A door was a small curved plastic thing that separated one tunnel wall from the next. Perhaps it has a small lock, more an indication of the desire for privacy than a security measure. This was not a door.
This gargantuan slab of metal was larger than her home, than all their homes. It was larger than thought, as she should not imagine the edges of it, could not hold the size of the thing in her mind. It seemed larger than anything could ever be. And yet, in its obscene size, it began to move.
It swung outward on hinges that defied belief, emitting a screech greater than the sum total of all the noises she had ever heard. A thousand fingernails on a thousand chalkboards could not have begun to approach the noise as the un-door opened, a rush of scorched air slamming into the final tunnel as she had always imagined the fist of God might.
And when the thing-that-could-not-be-a-door had completed its journey, one that seemed aeons long to the assembled members of humanity that watched it, she saw that its size was a lie. Before her lay rasping sands, valleys, canyons, into which it could disappear in an instant and be swallowed up in its wholeness.
Around her there were screams and there were wails. They swelled into a great chorus, and yet as deafening as they might become, there was yet something beyond them. A still, finely-etched silence, waiting through the screaming and terror with patience unimaginable. As the door might fit into the desert before them, so their moans in the silence.
She was one of the first to leave the curved static walls behind her, to move into the sands. Later she would be called brave, called foolish, called mad. She did not argue, but in the moment that she moved, she knew she was none of these things. She did not fear. She did not think. She understood, deeply and without words, as people once understood the world and themselves, that it was time for her to walk into the yawning chasm before her.
It was this understanding that saved her.
((I know there are some cliches, fairly unpolished, but first thoughts?))

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if this is done right it should be feelsy

lemme know

>>8432868
The first 10 lines are great, but then the piece just comes off overly pedantic and ostentatious to me.

The prose is impeccable but reading this in a novel would feel like a chore.

>>8434332
>ear-splitting
avoid cliches or adages when you can add something that is your own (unless it's important to the story, metaphorically or in a character sense)
Also use some synonyms for explaining the light.
Also not to be offensive but the idea doesn't even pique my interest.
I would try to be more engaging.
Otherwise it's pretty decent.

>>8434931
The girls segments are well done but the guy feels like he was written.
The letter part is shit though, it's a precarious situation though, as it's better to show a letter than tell about it.
I just feel like the letter and the man are too synthetic.

>>8434974
Yeah, I'm rereading the 3 pages I've written now, and I noticed the repetition with using the words light/dark/night/day. I'll work ways around it. Thanks.

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I'd really like it if someone would read this and give their best interpretation.

I'm afraid I might've lost the original sentiment behind it on account of the bizarre imagery and poor word choices

>>8435195
10/100
its better than most

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Is anyone willing to read and rate the opening of my first chapter?

I self-published the book on Amazon last week.

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rate my opening paragraph

>>8427040
I like Cliff, but he actually does strike me as an addict type. I'd always just assumed he was an alcoholic and all the """""coffee"""""" and """"""""water""""""" he drinks is actually booze.

>>8434330
If you talk shit about Clif one more time...

ONE MORE TIME

>>8435737
The dude's a hipster cunt.

>>8435352
the prose is awkward, sorry i can't provide anything more specific than that.

>>8435288
so =>5/10, thanks

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>>8435352
Is it meant to be funny?
The prose is awkward and (sorry) to me it screams autism. If he's meant to be a sperg then that's fine, you did a good job.
>>8435195
>within their lids
Doesn't really work.. your eyes aren't part of your eyelids

>I'm afraid I might've lost the original sentiment behind it on account of the bizarre imagery and poor word choices
Then rewrite.

>>8434931
It's ok but I agree with the other anon - the guy is very synthetic.


Pic is an old piece I've reworked. It's not part of anything larger. Anyway I'd like to know what people think of it

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The Nephew

The universe is an endless cycle
At least according to my uncle Michael.

I don’t believe him, or even care
What the universe is, or does, or where.

As a matter of fact, I think it’s silly
To bundle up when it isn’t chilly,

To philosophize on pointless topics,
To sit around and watch biopics
When you could holiday in the tropics.

So my uncle and me, we don’t get along
Or hum the same tune or sing the same song

We go our own ways, we heed our own senses:
If he’s wearing glasses then I’m wearing lenses.

And that’s how it is, from beginning to end
Me and my uncle, my rival, my friend.

>>8436390
>Cliff Sargent is a hipster

What is this, 2008?

>>8428183

> crawling in my skin
> these wounds, they will not heal
> I began to fall
> reality became a void
> an instant I lay silent
> in the shadow of purgatory
> The air was thick like fog
> the void became fantasy
> I danced in a dream
> my ego decayed

>>8432868

> a child

and yet the narrator is acting like Moby fucking Dick just drank a black sea's worth of rum

>>8436671
rhymes are childish. the focus on the relationship between the uncle and the nephew is contrived and has undertones of perversion. the tone of the poem feels like a hollow imitation of silverstein or something. is that what you were going for?

>>8436647
use your imagination. by closing your eyelids, your corneas do indeed exist "within" your eyelids. Open them, and they are revealed to the outside. The thought of someone interpreting that line to mean that corneas are somehow part of the membrane of the eyelid is really entertaining, thank you.

>>8436851
>contrasts are bad

>>8426322
Je le tiffe, m'anon

squinting at the sun
my eyes are having fun
dripping time
bitterness produced by a lime
farewell
i will let my life quell

caught by what holds
it is my hand which folds
around life

>>8437259
>>8437263
wtf

>>8437270
First one was meant for masochists with either a happy end or suicide, whatever you want to see in it.
Second one the will to live, which one is bound to. I didn't think i made them to abstract...

>>8437299
read more poetry then come back and try again.

>>8437305
That's not a critique, that's banter.
Keep it to yourself.

>>8437314
i was actually holding back from telling you how terrible they both are. maybe you're just hopeless, but the more likely cause; you don't have a good grasp on what makes poetry interesting or beautiful. the remedy to that is reading poetry with the intent of understanding.

what's the point of being critical of something that might've been the product of 2 minutes of work?

>>8437335
There isn't just the understanding part, it's about the feeling/vibe you get from it. Maybe it isn't well written, may you also dislike this one?
Domination
Exploration
idle chat
the roses are lying flat
beautiful coral in the sea
fatality, we won't be free

This thread is shit. We're all faggots,
Except for me.
How do you kill yourself? I'm asking for your sake,
Not because I care.
I will not read unsolicited (you)s for free.
*zips katana*

>>8437367
you're not saying anything with this.
nothing you're writing has any semblance of flow in rhythm or idea.
There's nothing here.
read fucking poetry.

>>8422340
>sending your work to a 26 year old trust fund baby who looks like he's 40 and has no qualifications or connections to the industry

>>8437387
Well, at least now i know that you're hypercritical.
As the last poem i posted was well received last time. Maybe it's everyone, maybe you are just the ingenious person who will rise from here.

>>8436671
I like the idea but the rhymes are childish

>>8437246
Considering that most of you guys are elitistic, unpleasable fucks, that actually means a lot to me. Thanks.

>>8437096
Silverstein not so much as Ashbery when he's in full doggerel mode. I like bad, childish rhymes. Sometimes I like to write the worst poems I can muster.

I think you can get a lot out of a winking cliche.

I'll probably abandon this to the hounds but keep a few of the rhymes for a later poem.

A good story and a good roller coaster share the same core qualities. Twists, loops, feints that betray the expectations and shocks which come unpredicted. There are millions of stories in this, the Unsleeping City, but so few will ever read them. Paintings were never meant to see the canvas, but it has been a while since I saw my last painting, and there is always room for surrealism. Words come easier than colors, and here are a few I like better than most:

In the age of jazz and rumrunners, in the city that never sleeps, there was a mobster of some small renown. He was not the richest of bosses, nor was he the most powerful, but he had a daughter he loved dearly, and he showered her with gifts of every kind. He dressed her in the finest clothes and fed her the tastiest food, and when she wanted a book or a toy he would buy it for her no matter what it was.

The only thing he would not let her do was drink wine, for though it was a tradition of their people to drink from an early age, it happened the illicit trade he dealt in. Prohibition had not dulled the city's thirst for intoxication, it sharpened it, and lowered their standards below some perverse threshold. In the absence of ethanol, men would drink poisons diluted with water, and they were willing to pay to do so. This was not something the gangster wished to leave for his daughter, so it was banned outright.

On her seventh birthday he bought for her an alligator as a pet. It was the runt of its nest, and would never grow big enough to harm her. That night as she slept the serpent of the sewers woke her in her bed, and in the darkness it spoke. In words free of uncertainty and metaphor it told her the first story it had ever learned. It told her its own

>>8437096
>use your imagination
lol fuck off, prick

Currently I have an outline I am working on. In summary.

Set in a medieval fantasy world. The son of an aristocrat has been lifelong friends with a girl who commands the elite guard of the army and another boy who wants to become a leader. They are at war with a kingdom of beastmen, but the real enemy is the corrupt high council of the kingdom. They are looking for a constant edge on the beastmen and it appears, in the form of a message. The message is that the near-mythical lost city has been found, a last bastion of ancient technology from thousands of years before, when war spread green fire throughout the planet and the world's advanced technology was lost. The leader and the commander are sent to go get whatever weapons they can, specifically a legendary army of metal soldiers.

The aristocrat decides to go along, wanting to prove to his father and his friends that he's just as tough as any of them. They journey, and the aristocrat is forced to kill bandits and begins questioning himself. He doesn't want to become a killer, and wants to be a hero, but finds himself under pressure to change his ideals. They eventually reach a monastery where a portal leading to the lost city is located. The local religious group warns them that the army of beastmen led by the general himself his already gone through the portal. And so the party hastens. Inside, they find themselves in a dead city encased in a giant stone sphere. The city is mostly intact and empty, shades of the dead lingering around with no reason but the ignorance of their own death. In camp, the aristocrat discovers the leader is secretly working with the rebels against the high council. He tells his friend the leader that they'll deal with it when they return to the kingdom. The group reaches the castle and defeats the beastmen. But in order to use the iron army, souls must be bound to the iron soldiers. And so the commander and the leader sacrifice most of their men to control the army. The aristocrat takes this as a sign to show his heroism and attempts to stop them, not because he disagrees with overthrowing the council, but because his disagrees with their methods, but is killed.

50 years later, he awakens. He finds himself in a prototype artificial soldier, more organic than mechanical. He dons a jester costume from his youth left behind and leaves to take revenge. He is consumed by hatred for his former friends and eventually joins a new group of rebels who hate the new monarchy. In this new kingdom, the council is no more and absolute power is wielded by the king and queen. The rebels hate this, yet somehow mirror the rebels from 50 years ago. Some big plan is concocted to break in and assassinate the king and queen. They go through with it and the aristocrat ends up in the throne room with his weapon to the throat of the king. He realizes that his friends have improved the kingdom and his friends were the true heroes, despite their methods.

>>8437952

He realizes that his hatred has compromised his heroic ideals and wanders, seeking redemption. He hears tale of a wish-granting item deep below the lost city and, knowing where the city is, heads to look for it. He goes with intent to wish that he had never gone with his two friends on their journey. But when he reaches it, he can't bring himself to wish for it. He knows that experiences, no matter how horrible, have made him a stronger person. He instead wishes to be a hero. But nothing appears to happen and he wanders off to find his destiny.

There will be a femboy love interest at some point, whom he rescues from sex slavers.

>>8437952
>>8437964
i like this a lot anon, idk about the femboi love but you do you

>>8438040

Thanks. I'm not quite sure about the love interest. I was thinking it would be a good way to show that even consumed with hatred and lust for revenge, he's still a hero.

>>8438043
careful not to slow down the momentum of the book with it. it's a difficult feat to pull off.

>>8438051

I hope I can work it in after revival but before he infiltrates the castle.

The setting's magic and magic crystal based technology is going to be hinted at being radiation and radioactive material. The wish-granting device at the end is intended to be a lump of corium like the elephant's foot from Chernobyl. I'm not going to outright confirm it during the story but I think it's neat.

>>8426259
>>8426263
>>8426267
>>8426485
>>8426846
>>8429092
>>8432868
>>8434180
>>8432868
>>8434325
>>8434329
>>8434332
>>8434334
>>8434931
>>8435195
>>8435352
>>8435669
>>8436647

No discernible talent.

Also,

>2016.
>Writing poetry.
>Contributing to a literary field where the only poetry that is read is 100s of years old and no one who values their time will read material by no-name scrubs.

>>8438098
Stop shitposting, you can make a thread for that.

>>8437409
He's not hypercritical. Your "poems" suck.

Wow, I keep trying to write intentionally bad poetry to troll this thread, but apparently I'm incapable of writing bad poetry.

For the first time in a long while, I feel good right now. There is a gentle ringing in my ear that goes in and out of vibrating to my left and right ear. It glides from side to side. I feel as though I am standing next to the highway on a cool summer night. All the cars are returning home, coming from the right side of town, with no cars returning home. The churning wind produces a droning sound, as if a ghost resided in the furthest corners of my room, waiting by the window. Watching the world go by in a small suburban backyard, scared. Confused. Bored, at times. Above all things, the ghost was safe, waiting for something to come a bring it away. Nothing was coming for the ghost. I briefly thought about calling a priest.
There was a second noise present as well. Gentle, almost muffled, guitar being played. The music lightly danced across the air, like magic, swelled through the first door, swung freely in the hallway, and rushed into my door, somehow complimenting the wind outside. The ghost is pleased. For now.

NORTHERN MOSCOW

2800 HOURS

The sun had barely dusked when a whisper moved along the frozen tundra.Tyler sighed and tried to conceal a shiver in the -20 celsius air. He reached for his zippo to light a cigar, but found the fuel in the lighter had frozen. "Fucking shit!" he cursed.

Suddenly, Tyler saw motion on the horizon. He quickly peered into the scope of his trusty M-16 A4, complete with thermal scope and grenade launcher.

A mile and a half away, Vladmir Ivanov stood with his AK-47. Ivanov is an infamous terrorist who controls 80% of the black market oil and uses every dollar of blood money to pay for Iraqi scud missles aimed at key US military installations. The sooner someone puts a bullet in this son of a bitch's head, the safer the civilized world will be.

Ivanov released a stream of Russian profanity, pausing only to drink several bottles of imported vodka.

3.6 kilometers away, Tyler began to hold his breath to steady his aim. 2.5 seconds later, he pulled the trigger.

Ivanov's head simply exploded, like a watermelon hitting the pavement. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Tyler took out his his radio. "This is Eagle's Shadow, come in Freedom's Nest."

"Eagle's Shadow, this is Freedom's Nest. Can I get a sitrep on that charlie."

"Charlie has been tangoed. I repeat, Charlie has been tangoed, over."

"Roger. Proceed four clicks north for extraction."

Tyler lowered his gun and grinned.

"Shit happens when you lose you head."

Two months earlier...

>>8439982
Thank you for your submission. While we appreciate the opportunity to read it, unfortunately this piece wasn't right for us. We wish you the best of luck in getting it critiqued elsewhere.

It’s too easy to do something wrong, to say something that hurts someone else’s feelings, with no malice in your heart at all. It’s just an innocuous act. Other people’s feelings, they’re just an invisible force that moves the uncanny faces and ligaments of their bodies. They all move in unison, the whole society we live in is just one big person, one big uncanny moving ligaments and facial expressions. They move around you but whatever you say to them, you don’t really know why.

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Prepare for Genre Trash, more specifically a Low Fantasy/Sci-fi hybrid I decided to write up in my free time.

Part 1 of 6

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>>8441256
Part 2 of 6

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>>8441263
Part 3 of 6

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>>8441271
Part 4 of 6

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>>8441284
Part 5 of 6

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>>8441291
Part 6 of 6

4chan screwed up with something, so I decided to upload an old file. Here's the last file if you still care.

>>8435737
Nah alcoholics are usually morose and severe, even if they mask it with joviality or apathy. Opiate addicts usually have an air of unearned arrogance mixed with childishness. He's a perfect fit for the latter.

>>8422340
I WILL NOT READ YOUR WORK UNLESS YOU PAY ME.

>>8441256
>>8441263
>>8441271
>>8441284
>>8441291
>>8441302
Its good. I'm actually doing something similar but with Urban Fantasy

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Can someone critique my dating profile summary?

Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

>>8444109
you didn't write that you gay fag

>>8443779
No one is gonna read all that shit bro. Take a flattering picture of yourself; it'll do a lot more for you.

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What did I do wrong ?

>>8444142
I like reading people's long profiles, especially if I think they're attractive.

>>8434325
>In this stage he hated himself for wanting, wonting, to be social.
This is not grammatically sound. A better rewording would be as follows :
>In this stage he hated himself his want, his wont, to be social.

I still think that it's a pretty goofy sentence and it's better if you just pick one or the other. Also, "to be social" is kind of weird, and it would be favorable to just replace it with "to socialize."

Aside from that, I like your writing. Try to avoid clichés like "have a foot in the door."

>>8443779
Since when was atheism a obscure concept ? Really ?

>>8442351
What's the plot? What kinda world is it going to be?

>>8444270
I tell people I'm an atheist and they still don't get it sometimes.

>>8444310
Are you sure they aren't just in shock from that blinding edge ?

>>8444323
I think if any religious person (who isn't just on the spiritual path to enlightenment and all which is cool with me), who actually believes in supernatural forces and god, if they actually understood atheism then they wouldn't be religious.

>>8444323
>atheism
>edgy

go back to the 19th century, Dostoevsky, you're tripping too hard

>>8444327
Actually, it's the other way around. I used to think like you but it's just because I didn't understand theism.

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>>8444342
>Actually, it's the other way around. I used to think like you but it's just because I didn't understand theism.

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I've read this so many times that all I know anymore is that I want to kill the Salvane/Murdoch description paragraph.

>>8444273
>What's the plot?
"Officially" to hunt down and kill a insane dark mage killing Innocent Supernatural in a city where a secret society watches over
>What kinda world is it going to be?
Masqueraded world

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And here I will live out the hum rattling my hands in cold, sunlit indulgence. until every sound of every beast and every act of god is louder than any other that came before. until every tree and every blade of grass shouts me down, and tells me to stay quiet and still. until the wind howls through the hills and the dirt sinks under my heels and i fall deeper and closer to the stratum of earth and of life and of its origins and, upon realization i fall and fall further into stupor, with the great bliss and remorse and bewilderment that comes bundled with that perfect harmony. in perfect concord with the better angels of our rapture, in recollection of those sweet stories of our childhood and the fears of youth and the blurry reflections sunken therein. in a world without temptation, without those soft vile promises, because nothing comes near it, and nothing ever could. oh, these sunny pastures-- the heavenfields, the heavenskies in perfect harmony, those elysian skies, rivers, rains, all of the everlasting fortunes, the boundless treasures that all the wealth of nations could not conceive by man's volition. here there is fulfillment beyond the familiar pleasures, of flesh or of its substrate, as the easiness of The Good and The Well are restored to their former place at the forefront of waking experience, relegated to the epilogue of dreams where they hitherto collect and however fruitlessly convene the remnants of lesser spirits once harbored

Empathy , those brighter lights
they see through, hands guided
by the better angels they harbor

Of those, lesser spirits of our nature
sliding, spoken, but not yet sounded
forward, tilting at the hilt

And unbuckling, the great
temptations that bind the artist
to the colours and the easel

>>8445048
I like the last four lines, but the wonky syntax is agrammatical and impossible to really understand.

For instance, you start with the word "Empathy" as your singular subject, but then you switch into the plural pronoun "they." I'm also hard-pressed to figure out what "Of those" refers to.

You have an obvious talent for phrasing and enjambment, but this kind of seems like a poem without an idea - until the final stanza which doesn't relate to the preceding ones.

There was a time when the ice would freeze and the girls would sleep with braided hair in the hopes of curls in the morning
When the antelopes were spring machines and the men in dark suspenders bobbed and bowed twisting marvelous killing machines
All before the bombs and floods and washes of death and far before the jungled asphalt and muddied seas
Long ago summer people said darling things like butterfly and calliope that clung to the French doors until the fog lifted and the summer people came jalopying back over the melting hills.
Maybe its true

>>8434980
>>8436647

wow that's insane, this is nearly verbatim RL description and I'm the dude

what does that mean?

Do you think that if you tried to look at me and touch my heart stilled and leaden you might glimpse the thing i might have been if i were not me
Sanctuary. for i will never know and you will never know i wondered what might have been if you looked up.

>>8445066
Damn, that's good. You're vastly superior to most professional poets these days.

>>8445066

not good

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>>8445052

All valid criticisms. This poem's about nothing. Just had some words floating around my head that I wanted to record on paper.

Thanks m'yout. I appreciate the critique.

G'day sloots, I'm working on a novella about an Australian boarding school. How does the tone feel?

>It was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that only winter can bring by freezing the wind and keeping the birds shivering in their nests long past daybreak. The grass was frozen stiff and made a crunching sound as the five boys walked single file onto the cricket pitch. They whispered, careful to keep their voices from carrying, and reserving their breath to blow into their numb fists. It was dawn, and the mist hung low, swaddling the grounds so that even the nearby tree line was nothing more than an impression of blurry fingers.

>Jacob wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he had something warmer than just his thin maroon jumper. In another week the faculty would pass out the thick woollen blazers and long charcoal pants of the winter uniform, but for now he had to content himself with the occasional formation-breaking jog to keep warm. More than anything he wished he was still wrapped up in his thick doona, but a white stubble of frost had appeared on the grounds last night, signalling a start to one of Box Grove’s oldest traditions. So in the slivers of pre-dawn light they had stumbled out of bed and woken the two new boys, marching them outdoors like POW’s for the firing line.

>John Corky came first, cozy in his rugby jumper, and brandishing a makeshift flamethrower made from a can of deodorant and a contraband lighter, occasionally sending bursts of flame that left comma-shaped patches in the crust of frost. Behind him was Paul, the sullen new boy, followed by Jacob and Brum. Last in line was Hugh Feeney, who thought that this was snow, since he came from Darwin and had never seen a thermometer dip below 30 centigrade.

>“It’s so cold!” He muttered, almost in disbelief.

>“Do you think we’ll even be able to get into the river? It might be frozen over.”

At this time the young man named Matthew discovered a certain kind of sunshine unlike Sacramento's, which to say fiercer and more withering, one of time's best weapons for degrading newsprint yellowish-orange and wrinkling people before their time; once upon a certain August which measured somewhere below far and gone in his ephemeral existence he had been hitchhiking south from Susanville and was set down in Redding where he waited five midday-girdling hours at an on-ramp whose dusty blackberry brambles were actually dripping with melted black sun-made jellies; but in the strange cool May of this current year as he hitchhiked north toward Redding the sunshine had shifted to an opposite otherness from Sacramento's, being somehow greener in its goldenness and more wild, as if the mountains were tinting it. The truth is that Matthew had sought sublethal sunshine in which to hide from his father, expecting most Reddingtonians to be lurking indoors in the fashion of Mohave, Calexico and Mexicali; he too would lurk, while perfecting his disappearance. On triple-digit days in Sacramento, the hardiest of the homeless trundle into thickets and culverts; those who remain sit stupefied, with heads hanging down, or else lie on the sidewalk, while flies crawl slowly over their faces. Richer souls shelter behind drawn curtain, listening to their air conditioners; and I for my part believe that the city to be sustained by invisible armies of sweating, hollow-eyed air conditioner men. The sun clangs in everyone's ears; even police veterans can get deafened. . .

So it should have been in Redding, but this wild green sunshine changed everything. And by "green" I do not mean what you might think this color should convey; it had nothing to do with the restful or menacing green glooms of Oregon. Venus flytraps and emeralds were as far away from it as palm fronds. Yes, it was green, but not exactly. It refreshed Matthew because there was nothing of him in it. No one in Redding would put a spoke in his wheel. The complementary consideration was nobody would help him, but as long as the green sunshine kept on, what could he need from this world?

In his boyhood he must have seen something that made him want to go way out into America, to find out what our country was, but whether he had been enticed by the best golden loneliness or hounded by the loneliness that lives in our homes and gnaws misunderstood children, or perhaps heard something about faraway hills in a bedtime story, whatever had provoked the wish was lost. He himself was not lost, except to his parents, who troubled over him with loving bewilderment; nor did he feel in want of anything; thus as I begin writing this I myself cannot tell you what he was going to find on what Thomas Wolfe called the last voyage, the longest, the best—in other words, the only voyage, the one toward the grave. And so, hitching a ride, Matthew left behind all the other times of his life.

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“Nate Ruess, Eminem, Bach, and Passenger who else…” Beatrice thought out loud as she prepared for her first day at the call center. She packed only the essentials out of fear of being robbed, her phone, twenty in cash for lunch, and identification. While mid-town was known as a higher class business district, down-town consisted of section eight housing. At the very end of the main avenue was an old estate split into six different apartments. Beatrice lived on the first floor, in a one bedroom apartment with six other people. She hoped for a reply from University Residence Life soon, but until then data-mining would be her prerogative.

“They were quiet this morning.” Beatrice whispered into her phone, when a soothing motherly voice replied “Take advantage of it. I’ll see you at the station. Kisses.” While she rarely had a good night’s sleep, last night felt like a miracle. Despite the trash and broken homes Beatrice found herself skipping, then jogging, and finally running to the train station down Magnusson Avenue. The faded dead roses hanging from untended vines only spurred her on. She thought that there was a certain beauty in death, while not too eager to embrace it, Beatrice found herself in the position of a silent admirer.

Part of a larger work I'm writing. Would appreciate any input.

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>>8445947

This is terribly purple. You can describe California in the summertime with less language, you're not James Joyce for God's sake.

Like most of the contributors on here, there's an obvious talent but do you seriously think anybody is going to take the time to read this through? You can present something equally as beautiful in half the words or less.

>>8447028

>down-town
>data-mining
>mid-town

Maybe I'm nitpicking but I find these hyphenations to be arbitrary and aesthetically unpleasing. This reads like juvenile YA fiction at best. Keep working on your craft.

READ ALOUD

‘The The’ LP was laid on the the table with ‘The The’ poster glued on to it.

‘The The’ fan was THE ‘The The’ fan. She had been thethere, done thethat, bought the the-shirt. So much of a ‘The The’ fan was she that the word ‘the’ on it’s own has lost the meaning it once had.

‘Can you pass me the the teapot?’, she asked me, deaf to the repetition.

‘Who was your favourite band again?’, I coaxed.

Theresa looked at me, incredulous. How could I ask such a thing?

‘How could you ask such a thing? You know the answer; it’s ‘The The The The’.

“Theresa-”

She slammed her hand on the counter.

“Don’t you Thetheresa me!”

The the dirty plates, the the dirty dishes shaking from the the sudden slam.

”The The The The The The’ are the greatest band ever, what must I do to show you?’

She walked over to the stereo. She takes a disc from ‘The The’ collection. She places it in the tray. It closes. The hit ‘The The’ song, ‘This is The The Day’ came through the the speakers. Thetears on Thetheresa’s cheeks.

‘Thetheresa?’ She was shaking. Was she OK? ‘You’re shaking, are you OK?’

”The The The The The The The The’ saved my life! The-The-They are the the the teh eht only band that mather in the world the.’

‘Thethetheresa, stop, you’re the scaring the me.’

Oh no.

‘Thetheresa, I don’t even like ‘The The’.

‘The? The the who?’

”THE THE’! I DON’T LIKE ‘THE THE THE THE THE THE THE’, THETHERESA! THETHEY SUCK!’

Thetheresa pulled the the knife out of the the drawer in the the kitchen and thethethrew it at me. It spun thethrough the the air. It hit me in the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the face.

The the end.

>>8447595
just rereading that I see I get my tenses all fucked up around the middle

Let me hide beneath the smooth recesses of the looming cliffs;
I would become a bird,
if only a god would give me wings,
and soar beyond the Adriatic waves,
to reach the place where tears of pity,
gleaming amber drops
spill from the brimming eyes
of Phaethon’s poor heartbroken sisters
into the violet stream.

Few days/weeks back an anon asked /lit/ to describe a house. I wrote this in the style of P.D. Flowers...

Nisha saw the house like the cross section of her mother’s Matcha-Goma mousse cake. Melted black chocolate streaks on white icing. Resting atop homemade brown toffee and bittersweet green-tea pastry. Layered top to bottom on a cloudy plate. An odd and inviting sweet slice. From a neighborly glance, a collage. To her, a definite emblem. A flag. A robe of bricks, sticks, flowers and grass wrapped around her family inside.

>>8438043
I'm not sure how being gay makes him a hero

A writing sample that would, in some hypothetical world, exist as the beginning of a longer piece. Tear it apart.

Septim Blachard was punctually late. He made it a point to be five minutes past the hour, or thirty-five depending, and you could set your clock by him. In fact, many did, and as a result, his funeral was five minutes late, to the dot. Septim must have been smiling in every person from Dogrel that walked into the chapel at 2:05 PM--it was already dark and a storm was beginning to brew, so the townsfolk were rushing in in piles, huddled together as they dropped upon the tile floor--to find Septim's one remaining in-law, a short, pallid lady in a long black dress. She looked like a child playing dress up, from the way the garment looked as if it were made for someone much larger than her, but she must have been at least seventy, and the real owner of that dress seven feet tall. She turned and smiled primly; as I said, Septim must have smiled back because the townspeople, most with Hawaiian shirts half-hidden under blazers, each stepped up separately to kiss her hand and thank her for her presence. As soon as the last person had kissed her hand and taken a seat in the last wooden pew, and five minutes had passed since that time, the lay minister rose from his seat on a middle pew, pulling his jacket over a red silk shirt covered in yellow stick-geckos, and approached the podium.

i feel the heat of my own body,
yet i am only a pantomime in a glass box,
bereft of which is only you or them.

It goes: i glass box it.
to crack the glass, to let the yolk of the i flow into it, you, them,
would be like being sucked through the hole of a dime-sized aperture,
first the skull, then the brain, and so on.
i might be different then.

Lying in a chunky brown-red pool amongst everything,
a dispensed, unprepared charcuterie,
i bereft of it and it bereft of me.