CRITIQUE THREAD? CRITIQUE THREAD

>>9373546
Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucauldian strategic reversal — of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundaments of positivism through its transmutation route to the superidealism of a Baudrillard.

I say that a football is a mass-produced wad of polyeurethane and lace with traces of leather--Browner says it’s a pigskin with a Southern drawl so emphasized that you hear the saliva build. Browner says high school is for the sake of the girls, the hedonism, and the “opportunity cost of youth” as if he knew what half of the words meant that came out of his bright mouth, with teeth so shiny you want to swing a fist at each molar and feed him candy until they rot to the core.
Every Christmas was configured the same:
We’d wake up,and Browner would make sure he took the plumpest of the pancakes before I got downstairs, and he’d beat me with his legs that had to of been stolen from an ostrich. He’d get a football, a jersey with the numbers “08” stamped and pressed in the back, and a new videogame console. I’d open the books I requested and I’d thank ma and pap for them, and I’d get plucked by my brother once again. We’d sanction ourselves into our own spaces. The top bunk was his territory, a proper nest for his posture. I was left with the creaky bottom bunk that withdrew a constant “Hey, Lucas, how ‘bout you shut up down there, yeah?” And we’d bask in our newly received pleasures of Christmas while eating Aunt Beth’s traditional piles of chocolate and other assorted candies wrapped in their noisy foils and wrappers. I’d read a book and he’d lay around texting the seventh high school-sweetheart of the month about his new jersey and his “hard-earned-cash” (that is, the cash Granpa handed to him for Christmas).
We didn’t have the traditional gingerbread houses or the marvelous dinners, nor the caroling, nor the making of snowmen. These were alien to Floridians. But our family always had one tradition, and it was always to play the glorified sport of football. In fact, the mere word “football” is the epitome of us, the Brownsters, Christmas. And Browner would always ask me the afternoon if Christmas, “Want to play some football?” Last Christmas, the following exchange of conversation after the question was as followed:
“No, I don’t want to play the stupid sport.”
“You never want to do anything. You just sit in some cave and read books all day while thinking about everything, like everything is just some fantasy to you.”
“Well all you do is play some sweaty sport and waste your life on thrills and feelings.”
“And?”
“And? It’s stupid. You think it’s all about having fun, don’t you? You think you’re going to ‘make it’ in the big leagues and not have a worry in your life.”
“Where’d you read that, one of your stupid book? Did your idol Shakerspeare quote that in one of his books?”
I threw a punch at him we rolled around on the carpeted floor of our room for some time until Pa came in and broke the two of us up, sending us to two separate rooms. He gave me some sort of stare as if to intimidate me, and we exchanged some colorful words.
>>9373546
not bad

File: Aldred.png (32KB, 742x499px) Image search: [Google]

32KB, 742x499px

>>9373546
Don't know why O.P but every time I read it, it sounds pretensions in the beginning. can you post the rest of it? or is that all?

>>9373619
Not bad, get really into it. Browner should be the main character

File: postsnap2.jpg (250KB, 676x909px) Image search: [Google]

250KB, 676x909px

>>9373639

Thanks. I'm always a little suspect of my pretensions, any point in particular that comes to mind for you? The reason I'm not posting the link is because it's attached to my "professional" linkedin page.

Here's the ending, though.

>>9373684
I didn't really think it was pretentious anon. It's fine. The first page felt like it dragged on a bit longer than it should have, and I would suggest getting to the point a bit quicker, if anything, but it was alright overall: it accomplishes its purpose.

>>9373639

Typo in the first sentence. An overabundance of words in the first section. "The candlelight, his only source of light" can be condensed.

Is English not your first language? There's just some very rudimentary grammatical mistakes.

>>9373619

How do you mean "bright mouth"?

Pretty good, though, man.

>>9373619
I enjoyed this one. It's abrasive in the right way and not try-hard.

Sunflowers swayed, a soft slow dance in the heat of noon, rows and rows and rows. They painted the hills butter yellow, swells like the rolling ocean made still, all the way to the horizon, upon which, a cathedral nested.

Sun baked clay brick, somewhere between blood and sand, the color of Tuscany, cobbled together and rising against the sky in an act of rebellion. Cavernous inside. Like sunflowers, empty pews: rows and rows and rows. Statues of cherubim made of dead wood, daily polished. Light streamed in great dusty beams through the windows. Stained glass arches, soft-lit altars.

In the back, behind the heavy, burgundy drape, a straight and narrow little hall the light could not quite reach, and at the end, a door, a room, a bed, a boy.

>>9373722
>Typo in the first sentence.
Can you highlight it? I'm having trouble finding it.

>An overabundance of words in the first section.
?????
"The candlelight, his only source of light" can be condensed.
How so?

Gallery

Two democrats gather here.
Six paintings bloom before them,
their eyes pure and blue,
wide with estrogen.

And, afterwards, they nail their chairs,
built with pride, to the floor of the next room.

Their sons are in the third;
and they have yet to notice.

File: operations.jpg (329KB, 797x789px) Image search: [Google]

329KB, 797x789px

>>9373835

I thought it had some potential in the beginning. I was pretty gripped by the first couplet, then the estrogen like hit way off the mark for me. This needs some revision. Conceptually it's good, and the pacing is fine, but just rerrange the awkward middle bits at the very least.

>>9373808

"Seventh attempted".

For example, in a way that doesn't repeated the word 'light': "The candle his only light source, its glow flickered across the page..." Just make it work with your tone of writing.

>>9373859
Hey, I think that exceprt is pretty great. Reminds me of a good author but I don't remember exactly who. I'm not sure how fresh an entire novel in that style is going to be but beep doing what you're doing.

>>9373882

Much appreciated, friend. Post some of your own work and I'll give it a once-over.

>>9373835
weird analogies, but conceptually looks sound
>>9373859
agree with anon, this seems like an author that i can't remember; also reminds me of what a friend writes, the tone of it is nice :)

this is a bit convoluted with references to stuff but yeah, give it a read etc

>>9373934
When disillusion runs amok the court
And true intentions are hidden in verse,
The fairer seen frail, no reason or thought;
Yet guilt prevails in the mind for the worse;
As twilight haze and honour descends fast,
Hurt maidens sink under love songs withdrawn;
With envy enraged, a cut to the past
Will leave spring bloody and finally gone
Less fair by fair lie maidens by rivers:
As fledgling morning wanes, an endless ring;
Chaste nymphs unspoiled, their joie de vivre;
Will blossom's branding tarnish future spring?
And through times of faith, this verse will stand true,
Time’s hand stays aside as the fair drown blue.

woops, here

He paces around the space now, stopping at the window and looking out. I come to his side to join him. It’s as if there are two layers to the view out of it, the icy black reflection of the room, me and Mike looking almost real in the mirror image, but with a holographic quality, kind of spherical and flat simultaneously, not quite three dimensional; and then beyond that, if I focus my eyes in the dark spots like the visible half of my jeans, or Mike's shock of hair, I can see the sky and buildings and the Iche Tower off in the distance to the far left, with its blinking blue light that pulses slowly, the whole thing like an image tuning in behind a layer of static. The sky's a mess. A violent shade of not-quite-purple, streaks of muddy orange and sickly green and night blue all formed together, like when you mixed up different coloured plasticine as a kid until you got a poorly unnatural synthetic uber-colour that hurt your eyes and was completely unusable. There are occasional cracks of lightening, bright fractures that rip through the plasticine sky and illuminate the fringes of the tower blocks. It's hellishly urban in that epic way, the size and scope of the view like some modern-day Turner painting. I focus back on our reflections. We both look tranced out by the scene.
'Crazy weather today.’
‘You can say that again.’ So he does.
'Crazy weather.’ There's a rumble of thunder.

As I tugged the reins of the Mare in the sun,
we ran through the blades of the snakes neath the dirt.
As the sun pierced my skin through the brown beech trees,
you laughed through the shadow of your wrinkled shirt.
As the deer behove for our hasty arrive,
you pointed a finger with an open mouth.
As I turned the path and shook the ground with hooves,
your laugh echoed through the woods and made birds sing.
As I raced the flies and felt the roll of wind,
your smile grew like the clouds threatening rain.
As I pulled and tugged to halt my horse's clops,
your Mare soon followed, and your hair was let down.

>>9373859
>>9373934
How's this?

Two democrats gather here.
Six paintings bloom before them,
their eyes pure and blue,
wide as lungs.

They nail their chairs
to the floor of the next
room shortly after.
Both built with pride.

Their sons are in the third;
and they have yet to notice.

>>9373987

Quite better

>>9373994
What would be your critique of the piece now? What do you think it's about?

>>9373859
The tone is done nicely. But what's with the references? You want to capitalize all the "i" and other words in the beginning of the sentences.


>"Seventh attempted".
I was told that was the correct way.


>For example, in a way that doesn't repeat the word 'light': "The candle his only light source, its glow flickered across the page..." Just make it work with your tone of writing.

Okay.

>>9374012
not him, but learn to accept criticism man

>>9373987

Ok, I'm going to be difficult and give a range of things because i love it but i think it could be so much more

Two democrats gather (why "here"?, is the location important?)
Six (significance of number? Is it perhaps the "perfect number" ideology or some other reference?) paintings bloom (reason for this word? perhaps look at the imagery you are creating a little more -
if its the flower being a metaphor for a conversation, an idea, expand perhaps? Or maybe use an actual painting to reference?) before them
Their eyes pure and blue (don't think we need "pure" because it goes with "blue" as an almost natural connotation)
Wide as lungs (Don't particularly like this, it feels contrived to the point where you just don't know what to say, try and bring the poem back to the first couple of lines to almost close up that little idea and then move on with it)

Think you need to work on the second stanza
They nail their chairs (meaning of this? If it's laying down roots, play on that idea, also look at progeny altogether throughout the poem, again you could expand massively on the idea that you started with the two democrats)
to the floor of the next (ok, this and its previous line could probably be one, i understand you're trying to use enjambment but its unnecessary and it kinda fails you)
room shortly after (expand, develop, can't say much more than what i have already)
Both built with pride (nice way to end the stanza on, play on this and the idea of democrats and what they stand for - which is ironic because sitting on chairs lol)

Dont think the third one has been developed enough to comment on but I like how its started


>>9373940
that one was mine :)

>>9374025
>not him, but learn to accept criticism man
I know. It's just I am being told one thing and then being told another on the same issue. And I just want to clear up the issue.

>>9374033
Thank you for this, you're not being difficult. I'll take all of this into account. The lungs are meant to represent the action of their eyes. A lung breathes in and out and filters air coming in into what is useful and necessary. An eye filters in the same way but with light, which also addresses the concept of the progressive rooms. Instead of saying full I said wide because that addresses another component of the geometry of an eye to give interesting imagery.

Thank you for giving me a full response

>>9374081
>>9374033
I have other pieces I've written. Can you let me know if the concept is clearer in this?

Neighborhood

The sky, low with light,
pushes forth, blue as nerves.
I call out hymns for minutes,
transition to verse in stasis.
The roads fold back in awe.

The sidewalks stand, high or low.
The sun spreads its gaze over the area's
perimeter, like a calendar,
light assigned in inchoate numbers.

Weighted by occupancy, walls thicken in dimension.
Residents come and exit in seconds,
gazing dutifully at the span of the year.

>>9374081
you're welcome dude, yeah i got that image but it kinda felt a little far-fetched, what worked well with the opening two lines was the possibilities that could entail whereas you're being too explicit, denoting what you mean instead of planting the seed of an idea; sure ill have a look


The sky, low with light, (With the rest of the poem, this feels pointless, you may as well just put "sunset" as your first line and we would probably get a more powerful image.)
pushes forth, blue as nerves. (Like this, imagery playing on "cold as ice" is nicely put)
I call out hymns for minutes, (is this meant to be for a muslim prayer? the maghrib one? because it seems like it with the next verse; nice inclusion of faith, perhaps add to this?) so
transition to verse in stasis. (guessing this just means that you've went from praying aloud to into silence, can't particularly see any other way of interpreting)
The roads fold back in awe. (not sure about this line. On one hand i like it, its short and glorifying the religion and perhaps the sunset/earth/life too, but on the other hand it could be too much, its a nice line though, i think it would depend on if you changed the previous lines?)
Also, if you are going to speak about religion/hymns, use more religious imagery (idk if that last line is a religious one but you could adapt it to be)

The sidewalks stand, high or low. (idea of height, again, don't really like this unless you're going to develop the idea of some sort of heaven/afterlife)
The sun spreads its gaze over the area's (personification, like it, maybe change "its" to a masculine or feminine pronoun? or "the sun's gaze spreads over her area's perimeter)
perimeter, like a calendar, - also with these two, definite lion king vibes hahahah
light assigned in inchoate numbers. (doesnt work with the rest of the poem. stagnant (probs because "inchoate")

Weighted by occupancy, walls thicken in dimension. (interesting line, probably my fav of the poem due to the complexity within it, use a semi-colon instead of a full stop.)
Residents come and exit in seconds,
gazing dutifully at the span of the year. (I like the difference in time here second/year, puts things nicely in perspective; also thinking that you're viewing mortality throughout i.e. time references, religion, and watching the day go by, taking everything in like you're realising your own mortality or something has occurred which has made you look upon your life with some meaning)

>>9374107

Area's
perimeter

I don't like how that reads or sounds. You might draw some inspiration from Alice Fulton's work. Your poetry resembles hers.

The blades of grass are crossed today.
Perhaps some earthly ruler has arrived,
Clad in brindled hides, or mad with kindled cries.
Or is it errant, I?
Sabatons brown, mucked by thee, dirt!
And my visor gleamed--by ye, O Sun,
The trees are by my side
With branches held so high.
As if to provide me triumph, and echo of Rome.
Such are my errant adventures
Such is to roam.

>>9373940
bumping mine again, and will give decent feedback like i've done, if you can call that even ok, before

>>9373987

This reads like a riddle. Hate poems that are structured that way

At dusk, the silhouetted trees bathed in light
Become, in the warm gold sky, refractions of light.

Sunset’s afterglow fades into a prism of everlasting fire,
And is slowly smothered by the darkening air. Failing light

Follows a bird cutting downward across the sky.
It lands in its nest, disappears into darkness. The light

Is dying, always. A feeling of delight in seeing the sun sink
Into cloud; the sublime moment when light becomes light-

ing. As nightfall ripples, deepens, distant opaque starlight
Glimmers. Tomorrow at dawn a young bird will first take flight.

>>9374226
The fourth line feels disjointed and out of place, but I liked the repetition of the final two lines and the third line ["brindled hides/kindled cries"]. I also liked the ambiguity of the opening line and the allusion to Rome.

Then Summer turned to Winter. Winter – Spring
But Autumn skipped, and summered Spring again
As we would too wish Death to skip on stones
And take us sudden in our highest heat.

Slower – Autumn, we shall not entertain
But dare ourselves to crack in one swift cold
And make our hearts a tragic brittle stone
To fend against the Autumn’s drifting roam.

To loam we crumble – but I wish to break
To seek, dream – and in dreaming die
As sudden as a sword would flint to flame
As wildly as a roving bird’s outcry.

So I would gladly cull upon my years
To make a lightning splendour of my tears.

>>9373546
desu I think your sentences are a mess. Take the first one: "St. James Park was once a yurt village that I was never allowed to stay the night in."

Was once a yurt village?

It sounds like this should be one of the following:
>St. James Park was once a yurt village.
>I was never allowed to stay the night in St. James Park.
But you're trying to make it both and it doesn't work. You have to separate out what you're trying to say and arrange it in a way that makes sense.

Better would be:
>St. james Park was once a yurt village. [Description of what the yurt village was like]
Then next paragraph:
>[Description of how you participated in the yurt village]
Then next paragraph:
>But I was never allowed to stay the night. Instead, I boarded the GO Bus to Union Station for $7.70... etc

Though this format changes the focus from the movement to the limits of your own participation.

I think you need to clarify what you're trying to say and then break it down into units; as it is, your sentences and paragraphs are trying to do too much at once.

Position me in careless form, I feel
No weighter weight than this here heaving sphere
That twists across the streets – the idle wheel
As wandering frost upon the leaves and rails.

The column appertains to form a roof
Like living house, it builds up to the shaft
And bends the light into its dimly hoof
And clings us to the daily run of rough –

But, to break from roof – this crafted mean
Would hold me up as my own weight in men:
My spine, the column that can tell the theme
Of my own exploits – and willingness to bend.

The parks are heavy with the forms of trees
That stand out farther than the tiles and eaves.

File: q.jpg (45KB, 554x1108px) Image search: [Google]

45KB, 554x1108px

>inb4 genre fiction
is it TOO EDGY to have a Cool Big Sis elf character then after a time skip world-got-fucked-up event the MC runs into her again and she has ugly ass scar across her stomach where she was raped by an Orc, carried the child until term, and had to the incredibly crude equivalent of a Caesarean because her narrow cavity wouldn't allow the mixed bastard child to pass.

Blue blanket – you are not so warm,
Until your tomb can breathe the barricades
And save from death. A tomb – in turn a boat
That brings me to the worthier shores I know.

So close are poets to the wheezing hand
And dream to death, in turn, are life again
From that Orphic fruit as I had grasped:
Come death – you are not so cold

But warmer sleep than summer softened beds
But greater flush than wine can sink to give
But greater heat than ovens brewing have
I emanate from life – I die – I live

I take the blanket-shells of diving words
And breathe them into living consciousness

Larger words like epistemology
Can be turned to feeling – with a pen
Building on epistemological
Shifts in brain – to wire you in eyes

And turn epistemology to sky:
Epistle clouds, that bear their fleeting terms
Into the logic of a screen Lumiere –
Epicenters of luminous appears

Of knowing, not knowing – and then what knows
How the poet’s brain is keen to flash
The pattern structures built on undertow
Of waves appearing – that dissipate in dash

And by then, the word is gone, the seeking mists
Have borne you up on clouds to cadences.

White bowl with the pink petals
For washing hands in, wetting lips
For seeing yourself in, lessening
Your lips to the pinkness of petals.

This is how Nature draws you in
With placements that breathe
Of the wood, and bush, but
Are hidden in the everyday.

So, sometimes, eyes may meet
That scattering floral on dress,
Or bags almost flamed into flying
Canvases of bark balloons.

These are the points when your eyes glaze over
And lids seem like endless openings.

I want you as much as silence meets the rain’s
Afterthought – the weightier air
Has been released
By the shaking of heads
From the cloudy nymphs, in the now-brighter sky
And I want you as much

As a wayward thunder roams
Throughout the last ebbings of the rain
So much roar
Though a gentler tone
Could even shake the bars and their rotary stools

I want you as much as I want simpler things
From the still drone of life
As much as the living itself
Would pester us on – after the rain
To return to our jobs
From the melancholic dreams in our rainier heads
And I want you as much

As the phrase ‘mono no aware’
To be less lofty in dreams
And realer in life
To be glad of your passing by the pavement
My dearest, your hair dancing
Your mild definition: of the things I am saddened
Like the passing of rain
And a triumph in the sky
For our posterior loves to our anterior hearts

A Sketch in Autumn

My empty arms
Have no bangles
So do not think of me as your tambourine
Slapping belly-dancing girl
I am merely
The thin and lean little girl at the wall
That holds to herself
In the autumn clear

But even then my arms are folio
For the stars, hidden in folded pages
That are like peels and leaves
From the autumnal trees
When I have my excesses
Of graphite, and the lonely walks
And I hope
You can see
Behind my eyes, what I see
And what I hold as dear

Between my thumb and index
Is a pencil
That I use to draw
My stars on the page
From tracing the waves and the arcs of the trees
The autumnal rage
My little girl age
And my anything that I call my pencil
Friend
When the autumn ends
I’ve left behind
My own abscesses, amongst the leaves
My autumnal ends
And pencil grit
And my lone star that drifts through the penciled trees

An Afternoon Dalliance

An expensive mixture
Of bourbon bon-bon and cherry
Has lined the evening table

If this seems too much for you
I’ll make a second table
And fill it with two glasses

Sparkling streams of water
That should be enough
We don’t need much of this

I’ll trick your stomach with a treat
By making waiters spinning plates
Play their violin serenades

With their feet – perhaps a Bach
(Forget the words, and do the dance
Don’t trip – I’ll teach you secret steps)

The fresh garden of verse
Is very much like this
I’ll pick a springkept flower

I have saved the flower name for long
Its name: Crocus, Anemone,
Azalea – what a song!

Hi fiddle! Let’s play
Zig-zag, come ho!
Dance, yodel – my jolly guitar!

Place your lips upon the glass
Come – no fuss! Let’s dance again
Look at flowers, waving stems

And with the mad flush of your cheeks
And the lucid blossoms of your eyes
I’ll tell you now – my verse is a surprise!

Rainfall

The winds are witnesses to this fact
- Vitruvius

The lightest skim of mind, I took
From the sheet on the pond – of water over water, churning into water
And what is the grasp of mind I took? (It is mine, I derived it from you
And water manifests as the hangers of moods
Of the weird and worldly mirrors that flew into view
And of the clouds – they make dilapidated nests
For the thoughts, unrest, that I skimmed from your pond
That was merely the scum, and not entirety of you)

In winters, the slush pulls us packed in our vests
And spring is the clearest mode of seeing
But the cycle remains, arrest, unrest
And follows the troubles of mayflies, skimming
The glass of the pond – that is now us – not us
But the largeness of us – we came through that way
From the storms that would drag us out of ourselves
And bear us back down – as the picaresque minstrels
Of droplet-imp curling on reminiscing rinks
Skating fly on our pond – that has turned into ice
We are the bottled heads of our love
And we stare at new loves, from ambivalent heights

The Craters Of The Moon

What can we make of your lucid face?
But dreams of rabbit and the crab
A Chinese singer has sung a tune

Immortals waltz like whisky stems
Brushing across the tenderness
These are the tongues of stories told

And when humans made their mortal prints
Like pewter drops of fluent dew
Upon your eyes – you glimmering child

Spotted with the sun of a smile
(Half stolen from your sister far)
You became a lover of the dream

Of rocket ships and titanium things
(Stories & Dream in tune a-mixed)
Our desolate muse, in black of space

In black of thought, the stale iris
Of a man, seeking a thing afar
You are the clearest thing in night

In yours, you are the second sunrise
We love you as much as this
You are our life thereafter

So, my love, touch your face
And feel the craters and porous holes
And remember this – you are my Moon

>>9374622
Anyone? This is important.

File: nietzschemunch.jpg (33KB, 454x566px) Image search: [Google]

33KB, 454x566px

-The Truth

In the beginning was the Will,
And the Will was with God,
And the Will was the will of God.

>>9375717
answer other people's and they'll respond. Same to everyone else who is just posting and not giving critique

>>9375890
I had a question, not a critique.

>>9375921
nevertheless, if you want something then give something back

>>9375926
so you're saying I should critique and then repost my question?

>>9375937
yeah, doesnt have to be much, just give something back and people will do the same; the rest of people on this post who have just stuck their work on here and havent critiqued are just dicks

He had never been so anxious for the arrival of a woman he did not want to see. He remembered clearly the last woman he’d involved in his trying just one more vacation with dope and drawn blinds. The last woman had been something called an appropriation artist, which seemed to mean that she copied and embellished other art and then sold it through a prestigious Marlborough Street gallery. She had an artistic manifesto that involved radical feminist themes. He’d let her give him one of her smaller paintings, which covered half the wall over his bed and was of a famous film actress whose name he always had a hard time recalling and a less famous film actor, the two of them entwined in a scene from a well-known old film, a romantic scene, an embrace, copied from a film history textbook and much enlarged and made stilted, and with obscenities scrawled all over it in bright red letters. The last woman had been sexy but not pretty, as the woman he now didn’t want to see but was waiting anxiously for was pretty in a faded withered Cambridge way that made her seem pretty but not sexy. The appropriation artist had been led to believe that he was a former speed addict, intravenous addiction to methamphetamine hydrochloride.

>>9373619
I like it
>>9373684
Haughty, over-clever. Reads like my Undergrad dissertation
>>9373859
Reminds me of some passages by DFW. I like it. The style and lack of grammar might become exhausting for a longer work, but it could easily make for an interesting chapter.

----------------------------------------------------------

The centre of town was almost empty when Robert arrived. Only a few early-risers were drifting about on that soft-blue Sunday morning, and wisps of condensation trailed behind them like burnt fuel. A residual atmosphere of Saturday night still clung to the streets. Discarded cans of Stella Artois and Strongbow rattled along the curbs and what was left of those who had drunk them rattled alongside, homeward-bound and sick of life.

Robert took time to look at each one he passed, but there were no distinguishing features between them. They were all degenerates who were, he noted with some satisfaction, suffering for their degeneracy. All wore bowed heads and carried with them the unmistakable shame of having their nighttime charade exposed by the cruel sun. Their clothes were the most obvious vestiges of their degraded night; cheap polyester shirts, miniskirts, stiletto heels, and chino-trousers that had become more ugly as they turned anachronous in the pale morning light.

>>9375986
The rattling cans and rattling morning-after drunks mashup is really cool. Very visual. I feel like your descriptions are strong enough to stand on their own without the repetition of "degenerates/suffering for their degeneracy" bashing you in the face, though. You've got bowed heads, unmistakable shame, cruel sun, vestiges of degraded night. That's plenty to get the message across. Of course, that's just my preference, a show, don't tell kind of thing.
__

Sunflowers swayed, a soft slow dance in the heat of noon, rows and rows and rows. They painted the hills butter yellow, swells like the rolling ocean made still, all the way to the horizon, upon which, a cathedral nested.

Sun baked clay brick, somewhere between blood and sand, the color of Tuscany, cobbled together and rising against the sky in an act of rebellion. Cavernous inside. Like sunflowers, empty pews: rows and rows and rows. Statues of cherubim made of dead wood, daily polished. Light streamed in great dusty beams through the windows. Stained glass arches, soft-lit altars.

In the back, behind the heavy, burgundy drape, a straight and narrow little hall the light could not quite reach, and at the end, a door, a room, a bed, a boy.

>>9373960
This needs some polish, but you've got some interesting things going on here. Static, plasticine, uber-color. I don't know that I would use plasticine twice, and I think it works better in first one, the memory recall. "The sky's a mess" is a good punch in the middle of all of the meandering stream of consciousness style stuff. Could almost have a fear and loathing vibe.

>>9376179
Nice feedback, thank you! Agree with you on the second use of plasticine, seems redundant now I reread it. Glad the style works for you, I realise it could be somewhat divisive.

File: critique.png (40KB, 960x540px) Image search: [Google]

40KB, 960x540px

>>9373808
>>9373639
A quick glance over.

>>9373935
really like it!

>>9374622
not that edgy. has possibility of good development but might just become edginess/sad 'pity me' backstory for no reason.

>>9374622
the event itself isn't what makes something pointless and edgy or not. the question is: does it fit your theme? does it contribute to the story to have that happen?

if you just do it because you think it's cool, or badass, then yes, it is gratuitous. if it has (emotional) meaning in the context of the story, then no.

>>9375937
Yes. Common Courtesy

When disillusion runs amok the court
And true intentions are hidden in verse,
The fairer seen frail, no reason or thought;
Yet guilt prevails in the mind for the worse;
As twilight haze and honour descends fast,
Hurt maidens sink under love songs withdrawn;
With envy enraged, a cut to the past
Will leave spring bloody and finally gone
Less fair by fair lie maidens by rivers:
As fledgling morning wanes, an endless ring;
Chaste nymphs unspoiled, their joie de vivre;
Will blossom's branding tarnish future spring?
And through times of faith, this verse will stand true,
Time’s hand stays aside as the fair drown blue.

File: Bree.png (49KB, 643x858px) Image search: [Google]

49KB, 643x858px

>>9376160
I like the descriptions

>>9378212
Too romantic for my tastes but some of the visual rhymes are cool

File: sonnet.jpg (62KB, 474x420px) Image search: [Google]

62KB, 474x420px

>>9374611
>To seek, dream
find something to replace this

>As sudden as a sword would flint to flame
>As wildly as a roving bird’s outcry.
not a big fan of this part.

The only real issue for me is that your volta doesn't feel so much like a 'turn' as opposed to a change of subject.

An autistic Viking was

One must be changing, she or I
As I draw and she is drawn
A slippage of the canvas
An abbreviated dawn

Her face amongst the oil paints
Assumes a spiteful air
Instead of rightful, native shades
Mere retrogrades of her

As in an airy drawing room
A vapor will dissolve
My pupils must be aging fast
Or else her eyes evolve

The poem is meant as a sort of metaphor for various concepts I've been thinking about. Any interpretations or suggestions for improvement would be welcome.

I'll do my best to contribute thoughts to some of the other material in this thread.

>>9378413
nice

>>9373619
Really like the narrator's voice. He seems like a likeable guy (not stuck up or pretentious) but it isn't forced.

I also like the description of Browner's mouth as "bright": it evokes his supposed cleverness (he thinks he's bright) as well as his winning grin.

I wonder if the sibling rivalry set-up isn't a bit familiar. Bookworm vs jock? It's been done before: you'll have to work harder to make it interesting.

File: rubin.png (54KB, 782x558px) Image search: [Google]

54KB, 782x558px

>>9373976
>tugged to halt my horse's clops, your Mare soon followed, and your hair was let down
turned me on a little

>>9373940
Thanks for sharing!
I really like the line: "a cut to the past / will leave spring bloody..." It seems like a nice chance that a line break cuts this good line in half.

I was wondering if you intended the visual rhyme between "rivers" and "vivre". If not, you should pretend you did, because it's cool. Maybe even make "joie de vivre" plural to complete the effect? Joie de vivres?

I find this poem difficult to interpret, due to the archaic language and a general vagueness (indeed, your true intentions are well hidden among all this verse and verbiage). Here's what I think it's about:
>When courting involves deception, the innocent are at a disadvantage.
>Unable to succeed in trickery, innocent maidens feel envy for the lying sluts who win the men.
>The innocent, unspoiled girls make like Ophelia and lie spoiling and dead in the river.

That's as far as I can get. I truly cannot decipher the final couplet: seems like a ripe metaphor is brewing with "time's hand" but what's there doesn't make a lick of sense. Maybe I'm just not working hard enough, or maybe you're making me work too hard. Your call.

>>9373976
I'm having trouble with the second line. What exactly is "neath the dirt?" The snakes? Their blades? The speaker and his companion?

It would be very helpful if you could find a way to make this clearer.

>>9374507
Very nice. I'm unfamiliar with the form (poetry pleb), but this seems beautifully executed to me.

In the presence of all these "lights," your use of the word "delight" is illuminating. It seems almost like a pun. The sun is sinking behind a cloud, leaving less light. The speaker finds himself literally de-lighted by this decrease in light and delighted by this. Clever.

The end of the third stanza breaking into the fourth is really, really wonderful. You show us the light transforming into something new: lighting, an afterglow. You probably don't need me to tell you how good that is, but I will anyway.

I also like the way your nightfall ripples like a pool, producing glimmers. Very picturesque.

Sorry I don't have suggestions for improvement, but this is really great. I hope I was able to catch some of what you're doing in this.

>>9374611
This one is tough. I really like what you're doing here, but it doesn't feel complete.

I like your final couplet, and unlike another anon, I thought it was completely on topic. It's a terrific ending: you just need a poem worthy of it. If there's one issue here, it feels like the poem takes too long to get where it's going. It the second and third stanzas seem redundant: too many metaphors (four or five by my count) express the same idea (a swift end rather than a slow decay). You either need a way to make your thought more concise, or expand it so that it justifies every line in your poem.

I'm curious: early in the poem, "we" are wishing to break, not to crumble. At the end of the poem, the speaker finds himself alone in his sentiment. What happened to the rest of us? Why the change from "we" to "I"?

Sorry for all the critique: you do have excellent stuff here. "Our highest heat" is an excellent turn of phrase. I'm also fascinated by this use of "summer" as a verb. I think you're trying to suggest "sired" or "started" with "summered." But I have to admit, I don't exactly understand what it means to summer something in this way. Spring is more suggestive of beginnings of things and birth, don't you think?

There's also the fact that "summered" can be used as a verb to mean "went on summer vacation." "We summered in Italy last year." Since you've got a season (Autumn) taking some time off, it seems like some quality punnage could come from this direction. Imagine Autumn taking a summer vacation!

Good luck with this poem, and I hope my suggestions have been helpful. Don't grow disheartened: what you have is good; it can be excellent.

would love any readings:

—That is because. That is because, I heard a man moan from inside one of theses shrouded houses, that is because, that is because. And the house seemed to sway also with his voice, flickering between myself and what was obscure. I thought of his voice for long after we had passed his house there on the road.If I let my mind wander and if i gave myself to the swells and ripples beneath the surface of my life it would seem his voice was linked now to my steps and that my footsteps carved out measures of his voice which would jar against those lines already in the sidewalk and appear as two people dancing and eventually meeting at one accidental and harmonic moment before starting again.


(promise to come back tonight and try to critique while drunk)

>>9378868
>Braden

is that like the white version of Jayquan?

Found another sucker, used him as replacement for my current as he was too worn out. Gave him half the remainder of my med kit
and left him he as he was that high strung by the end of his cycle. Made about 4 hours north before I ran into the the next swell, nearly got wiped out
cause the replacement couldn't bolt down the chamber as quickly as the old one could. Go figure. He was pretty messed up afterwards, even for a newbie.
Gave him a line of meth and a shot of smack and he was good as new. Smoked a gram of wax with him
to help centre his already-fried nervous system and went about our way. Had to rest for a few hours cause my calluses were starting to bleed,
yeah these guys have to take a beating every 4-5 hours but I had to carry them the whole way so in hindsight I'd say it come out sorta kinda nearly even.
Slept in the chamber for 2 hours before making leeway for the island FKA Indonesia.

>>9378895
>yeah these guys have to take a beating every 4-5 hours but I had to carry them the whole way so in hindsight I'd say it come out sorta kinda nearly even.

went off the rails on this line, first you're using street slang and shit about drugs, couldn't tell if "swell" was the archaic slang for an uppity dude or the ocean, which was sort of cool, but "it come out sorta kinda nearly even" is now like the voice of some ol' hill billy fisherman who makes his livin' spendin his days on the ol' mississip livin a folksy livestyle, not some hardcore drug addled urban hardened mystery man

>>9378895
Left out my criticism
>>9373619
I like this, maybe needs some work with pacing but there are some nice sentence structures here.

>>9378906
Should probably post this as well to give some context into the environment this guy is placed in.

It happened around the 25th of January last year. Since said date and said event Earth was split into thirds.
Not by way of continents or political systems but physically into three separate plains.
For the sake of the exercise that is explaining our situation I want you to visualise a golf ball split vertically into even thirds.
Plate 2, being the middle plate, which use to inhabit all of Australia, Indonesia, Canada, most of Africa and its respective
surrounding waters was now covered completely in the earths water reserves.
Plate/region 1 & 3 were dry and hot to the touch and as a result uninhabitable.
As we saw it, it was similar in effect to the way a droplet of water reacts to being dropped on a heated surface,
and because this was coming from both sides via plate 1 & 3, the water couldn't settle in one spot so it really had no option but to be a enormous swell of liquid revolving never-endlessly around in an almost pendulum-like motion.

Agree with your critcism, still trying to dial in the character.

I’ve seen her several months ahead from the last: in between noiseless fleet of time, inverse acme of moments, motionless time still, but now captured for a moment in the still myriad of twines, streams, and whirls of consciousness capturing my own. They don't make sense, as she stops making sense, she always had when she walked like insanity at my sick closeness. Nothing but insanity, close insanity. And I find that she does not contain me as she ever did. Her effect has ceased off, enticement had swallowed itself infirmed. But when she walked by, her hair tied, and slim legs, slender sinews on bone protrude gently from her skinny washed-gray denim, and her tallness peaks a pale sun glare, sunny gentle lambency in front of lights flicker, I think the knitwear garments under her thin, stretched neck carried her very well as I saw from her sleepiness.

>>9378789
>that is because
Some of these lines need better placement. I had trouble voicing these specifically, it interrupts the flow, and even dare I say, rhythm.
Your last line with the analogy is pretty, I liked it a lot: would keep reading. Though, let me ask: what is this about?

>>9378585
Its shit

>>9378626

"She or I" isn't needed.

try L3 as
>A slip of canvas

"amongst" can be cut and the image will be stronger

>Instead of rightful, native shades
>Mere retrogrades of her

this sounds really, really awkward.

"As in an" find a way to not do this

>>9378212
>And true intentions are hidden in verse,
as old as you want this to sound, this feels too early to lose the rhythm

>in the mind for the worse
I know how fun anapests are, but it feels like your taking the scenic route just for the rhythm and its not working for me

>a cut to the past
this could be made stronger

>Will blossom's branding tarnish future spring?
find a better substitiute for future, because its bewildering in a way that dampens the impact of the volta

Here's Mine:

Tiber

Rain is crashing down
On thatch and dying

Torch. The Black Forests
Hold the souls and knives.

No arch built after
Mars nailed to trees.

Water-volley pierces
through the Legionnaire.

looking for critique on this, but i'd most like someone to tell me whether or not it's funny. i've read it too many times to be able to tell anymore.
https://pastebin.com/WtweCZis

>>9378789
"we had passed his house there on the road."
you dont need the 'on the road', where else is his house gonna be?
"theses" is a typo.
last sentence is very cool but could use commas. If you want to keep the stream of consciousness effect you could restructure the sentence before the first "it", so that it doesnt seem so much like you've omitted punctuation for no reason. It's very good after the "it".

>>9378955
"I’ve seen her several months ahead from the last" I'm guessing he has seen a vision of her in the future? something about time-travel or prohpecies? it's weird to read out of context like this, though i suppose it may make more sense holistically.
"ceased off" is tautological. just say "ceased".
im not sure if your tenses are intentionally inconsistent or not, it's confusing to read either way. e.g. the change in "Her effect has ceased off, enticement had swallowed itself infirmed."
I think this has an errant "and": "But when she walked by, her hair tied, and slim legs, slender sinews on..."

File: 1.png (285KB, 967x575px) Image search: [Google]

285KB, 967x575px

>>9380849
The prose gets better as it progresses. It begins a bit too much like Fantasy/Sci Fi for me, and without much action it's a bit boring. Can I ask if this is it? It seems like an excerpt.
>the Underground
I don't want to be a dick, but find a better name. It's so cliche. I'd never use it unless you wanted to do satire. Maybe find a translation you like e.g. "souterrain", since it sounds better.
>Senpai
If you're going to use slang, I'd find it a lot more interesting if it's very colourful and very integral to the story. The lingo of A Clockwork Orange or Trainspotting comes to mind. I'm piqued by the accent bit, which I think you should delve more into.

Not bad, just needs more direction I think - either stylistically or plot wise. Also, I think it could be funnier if there was more absurdity, or strange slang going on.

File: 2.png (473KB, 964x788px) Image search: [Google]

473KB, 964x788px

>>9380903
It autocorrected to Senpai, it should be the shortened "family".
2/2

>>9380903
I'm not sure what your pic is.

the Underground and the Tube are both slang terms for the London Underground Network, as in the literal real world trains. I didnt even consider someone not knowing this, even my grandparents refer to it like that. I'll have to make it more clear for foreign readers.

I think you're right about the slang. It's based on two real conversations I had, so I was transcribing what I remembered them sounding like.

>>9380922
The pic is my fucking piece to be critiqued, dumb-o

>>9380938
"Can I ask if this is it? It seems like an excerpt. "
sorry, i thought you were referring to the image.
yeah it's an excerpt, the last 6 pages of the third chapter.

>>9378658
what does it mean for someone to "feel stirs"? i have never seen that construction before, and i'm a native speaker. at first i thought you had lost track of your own sentence, because it seemed grammatically wrong.

>>9373546
>>9373684
i really like this man, what's it for?

only thing: the words "amorphous" and "ring" are used twice. might not be a problem, indeed it might be intentional, but they felt a bit clangy when i read them.

>>9373940
well executed and clear, whacked-a-mole or two


Synonyms

Miracles can happen
"what's a miracle?"
Well, life for instance
"how, that happens all the time?"
Well—
"shouldn't miracles by definition be rare?"
Yes, you see, life is rare in the vastness of the cosmos
"ok, but much of life sucks by out standards of life here"
Sucking is such a mortal concept my dear
"but mortality is a prerequisite to life"
That's true, however
"so only the very thing you're calling miraculous can suck"
Step outside your terms, young one
"how? I only have this language to communicate in"
The language of cosmic harmony is also available to—
"what the fuck does that mean?"
It means divinity has a pattern welcome to your apprehension
"how do I apprehend it?"
By killing yourself
"what the fuck, that's not very inspiring"
Just kill yourself you worthless piece of miracle
"don't you mean shit?"
>What is a synonym
"Jesus, even you shitpost?"
>Implying

>>9378626
your first and third stanzas are nice, though I think the second could use some work. The line "assumes a spiteful air" reads a tad on the nose, and I think the theme of air/vapor/ephemerality in material form could be better illustrated here


break it, the kit kat, split it among the herd
of troglodytes called Earthlings or
Terrans tearing a warpath along pieces
of peace betwixt twin Twix pieces
and snap into it like a slim's factoid cap
drink and snuff up some tobacco
designed for insufflation by the nariz
in France's idea of Niger or Australia
before it had a name or live game
liek Duck Hunter autocorrected to fowl play
before arm's get up for armageddon
sometime in the near future or present
3 thousand so-so years ahead or sew
after we reap grimly with norMandy and Bill
Clinton, where good and evil are just words
spoken by cousins named Good and Evil
underneath the cracks of morality in sin
where light can only outshine the darkness
inside the recycled man of heartless tin

File: q.png (71KB, 277x210px) Image search: [Google]

71KB, 277x210px

tripfagging to post my stuff in a bit, I'll go ahead and critique now though

>>9380643
I enjoyed the setting of yours and found the style fine
I'd honestly like to see more so I could get a good feel for what you're trying to say or describe

>>9381518
this feels like I'm reading rap lyrics and while I get the general gist (which is interesting) it feels a bit over shrouded by your writing style

>>9381175
>clangy

File: q.png (22KB, 439x705px) Image search: [Google]

22KB, 439x705px

>>9382023
I'm back
really rough and unfinished

>>9378669

He's trying to describe grass with too many syllables. The snakes beneath the dirt are the roots of grass.

>>9381495

This is definitely my favorite piece of 4chan metapoetry I've ever seen. You've actually done something clever and amusing here. The mounting exasperation in the "explaining" voice is nice. I feel like this would be well served by being maybe six lines longer- three exchanges- in order to allow the dialogue time to develop before it devolves into pettiness. Typo on line 8.

Mine:

Slick rush in the nose, head back, to the mirror—
catch it drop by drip by splash till it slows, look up.
Red stream wetting the desert, iron taste seeping
down into the mud to nourish and be reclaimed.

Fingers of the unsullied hand, dip into the pool,
precious gore now lost but given new purpose—
not to fuel the vehicle of flesh but challenge
the master, with crest and spiral traced on skin
unsunned and hidden but for here, where letters
dredged from nothing spell words said nowhere,
but in the corners of the mind– lorn and fey–
that no thoughts reach.

Sedent in the dark now, decoration done, painted,
in that ink shared common to beast and borne.
Cryptic signs, drying, play and whisper-
set in memory without meaning, so now to rest,
to nest, to lay in the dark, to chase those mad signs,
to dream.

>>9382446
thank you fellow interdenizens

>>9382156
overwrought

>>9374620

I have a soft spot for sonnets so I think it's a shame that this one didn't get any attention. I liked the poem in general, and loved the opening line.

At times you stretch a bit too far to make your poem fit the form. The second line is unwieldy. "Weighter weight" doesn't work for me; neither does "this here", which has a colloquial tone that clashes with the celestial, high-flown "heaving sphere". All of this makes it feel like you're putting form above substance.

Also, synonyms for weight recur a bit too frequently for me. I get that its a big concern of the poem, but purely linguistically it's a bit repetitive.

>>9383367
sonnet friend; care to check mine?

Shall I describe the autumn just fallen?
More abundant and bountiful than last:
Its lease leaving each day more important,
The eleventh, the best endowed, depart.
The bright eye bestowed but too often dimmed
When the fairest decline in perfection;
But dearest summer, she’s often left slimmed
Wandering in nature’s fluctuation.
Eternal slumber, autumn’s dénouement;
But death does not bind the nomadic shade
And perpetual lines brag of new dawn
After sailing divine storms, unafraid.
Fair autumn may sallow: ever mature,
My verse will retain our youth, evermore.

>>9383416

I actually really liked this, especially the way you've positioned yourself alongside the Shakespearean corpus of sonnets. Autumn instead of spring works well. The idea of the written word as something that can defy time and safeguard the 'youth' of both the writer and his subject is something Shakespeare returns to again and again. I liked how you did that, especially with the spring-to-autumn inversion. Here are some points that flummoxed me a bit:

I don't know how to interpret "the autumn just fallen". This might just be me being thick, but I'm not sure if autumn having just fallen means that autumn is beginning or that it's ended. I'd be inclined to think the former, but fallEN, in that tense, seems to imply that something has been terminated. In any case I think "fallen" is a good wordchoice; it nicely uses both the terms for autumn in one line, but in a way such that they complement each other, rather than reducing to tautology.

"Fairest decline in perfection" is lovely.

About the rhymes. The first quatrain had no rhymes at all; why? Outside of that, I appreciated the effort to alternate masculine/feminine rhymes, but the fact that some of these were imperfect threw me off a bit. "Perfection" and "Fluctuation" don't really work; in terms of euphony, EC-shun and AY-shun just don't sound good to my ear; the "AY" is just a little too prominent. Also, "Fluctuation" as a word choice feels a bit out-of-place; I have the feeling you included it to force the (half-)rhyme. I'd say "new dawn" / "denouement" is a bit of a stretch too -- although part of me likes it.

In a poem all about flux and transition, about "fluctuation", about "decline" and the "perpetual [...] new dawn", I couldn't get my head around "Eternal slumber". Is autumn's denouement eternal in any way? And the fact that you go on to contradict it indicates that it's not eternal at all. I don't really see what you're driving at with this phrase.

I loved the final couplet, but I'd lose the comma before "evermore". It chops the beat up a bit too much.

Good poem.

Boy at the table, see
Spirits spill before your feet,
The door slam, a woman weep,
Broken glass. Boy, sweep

>>9382644
fug

AMERICA
Really, it boils down to our common Judeo-Kardashian heritage,
our appetite, the way we can suck the marrow from a potato chip

until nothing fits, not our pants, not our cultural jigsaw
pieces of jazz and cat memes, hot dogs and Zoloft,

the sugary agar we sop from our environment, our psyches
filling osmotically with an amalgam of strobe light and bubblegum.

It’s probably always been like this, or it’s been like this so long
it may as well have been forever –– even Martial bitched about it.

Which might mean we’re past the point of reconciliation with
ourselves and it’s no surprise that this is an age of mass extinction

and that we’re the streaking comet; but there’s an order to everything,
however inscrutable, even if it’s just the big thieves hanging the little ones.

We have to start somewhere and go nowhere, which happens to be
what makes the fool’s arc comic and the human condition tragic.

Hello? This is irony calling collect. Is there anyone there?
This is the black hole calling. This is the black hole calling the kettle.

File: fashion virtuoso.jpg (95KB, 634x454px) Image search: [Google]

95KB, 634x454px

>critique this opening to a book I just started writing please.

I walked over to the two girls, one of whom I knew; She would be my opening; My own personal opening; I want to tie her up in my basement and fuck her; As I approached the two I realized that I didn’t know the name of the girl I knew; I don’t really know anybody's name though so this was just an oversight which I should’ve seen coming; I decided to talk to them anyway as it would look odd to change course now that I’d begun walking over; As I was arriving at the girls and before I could open my mouth, the girl I knew from somewhere opened hers; ‘Hey, Neil. Are you in the debate?’ ‘Ya I am.’ I mumbled; How do I keep this going ‘I’m looking forward to it’ she continued; What a retard; “The topic is whether niggers should have the vote”. I told them; They giggled or laughed; One giggled, the other laughed; The one who was giggling asked whether I was affirmative while the familiar one who was laughing simmered to a giggle; I told her “I always am” rather seriously; This wasn’t true and she didn’t seem embarrassed; Rather suddenly the whole room stopped talking and the girls were staring at someone across the room and behind me; I supposed I should turn around but I thought it would be more fun to keep talking to the girls; “What reasonable defense can be given for why a nigger should vote?” I continued; The girls looked at me with confused horror; Now that everyone was hopefully staring at me, I reluctantly turned to face the guy; It was some racially ambiguous upperclassmen whom I didn’t know. “Are you my opponent?” I asked him;

>>9373546
Nice prose and all but your politics seem naive.

>>9384118
i laughed

>>9383367
>>9383416
can i get a sonnet glance?
>>9378457

>>9384293
This is nice encouragement. thanks

File: village.jpg (552KB, 2000x1206px) Image search: [Google]

552KB, 2000x1206px

>>9373546
The stupidity of the income inequality argument is this: The 1 percenters are not taking money from you. They are not setting up obstacles to stop you from succeeding, that is what you are doing.

By making better decisions than you, they have risen to the top of the food chain and you want that to be equalized in outcome rather than opportunity because you're a child. Instead of taking personal responsibility and vowing to make better decisions, you decide to spend your day protesting phantom injustice and blindly following a infantile ideology because you **feel** wronged.

inb4 I get >>/pol/, your prose may be fine but the contents of your writing are so petulant, It makes for a rather off-putting read

>>9382446
is the first stanza about snorting cocaine?

>>9383516
thank you so much for the feedback! I was trying to go for more of what i was trying to get across instead of settling for pure rhymes (they're like half-rhymess but that might be just because I've repeated them so much they sound closer to the same); I'll have a look at the perfection/fluctuation rhyme and see what I can do to adapt it to fit better

and the autumn's denouement is kinda eternal (like autumn will always come and go, it will be reborn and die again, that was part of the ideology of that part - to build the fluctuation throughout

and finally the evermore bit, yeah, i agree, i kept changing that part because i wasn't sure which sounded better, thank you for clearing it up :D

hey guys, first poem i ever wrote, could you give me a little feedback


Through the rustling of discoloured pages
We noticed one another
The gloom of a cold winter’s day as it fell away
Brought our lives a little closer
Each day
I was told by my mother to move on a little
Each day
Move through life this way and you will succeed in all you try
So why is it that I cannot move on with my life
From that stolen moment of time
That resides at the back of my mind
I wonder why and why and why

Your golden skin a beacon in that room I sat where the room wore black
I wanted to whisk you away from the place that we stayed
The pages were replaced in my hand for a phone
And I ached for a photo of that body that you must have stole from heaven
Which I’m sure you did
My beautiful, wonderful chip
Served with ciabatta

1789

How does an immigrant
Right handed man to the president
Washington
Fight toe to toe with Maddison,
Whoreson
Orphan at the age of thirteen
Become a founding father
And survive a hurricane?
No known father,
A self starter or rather
A man wanting to be smarter
Diametrically opposed to a founding father
Oh bother (pause for half a second)
Jefferson gotta say his offer
The nations capitol
For his dolla (what?)

Now fast forward to the father's death
Who will wipe away the tears of all that have wept?
Now the father's with the father
And he couldn't be farther
From the nation he raised from impoverished squalor

Burr was a lawyer
And Hamilton too
Their clients got acquitted
For things they didn't do
Adams, Jefferson, Maddison and Monroe
They were all presidents
But Hamilton? No no
We got Lincoln, Roosevelt (both of them guys)
We got JFK who lost his life
We got Nixon
Who dealt with Saudi
Bush I'm not getting into that
I'm outti

And that brings us right up to Obama
Let's not forget he did get Osama
But hell,
The nations still in a state
And I don't know what to make
Of it
Wait
How about you read a book
As Donald Trump reigns America looks
To the past
Fast
But (pause for 1 second)
Everything they learned has come down to this
Some half assed attempt at a thing called peace
With a killing a day
And some bombings at night
Police are taught to shoot on sight
Like they're at a war
In 79
America won independence in that time
Line
And the founding fathers fought for the lives
Of every race that lived
And that is why
With a private army set out in the streets
You won't ever see it until you're under that sheet
And by then you are done,
You are gone
You are dust

The father's had dreams
But now we are fucked.

Welcome to America
Land of the free.

Denizens defiantly defined as creatures resident to a definite dominion display terrifying dismay at a subject imposing on their land; despite desperate hope from the destroyed world of ancestors long forgotten, residents take residence in the residue of irrelevant civilisations to comprehend why it was burnt to the sand.

Immediate acknowledgment of an ecosystem providing a wholly balanced destruction of the world that surrounds, truly describes the fluent depravation of the plague that deformed a nation.

Definitive discussions displaying the genocide of a countries citizens directly downplays the victims of the newest duchy stationed.

Hieron in the house of deities, defying the natural law disputed by no singular entity due to the nature of his victory expresses this ultimately,
16th century war feats are replicated by those 3 centuries later for the wholesale of millions transported as cattle for less worth and value, unfortunately.

Please rate this. If you got it, what you thought of the allusions. What you thought of the overlying morals and theme that run in it; thank you so much

>>9385261

Anon, I admire your passion and grand ambition, but this high mode of speech obscures your meaning and makes you seem longwinded. Unless this is a pre-amble, like an invocation of the Muse, before you introduce some concrete actors, actions, settings, etc., then most people will stop reading. Even if you do launch into something tangible, this high-falutin opening will still seem unnecessary and that bitterness will linger in the reader's mind

>>9384787

Nope

>The springtime overflowed with a romance for a maiden whom I knew not; nay, at least at that time, the dense spring air that filled my lungs did not strike me as romantic--it did not strike me at all; but as I ponder it all now, from the comfort of a soul now far displaced from that tortured one last year--yet presently enriched and drowned in its heavy music--I cannot bring myself to deny that romance! Oh, how my soul has thence departed and wandered, reaching places anew and afar; and yet, I here far displaced observe, with what ease and haste does my soul to that wretched time of heavy confusion--that time which reeks of cucumber and tastes of stale pita; that time of skies outstretched; that time of sickness and bitter abeyance--with what haste and ease does my poor soul thither return! I can recall the day, now a year removed, when I rode with my brother, with friends all about, to a field nearby; and, as grey clouds, shrouded in a heavenly ambiance, flowed swiftly overhead, they shed thousands of heavy tears.--Such was to me the weight of this sad time: She disguised herself from me in an alluring dress, and she lurked for ever within the shadowy crevices of my innermost soul, beckoning me farther and farther away from my path, of which I had long ago lost sight, and no longer recognised as my own. Woe--fair maiden! Still she suffocates me--the expires from my lungs long-worn; and my friends--dare I call them such?--they danced all round me, smiles painted with the delicate brush of youth upon their faces; and I smiled too: a bitter, removed smile, like a gloomy reflection in a rain-drenched window. I smiled sincerely, but with the banal sincerity that lay closest at hand--a crude and fraudulent sincerity, placed deep into my soul by that Lady Spring’s most cunning hand!

After finishing The Sorrows of Young Werther for the second time, I thought I should try to write something in a Romantic style. Eh.

I just got this published if anyone is interested.
A little long and not my best work; I need help honing my plots -
https://medium.com/quite/flash-fiction-selection-5-78d05ddb8f3c

>>9378413
This is really great. I'd cut the "though" in
>There are some drawbacks, though.
It interrupts the rhythm a little.
>I assume the company...by hiring these people
"by" should be replaced with "for"

I think you can safely omit the "(the retards)" the next sentence makes it clear anyway and it feels a little more powerful, without it.
>She often speaks...
Take out "often"

>They're all he ever talks about
You can probably omit this.

>He often gets sent home...
Omit "often" (you might want to keep track of often you use often; hint: it's too often)

Overall though, really good. Please most more.

Though you have perished
soon, you shall rise again
No longer confined to the bounderies
of your own body
Your spirit will roam freely
with no guilt to hold you back
The trivialities that always appeared
to be so B I G
Are now just that, trivialities
and henceforth there will be no need for
Struggle or hurt
For the tether that so often defined your life
has been set free
by you and I
And love,faith, and compassion become one
Forevermore, their reign shall be eternal

I analed her good
she said yes thats good
right there deep in my bum
bury your chunky pork-sword
puncture the innards of my soul
and so I kept slamming away
like a comet shooting for the stars
pummeling away, away, away
boy did I fuck her good in the bum
all her friends told me I did
they all said, you really did, she said so
about me giving her that good dick
anally of course, she's saving herself
for marriage, thus the poophole
loophole, that glorious loophole
the poophole that I stuffed like a thanksgiving turkey
despite it being july, hot damn that ass was sweet
like a honeybaked christmas ham
during july of course, but still, hot ham ass
sweaty and salty and sweet like meat
gave it to her so good she came back for more
of my amazing penis game so strong
yeah i ass fucked her real good
all her friends tell me
everyone talks about it

cantaloupe ruins fruit salad
which never actually has dressing
isn't it more like a medley?
probably, but I'm more worried
about my recent diabetes diagnosis
type 1 or 2, maybe 3, dunno
the point is I can no longer
take the cake and eat it too
so I'm relegated to an artificial
sweetener saturated purgatory
where 4 equals 0 and hope
equals a hanging rope loop
calling my name like a lover
forlorn from our fond hearts
distant from the time we bound
one to the other like yang n yin
so I decide to decide to burn
the house down and cheer
in the flames ignited my soul
like suicide bomb boarding pass
to paradise, the land of virgin
piña coladas and getting caught
in the acid rain outside Beijing.

>>9386388
10/10. such passion! such verve! i perhaps would have liked a twist at the end, but the one you have got has odd enough social implications that it's good also. why would "everyone talk about" how good you fucked her in the ass? it must have just been that good, i guess.

>>9386378
is this a metaphor? 3/10

>>9386221
>The springtime overflowed with a romance
>dense spring air that filled my lungs did not strike me as romantic
why did you not detect what was there?
>-that time which reeks of cucumber and tastes of stale pita; that time of skies outstretched; that time of sickness and bitter abeyance
what's the story here?

>-Such was to me the weight of this sad time: She disguised herself from me in an alluring dress, and she lurked for ever within the shadowy crevices of my innermost soul, beckoning me farther and farther away from my path, of which I had long ago lost sight, and no longer recognised as my own.
nice

>my friends--dare I call them such?--they danced all round me, smiles painted with the delicate brush of youth upon their faces; and I smiled too: a bitter, removed smile, like a gloomy reflection in a rain-drenched window. I smiled sincerely, but with the banal sincerity that lay closest at hand--a crude and fraudulent sincerity, placed deep into my soul by that Lady Spring’s most cunning hand
again, what's the story here?

5/10. could be good if it was made clearer what it was about

>>9386402
3/10. cool imagery but the poem seems to be about sadness and diabetes but i can't tell how most of the stuff relates to that.

YOU'RE SO BEAUTIFUL IT'S STUPID

i listen to the birds and it fills me with contempt
that they could sing so sweetly, without effort
it is stupid for something so thoughtless,
produced by cold genomes,
and whatever the bird equivalent of vanity is,
to be so nice.
and that's how your beauty appears to me.
you do not even seem to be aware of it
or at the very least you have grown accustomed to it,
the way everybody is accustomed to birdsongs in the morning,
or like a canyon that you drive by every day on your way to work.
a stupid, empty thing devoid of thought or relevance
marvelous to look at
that's what your beauty is.

>>9386449
>and whatever the bird equivalent of vanity is

>>9385231

No worries man, feel free to post more.

>>9378457

Having been unable to crack what the poem is actually getting at, I'll confine myself to some superficial points.

The continual enjambment is a nice departure from the traditional end-stopped lines in sonnets -- even if there's an extent to which you aren't getting your money's worth for the effort of writing in such a demanding form.

You've got some lovely language. I like your neological portmanteaus. "Cracked bright" is pleasant too.

"Nightworn" and "night's" come a bit too close to each other. You also use "night" four times in total. Perhaps a bit much?

I liked reading it because it sounded nice and had pleasant cadence and language, but I didn't really 'get it' 2bh.

>>9386449
>punctuation
>no uppercase
It's jarring af. It feels very angry and personal but "or like a canyon that you drive by every day on your way to work." just comes out of nowhere.

The sun is high, mercilessly burning any patch of skin left bare. Ten years ago, the trees would have been a potent shield against these cruel rays. They are dead now. Some fungus found its way on their bark. The ropes ships used to fasten themselves to the trunks, that’s how it spread. When the first died, the taint was everywhere, eating and rotting away the fresh wood. Still, some seemed healthy and were spared the bite of the axe. Few truly were, not enough to shade the canal from the flying chariot’s fire.
There they walk then. On scorched banks that give way with no live roots to hold them. Next to a water pungent with rotting warmth. Under a cruel god, too generous with its light. Still, the oarsman paddles swiftly, making the procession walk faster. Perhaps he seeks to avoid fleas, attracted as they usually are by the scent of dry corpses and hasty embalmment. It’s more hopeful than sound.
At last, the grave barge passes under the last bridge. Thus it enters straight into the lake, along a thin pier. The grieving walk straight onto the tired wood. With the ease of someone accustomed to the manoeuvre, the oarsman brings the boat at strides length of the pontoon. With no pilot, the floating coffin continues its course towards the lake at a steady pace. A young girl is given a lit torch she throws at the sailing corpse.
The sun dried everything, the fire burns hungrily, what remains sinks in a heartbeat. The wailing dissipates as the audience walks away with no word still. The next day, a boy becomes the man.

>>9386993
how about this one?

When youthful morning ascends clouded skies,
Gold flattery stifles the infant realm;
And while bubbling brooks and lush lowlands lie:
Her fingers of rose do soon overwhelm.
Twelve sit upstairs amidst the basest rack,
While her eye victorious in its gaze;
But foreseen heaven appears at her back,
A forlorn shade over cosmic face.
Stealing west, hiding face from dishonour,
While robes of saffron left on morning’s bed;
Her gaze I filched, my paramount wonder:
Passing away, fraught, with blue verses said.
Yet for eternity that men can breathe,
Love will be stained by the morning that leaves.

>>9387017

"Youthful morning" seems tautological, especially if it's "[ascending]", which in itself implies that it's nascent/"youthful".

The "do" in "do soon" makes the line read unnaturally; I suspect it's only there to make the metre work. Try reading the line out loud without the "do" and you'll hear that it sounds better. Your personal sonnet style is not strictly beholden to convention (as we've seen with the rhymes), so imo you can get away with leaving this line metrically incomplete. (In fact, I initially read "overwhelm" as a transitive verb [overwhelm what?], so the line already gave me an experience of unexpected incompletion. In light of that, an unfinished metre would be a nice touch, matching the style to the content.)

"Basest" -- literally/etymologically meaning 'low' -- seems to jar with "upstairs". Deliberately done?

Syntactically, lines 5-6 don't make sense to me. Am I supposed to read it as "While her eye [is] victorious in its gaze"?

In my opinion this poem uses too many adjectives/qualifiers in general. "Youthful", "clouded", "gold", "infant" -- that's four in the first two lines alone. I stopped counting when I reached 10. Some of these phrases are pleasant, but there are too many, and it makes your language seem overwrought and unnatural. It got better towards the end, though.

Ultimately, the final couplet doesn't rhyme properly, and left me feeling a bit blueballed. Then again I'm a bit anal about stuff like that; maybe it doesn't matter so much to you.

I'd say my biggest objection is that this poem's volta seems to occur only at the final couplet. The quatrains are all similar to each other, and I only got an impression of the 'sense' of the poem right at the end, which seemed a little too late.

>>9387080
Yeah, I guess it was tautological; i was trying to emphasise the point of youth as a predominant thing.
I used "do soon" to push the "fingers of rose" part which was an allusion to the Greek God Eos and how she left the day to its devices (meaning that the person that i wrote this about left me to my devices)
The 5/6 lines were in reference, further, to Greek Gods (the "twelve" were the Zeus etc who sat on Mount Olympus and her eye victorious was a play on the morning's eye looking upwards - the victorious look upwards)
Yeah, I shall look at changing that, originally I used the frequent adjectives to push the almost perfect view of the morning (a metaphor for a relationship + a girl) but i guess it appears unnatural
The final couplet was intentionally left with a weird rhyme that doesnt go completely; its meant to leave you feeling awkward because the poem, at the end, discusses how i was left awkward and sad

Thank you so much again, I shall try to change this in accordance to some of your advices

>>9387096

I got the references and their purpose; my comments were mostly about the metre/syntax.

Is English your native language, by the way? Some of your turns of phrase give me the impression it isn't.

Anyway, I like reading your work; if you'd like a consistent reader feel free to pass me a throwaway email.

>>9373619
i never read anything i like on /lit/ but i like this one. that first paragraph brought a smile to my face.

>>9387113
ya that'd be cool! [email protected] is my throwaway one :)

>>9386217
then I'm sorry its awful

Each voice drowns in a choir
gasping for a fresh ear to lend
a sense of fulfillment unwished
and untethered by sinking stones
or buoys bound in roaring waves
of amber gray and ghoulish shrieks
ascending down into a brackish pit
sewn insider our tiny hearts of dust
where schoolyards lie vacant in summer
secretly bearing fields of creepy-crawlies
who find home in the KT boundary below
that bridges neither time nor space
nor the touch between each face
squished together by this human crush
draining the room for our souls to waste
and the air above, so carbon hazed
the lemmings march like inchworms on
a surface cracking at every place
till doom draws grace from nothingness
and grace dies away in putrid haste.

Oubliette Juliette

Happy Easter to all
Christ is risen once again
his flesh descends
into polished hands
caked in dirt from Satan's church
and dissolves away like sand.
The sun it sets on borrowed time
in the hourglass of heaven's burned
buttresses supporting the blind
singing screeches in Eden's urns.
The serpent sews one more seed
in blistered skin
exalting in torture's glee
found in subtle sin.

get on with it
pull the lever
sling the rope
slap the pink
spank the drought
touch the beams
dream the seas
can the breasts
slam the wheat
back the front
break the back
gut the krill
make the bat
mull the mill
tear the shore
yank the chin
chain the links
skin the yard
plant the vine
nab the tune
and tie the nought
all before
they find you out

>>9389531
I'd rather you shortened the sentences; this is one long, long, long sentence.

>>9389596
'tis indeed. Aside from the structure, any other comments?

>>9390348
Honest reaction: this reads like it was written by a 12 year old, or by someone just learning English.

File: IMG_20170417_144951.jpg (2MB, 3120x4160px) Image search: [Google]

2MB, 3120x4160px

On my throne I'm perched, a seat suited to, a God-emperor; I survey the sully, how silly there lives must be. They toil away to provide for me, placating their misery with nationalistic history. My seed I spread, I often compare myself to jesus with fish and bread. A liquid so gloriously potent, a million could burst forth from a droplet.
Deserved narcissism I like to fondle my mind with, after all I'm superior. Daydreaming about how my life could be so much better.
t. A NEET on welfare going for my weekly shop

>>9390444
>On my throne I'm perched, a seat suited to, a God-emperor

Talking about taking a turd on your toilet?

>>9390449
Nah talking about pic related, always take the very most back seat because it makes me feel alpha

>>9390464
whatever u say rosa parks

>>9390494
How dare you

This is sad. Is everyone writing for others? The art that emerges from within you should be perfect to your eye, and not to that of a random, anonymous other

Death to the reader

>>9386449
>contempt
>stupid
>something
>whatever
>do not even seem
>very least
Holiest shit negro, do you even understand how poetry works? Nobody asks for your gayass opinion on things
>>9387017
Trying too hard. Collocations like "gold flattery", "foreseen heaven", "forlord shade" etc. Stop writing 'poetic poetry', not every noun needs an adjective slapped to it to be evocative
>>9389531
Gibberish
>>9389562
I like the choice of words, but the whole things feels generic because of the theme. Also, be a better man and write in meter, I don't know how to read that X-wing of a poem

File: 65437.jpg (256KB, 1000x640px) Image search: [Google]

256KB, 1000x640px

Does "The story isn’t the only aspect draped in prediction." make sense? I don't think it does but I wanted to double check with /lit/. Trying to say that a story is predictable in a fun way.

>>9391587
>>9387017

hey, may i ask, in relation to my piece, why you think its trying too hard? I used those specifically "gold flattery" meaning this over-the-top colour making the ugly look pretty; "foreseen heaven" is meant to refer to the clouds coming at the sun's back, also expresses that the "morning" was always going to be having a bumpy ride rising to the top, a metaphor for my life/love life; "forlorn shade" a reference to clouds, naturally, but also how sad the land looks and, how sad this person was after the particular event - just curious what would you do because i'd really like to improve my writing

>>9391587
>gibberish
someone didn't pick up on the myriad recherché allusions

Earth, the mother of birth,
pregnant, sleeping on her stomach,
cuts the moon's umbilical—
chords dissonantly ring
around the rosy the pocketfuls
of gold coins dredged from the deep.
She leaves grocery bags on the door
and spanks dead children
whenever they tiptoe in the lukewarm dark
imagineering the padded walls as lullabies.
The frenzied skullduggery sunk courts
settle centuries old lost dogs and cats
libel suit; Jehosaphat's gavel bites
the teeth off a hung jury of mice
breathing one minuet together
under mother's bosom, apart.

>>9392145
So Gibberish

>>9395296
Anon, do you really think it's fair, to either the author or yourself, to label something as 'gibberish' when you've yet to prove that you've understood it, let alone made an attempt to do so?

An amatuer's attempt at children's fantasy.

The moon glared into the golden ballroom, a hive of diamonds and frills twirling in a lake of white marble; the night soothing into the joys of the evening delights with the jamboree of music slaving away in the background.
Trapped in the maws of sway is a young little girl of pearl and silver, no higher than your leg, no thinner than a thimble.
“Where am I?” she asked, eyes darting about for someone to whisk her away from the whirl of dancers. Confusion was an understatement, for but a moment ago she was held up in her room in drowse, face first into the books of her coming exams tomorrow.
“Can anyone-?” she tried to squeak out, but her voice was but a whisper in the currents of high music: violinists, pipers, and pianists in a three-triad war for control of the evening. She would’ve touched someone of course, had she not been of the withholding nature; speaking was almost a second language to her, especially in the company of others.
But just as she made for the exit, a round of applause held the dancers in track, a wall of pretty colours encaging her within the middle of the hued storm.
‘Good eve, good eve dear guests!’ announced an old fellow tapping his glass. ‘It would be nothing short of my honour to be able to announce this year’s Ember Queen!’
The girl looked at him queerly. “Father?” she said, “What are you doing here?”
She knew him to be a saint of the woods, a shut-in who kept to himself so as to avoid the blight of the “city people” as he called them. To see him there with fine suited garments, a fellowship of nobles, and a glass of what looked like expensive wine was nothing short of witchcraft to the eyes.
“But we all know why we really came here, don’t we?” he grinned, the crowd seemingly with him.
The girl shuffled along, lightly paddling her way through the sea of gut-clenching dresses and shoe-tripping cloaks.
“Father?”
His eyes found her, and for a brief passing moment - they turned to poison.
Elvira woke up screaming.

>>9373960
stream-of-consciousness stuff like this is usually abstract and wanky, but this was nicely specific and vivid. set up a solid narrative present ('space' is a bit non-specific though) and then embellished it. most people don't bother with that first part. solid piece of writing

No one ever considers
the itch.

Of course your skin crawls,
but eventually
your skin crawls away,
in the claws of mites,
mightier now,
than you dispossessed opposables.

And it follows that your hair
falls away.
Or proceeds.
It doesn't matter
anyway, it goes,
any way it pleases,
receding further than your memories.

And you, your remains,
remain
with the itch.
So claw away.

You will never reach.

>>9395681
ahhh, the asymptote of drug induced euphoria

>>9395698
What do you mean? No drugs involved.

>>9395725
I interpreted your poem as alluding to drug addiction. The asymptote I referred to is the metaphorical dragon that one chases in search for that forever unattainable first high. "The itch" is often used as a term for cravings. Sensibly, your poem reads very much like an portrait to drug addiction.

t. former oxycontin user

>>9395741
I guess maybe it's related to that, but my thought was of someone who was dead

>>9395749
well that's just silly

cadavers aren't a very good subject for poetic verse, not relatable enough anon

you can't write a poem from the uncanny valley and hope people find it beautiful or cathartic, it just won't work

anyway dead people don't feel itchy. they're dead.

File: ganesha.png (83KB, 631x283px) Image search: [Google]

83KB, 631x283px

>>9373546

>>9395778
*The hamlet in which I was born quickly expanded into a hub robbed of its former simplicity.

>>9373619

that's good, anon

>>9395767
!) that's a dumb rule. Poetry has to be relatable? Blake says hello.
@) That's not what the uncanny valley means. And obviously I'm not just hoping it works, I'm trying to see if it does. You know, by posting in a critique thread?
#) How do you know? Are you dead? There's a long tradition of writing about what it's like to be dead. Why stop now?

You seem to only want poetry that describes something you already know intimately, but just says it better words than you can say it in. Seems really sad and empty.

I wrote a haiku

黒人の
大肉棒が
好きですよ

Bls r8

>>9396632
you're right, my point was stupid

anyway, no offense, but i thought your poem wasnt very good. that's what i shouldv'e said from the beginning

>>9395681
This is brilliant! I felt as if I saw God! You are a genius! Please don't ever stop writing, for the world would surely become annihilated! You must keep writing poems, for poems are the thing that is going to save us all, and you are surely the most brilliant gifted transcendent amazing GOD!

>>9395681
I feel like there's a good poem few good editings away there, just get rid of pretentious, gimmicky shit
>unnecessary linebreaks that act like jump scares
>same words repeated 20 times
>alliteration for the sake of it

>>9397496
kek

>>9395681
did you watch swiss army man and then write this jesus christ

I woke up from the same sound that had roused me for the past two months. From the noise of the people working the morning shift when they scraped and shovelled the snow from the nearby gates. Occasionally one of them would hit the chain link fence and let off a metallic rattle. Not exactly a pleasant alarm clock but it did its job. “Hey Stan, wake up and let’s get moving I’m freezing my fucking ass off” Cooper bellowed. “I’m already up, give me a few seconds.” I replied and zipped open my sleeping bag. The stale freezing air of the tent hit me instantly, it had been unusually cold lately and not getting any warmer. I fumbled around for my clothes, the aviator jacket Cooper gave me, the pants from home I’d padded with newspapers and my beat-up sneakers. I zipped open the tent, stepped outside and looked at Cooper. As per usual he was wearing his old army jacket, two sets of jeans and a giant pair of homemade boots. “Took you long enough dipshit, if we move out now we’ll barely make it in time.”

>>9397470
Anything more specific?

>>9397508
never seen it

>>9395778
I like it.

>>9395459
Thank you very much!

Smashed this out in about 10 minutes for a friend named Dan

https://pastebin.com/pfrrbJRD

>>9398323
You have a clean, clear, and tight writing style. And you portray characters and dialogue quite believably, which helps to visualize the scene easily. Keep it up.

I started work on this today, I'm hoping to flesh it out into a full novella

https://pastebin.com/2cUJM9uj

( Will provide crit for next person to post)

letters lean left and right
down the drain and up the flight
of stairs strewn with lego pieces
married to my mother's nieces
like a kite to keys and streams of light
that hide away at day and live at night
buried with treasures tried and true
across and deep that yonder blue
where origami hearts fold and fold
whispering deadly stories now untold
till the youthful ears of children turn
towards the mighty voices of the urn
that dies away with laughter new
and sinks down further yonder blue.