Hi. Relatively new to writing. Or maybe not, I don't know.

File: clown.jpg (250KB, 640x425px) Image search: [Google]

250KB, 640x425px

Hi. Relatively new to writing.
Or maybe not, I don't know.
So I wrote this piece yesterday; it staggers along, not really getting to the point.
I'd appreciate if y'all could give me some constructive criticism.

A body washes upon a shore.
It is limp. It's careless.
It has an attire that refers loosely to a clown,
except that the dyes are bleached by sun and salt.

Something is tied to its feet;
two cinderblocks.
How it found the shore is something only God knows.
God knows.

Broken in time, the clown walks on the bottom of the sea.
Behind him are long, parallel lines travelling forever back,
created by his restraints.

Bubbles rise from between his lips, seemingly unending.
He has lungs that reach from his head to his toes.
The flesh under the rope,
floats freely off the bone.

It is resemblant of well cooked chicken.

Although the salt-water stings his eyes, he opens them.
There is seaweed.
The sand he trudges is at a slope.
He sees the sun.
He sees the beautiful water reflections.

The clown opens his mouth in awe.

Water fills the capillary.
The ocean is sucked into his body.
Fish, squids, sharks, crabs,
all of them fear the black hole that sucks their home away.
They run.

He runs.

Sea shells pierce his feet, the ropes scrape against the bone,
the cinderblocks drag their effortless line,
all of he, they move upwards, to the place that is not here.

Finally, his lungs are full.
He continues. He is almost there.
Only a few strides more and he will be

The clown cries.

A body washes upon a shore.
It is limp. It's careless.
How could we let this happen?