Critique thread?

>>9649919
>tfw no dandy looking girlfriend

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>>9650016
>tfw no replicant gf
:[

bzzzz

>>9650812
Most obvious bump I've ever seen

>>9650822
No, that was my submission for critique.

>>9649919
https://pastebin.com/ci4qmzBy

>>9649919
And I want to praise the virtues of punctuation and capitalization.

>>9649919
https://pastebin.com/JqYQVreQ

I walked downstairs, with drought on my mind and drought in my eyes with the feeling of nothingness. I walked into my kitchen and opened the beige superannuated broken down cupboard door, to see a large glass shining at me, look speccless. I then placed it below, and pour in the milk from the bottle, filling the top, edge to edge of the glass. After this, I think, how could I make this drink better? In the corner of my eye, I see some kind of humanoid animal staring at me. Nesquik. That was his name. Banana flavour. Yes. My favourite. I walked over to it, opened the hardened yellow tin and grabbed three spoonfuls of banana powder and placed it in my milk. And swirled. It was quick to disintegrate with the milk and harmonious into a new drink. Banana milk. I then placed my swelled lips around the milk glass, like a stupid fucking 10 year old girl kissing her mirror with cheap Paris Hilton lipstick to enjoy the delicious, delightful taste of the banana milk. It was so good that it felt as if the delight of the banana power was cumming in my mouth, pounding my little cheeks...yum! As they say in Italy. It was delightful! I drank around two-quarters of the drink, until I refilled for more.

Introductory segment to what I hope will either become a seven movement (album) long rock opera or else a seven piece long epic/playwright. Two different styles I've begun with, interested in which seems better. Each surface many integral themes to the coming story. One more symbolically where one more foreshadows. I'm leaning towards the first one myself, though I might add more to it:

>(0) Bloom

Forever were the days lost in the music.
The child of course never knew it
Was to be the veil he himself threw up.

Words spoken by The Flaxen Woman
Sent ripples across the sonic linen
Glittering before his dazzled iris
Like a spider's compound vision.

But before this fateful occurrence,
In the distant vacuum of space
Amidst the stars of his constellation,
The child must first lose all sensation,
And become so lost in the fist place.

His life a haze, the child will climb inside
himself to find a way through his mental maze.

Let us then witness the genesis of his blindness
As we slither back into a distant past.
-----

>(0) Bloom

His mind buried in dirt.
A vicarious flirt.
A firmament
Dripping,
Quenching his thirst.

Luminescent sun.
Serendipitous moon.
'Child', they say, 'soon
you will know
why you are moved.'

His head understands
They speak for his plans.
While his body knows,
Steadily,
It grows by their words.

Yet neither realize
It was spoken
To a moment in time.

For every petal on flow-
ers in bloom,
Wilt, wither, and waste.
Yet bloom anew, as flow-
er buds do,
Other faces for other days

>>9651266
this is actually good

>>9651324
this is good, vocaroo it though

>>9649919
First one is shit, far too meta--too wall breaking. The second one at least let me become slightly immersed. Please use proper grammar and punc though.
-----

Alright, you've got a lot of stylistic issues here that aren't even up to preference. So I'll break you down sentence by sentence:
>I walked downstairs, with drought on my mind and drought in my eyes with the feeling of nothingness.

Using with twice here is strange when attributing the second with to the feeling of nothingness. It doesn't really aid anything to the standalone image of drought on your mind and in eye. And if it's a sense of apathy you're attributing here, don't force it in like you did. Show it as you have the drought. You can remove the whole little segment and lose nothing. Or you can try something like: "I walked downstairs on the feeling of nothingness with drought in my mind and bloodshot eyes." It changes, I believe what you were going for, but overall has the same implication.
>I walked into my kitchen and opened the beige superannuated broken down cupboard door, to see a large glass shining at me, look speccless.

This sentence is in rough shape; a lot of redundancies. Superannuated is okay, but it more than covers all the other descriptors around it. Same for the shining glass looking 'speck-less' (please never use that -word- again). The glass is going to be your source of refreshment, so reflect this in your imagery. Don't start all your sentences with 'I walked'. Try something like: "Walking into the kitchen, I opened a superannuated cupboard, my tongue moistening at sight of the crystal clear glass within--my throat abrasive swallowing the trickle of saliva." We're now becoming more involved in this thirst, and the lack of clutter helps me stay focused on the visualizations.
>I then placed it below, and pour in the milk from the bottle, filling the top, edge to edge of the glass.
Place it below on what? The milk? You never established obtaining the milk. You're lacking detail here. Edge to edge of the glass? Does liquid filled to to the brim do any other thing? Excess detail here. Try: "I placed the glass on the counter below, retrieving milk from the refrigerator and pouring it excessively into the thirsty glass, spilling a drop down the side as it slightly overfills. The viscous liquid bulging over the rim without dripping fills me with anticipation. Yet, it still seems lacking..."

And so on. Hope any of that helps.

>>9651453
I'm sorry, after the ----- I was giving >>9651266 their crit but forgot to quote them.

>>9651334
Thanks, but did you prefer one over the other? Those are technically two different ideas.

>>9651456
id have to hear both

you are a victim of your own unconsciously designed destiny
wherever your will experiences friction, you may be interceded upon an idea that would keep you unfree
now you are interceding on the destiny of the person next to you, just by your own lack of self-knowledge
if you fear the algorithmic future you may respond too slowly to that information, which will liberate you and help you proceed towards self-realization, even while you being perfectly aware of the snare growing around you
know your worth and your power will be increased
the intensity of concentration that is infested in the art of self-[Mastery] is rewarded by the direct experience of the extraordinary
warfare exists in our present illustration of reality
choose your battles wisely
most of the opponents that we face will be like a bully to a child
an impulse that is a disgrace to our worth
open-minded and aware individuals can easily be some of the most reckless and indignant
you must stop calculating your own defeat

>>9651466
Ah, well I don't quite have a way of doing that right now unfortunately. A lot of this work is still in conception--I just have an outline going right now to structure how I want to story to progress through its music and themes.

>>9651480
even if it's spoken, not sang that would be better

>>9649919
Oh Rachel

>>9649919
Pretty good. Freewrite or part of a project?

What's the best font?

>>9650893
Like most people who try to write, you're using a lot of words to say not very much. Keep it simple when what you're writing about is simple.

>>9650902
Fairly good but a lot of unnecessary words.
>the road beneath them

Because roads that are biked can be above the biker?

>>9651266
Watch your tense. Keep it past OR present, not both. And there's no need to pretty up a boring event. Good writing is always fun to read, even if the happening itself is not.

>>9652967
If this is stopping you from writing, you're too autistic to write something worth reading.

>>9652989
??
Where did I imply that it was stopping me?

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>Forever were the days lost in the music.

change 'the music' to just music to fix the rhythm in the first stanza

this quasi-iambic meter with help a lot in setting to music

if you go with the second, aloud this may not matter, but on paper, the first stanza feels amatuerish with its enjambments. The later mid-word enjambments work out really well, btw.

Its about time I crack this thing back open
will critique any poem back in detail

1/2

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>>9653006

I need huge help guys. I wrote this for Father's Day. Sadly, I have fucked up hugely. It is not nearly good enough.

I need your help. Let me know the line you stop reading at. Let me know if there is anything at all worth keeping. I regret sharing this, but I want to make it good. I want your help. Please help.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1iFBEqm2h0moiHSPOvOoMUicnHI37nasSvPFDk8bwNWg/edit?usp=sharing

>>9652962
Just a freewrite.

Not using proper English has been done already.

>>9653174
I think that it can be used to good effect, but it is tiring to read a rehash of Faulkner like OP's. If it is at least as good as Faulkner I could read it all day, but it never is.

1/2

Stephen Colbert, in one mighty flex of his trapezius muscles, exploded his formal clothes into tattered rags that dissolved into screaming flames. He gave a smile so devious, so shit-eating, so incredibly resisting of the Trumpian Regime that Amy Schumer's crusty, atrophied vagina encased with pounds of flabby fat exploded into pussyjuice despite being a multitude of miles away from the show host. He fingerpopped his glasses down the ridge of his strangely hook-shaped and Hebrew nose, gazing at the unbelievably average body of Seth Meyers.

"Are you ready to get rectally ravaged you fucking piece of shit?" Asked Colbert, flexing his chest and making his nipples turn into razor-sharp weapons of Leftist terror and rebellion. Seth Meyers nodded his head, smirking wide and cramming his hand down into his pants to massage his yoctopenis.

Stephen Colbert's mere glance at Seth Meyers pants caused the article of clothing to wither into nothingness, revealing Seth's smooth and sausage-shaped legs covered with hair and oil. Stephen dun-diddly scaboodled down to Seth's pelvis and gobbled up his schlong, bobbing his head up and down onto his manlover's spire of throbbing erect meat. And wew, did he do a good job. In his first five seconds of sucking he had already ingested five solid pounds of smegma! Soon, Seth's two round dispensers of chunky DNA sludge bursted into both treats and in cum, shooting a repulsive, slimy fluid into Colbert's mouth. He drank the semen in long, greedy swallows, savoring the salty taste of Seth's white, homemade peanut butter.

"Holy SHIT you give good blowjobs, Steve!" exclaimed Seth through his post-ejaculation haze. He was still nutting into COLBERG'S mouth as he said this. "Broffulb Flumph would be mad to know you give the best BJs and NOT Baronicus Glump!"

>>9653656
2/2

Stephen didn't hear this, as his thoughts were focused on only one thing: Seth's thick, moist, juicy, cum-shooting pipe of buttdoom. Stephen performed a majestic somersault and landed his hairy, shit-crusted ass directly onto Seth's incredible ccccoooooccccckkkkkkkk. Seth Meyer suddenly became so erect that distant galaxies exploded into massive nebulas of dark energy that would soon form the planet Morthath, which would give birth to the Zepulchrians.

Stephen bounced his flat, prolapsed ass onto Seth Meyer's cock, coating his dick in a filthy, brownish plasma that smelled like Stalin's left thumb. The erratic, sloppy speed of Seth Meyer's thrusts caused a symphony of moist, squishing sounds to resonate among the empty backstage room the loving couple resided in. Eventually, Colbert's ass could take no more pressure, and it fired off a mighty, cannonlike beam of hazel, chunky shit straight down into Mister Meyer's dickhole. Seth seized up in pain and agonizingly grimaced as his testicles swelled up into balloon-sized containers of Colbert's shit. Veins and arteries bulged around Seth's nuts as the unceasing flow of shit poured directly into his cumholders. He gave a guttural, primal scream, so incredibly loud that it shook the face of Earth, and an enormous column of shit jetted out of his nuts, sending Stephen flying into the air, poop re-entering his rectum. He was speared so thoroughly on the spire of shit that no force conceivable could remove him from the ray of doodie. The beam of fecal matter blasted Stephen through the atomosphere and into the surface of the sun. Holy shit was that nutblast powerful!

As Colbert writhed in the massive tendrils of gas flames which dissolved his body into the greater solar mass, he smiled, knowing his death would not be in vain.

"D…Dobbald Kaaaampf…" were his last words as he was assimilated into the greater force of Sol herself.

A single, salty tear rolled down Seth's cheek.

"Shrothald Cloompf…" he whispered back.

1/2

I once worked as technician Hollywood b-movie studio and that week Brendan was filming some guest appearance in a show.
I can't really remember what the show was called, it was cancelled pretty fast. What I do remember, all to well, is that it was Brendan's birthday.
Brendan brought own cake to the studio in this little white box, walking around with a little smile telling people on set they better
"Hurry to be first to grab a bite!" of the cake, because he didn't have enough for the whole crew everyone. I was pretty busy until lunch so I didn't pay any mind.

Lunch eventually came around, so I wrapped up my jobs and walked off to the lunch room. Usual scene, makeup girl clique sipping their coffees while the heavy movers
gobbled down big meaty lunches. Then I saw Brendan sitting alone at a table next to the wall, eyes staring across the room like they were becalmed. He was stonefaced.
I followed his gaze and saw the cake, big colourful icing and all, on the countertop. He had taken it out of his box and left it there with a knife, but it was untouched.'
The icing was starting to shine a little. I tried to justify the situation to myself but it was fucking bleak. I love Brendan from The Mummy and all the other great shit
he's been in. I had to make it up to him somehow. I waited for the lunch room to be empty and sneaked inside and cut myself a slice of cake.
I couldn't eat it because I'm diabetic and was already a little high, so I carefully lowered the piece into the trashcan and placed the rest of the
cake back into the fridge so that people might eat it tomorrow. I just wanted Brendan to know that he still had a mate about.

2/2

The next day at lunch, Brendan goes to the fridge, takes out the cake and leaves it on the bench again. He wanders back over to his wall-table, sits down and starts'
staring at the partially-eaten cake again. He was smiling. Just a little, but it was really touching. It felt good too seeing Brendan feeling happy for once.
Suddenly I see someone clearing off his plate look over and shout "HEY BRENDAN, ISN'T THIS YOUR CAKE IN THE TRASH?". I could have screamed.
Brendan gives him this look like his face is melting and just stutters out "w-w-what?". The the co-worker motions him over. I saw Brendan unsteadily get up to walk over to the trashcan. The guy tells him "BRENDAN, I KNOW YOU'RE A GUEST, BUT BUT YOU SHOULDN'T JUST THROW SHIT AWAY LIKE THIS". He just finished clearing his plate into the bin and walked off back to his table.

Brendan didn't move a bit from the first moment he set eyes upon the bottom of that bin. I couldn't move either. He spent the entire break like this.I remember the cake said something like "Happy birthday Brendan, Wishing you all the best with your new job and career", and it had so happened that the piece i had carefully placed at the bottom was cut from the end. People filtered past him, cleaning out their plates and throwing their cups into the bin, but he didn't move a muscle. I felt terrible but I had to move. I couldn't say anything as I went by so I just hurried out. Later that day I was about to finish up and head out, but I couldn't find my jacket. I went over to the lunchroom to see if it was there. As I walked past the bin I had to take a look. Brendan had left. The rest of the cake was in the trash, the whole
solid piece with the one piece taken out. I didn't know what to do so I just left. I never saw him again.

>>9649919

Title: The Cigarette Smoker
Genre: Short Fiction / Contemporary

http://imgur.com/a/SxcHY

>>9650893
I have to agree with the anon this is just a mess of words. Need to be more specific with your imagery.

>>9651266
y

>>9649919
This is awful. No rhymes, no meter, no enjambment, no alliteration, no imagery, no assosance.

Awful. Simply awful. I have no idea what was the point of this.

>>9654521
First off I think you use the word 'awful' too much. You need greater variability in your word use. I like the 'no, no, no' use in the sentence,very rhythmic. And then you go back to amateur hour with 'I have no idea what the point is' -- is this the truthful sincerity I've been hearing about? 6/10

>>9649919
It was a moonless night that they had chosen to depart on. The first of the trio was lumbering up through the uneven cobbles on the town with the greatest level of silence he could muster. That is to say, he walked slightly less clumsily, his mountainous trunk supported by huge legs, his broad shoulders covered by an undersized cloak. To any that saw the lone traveller that night, they would have easily recognised his intimidating presence under the disguising cloaks he wore, but so black and late was the night that none saw, for they were all asleep. And so the lonesome mountain man found his way to the edge of the town where he paused, nervous, before leaving his birthplace for the final time. Above, an owl cried, startling the man who had toppled trees and lifted seemingly immovable rocks in his years. Brief fear over, the mountain man found himself by the edge of the wood, and with one eye fixed on the consuming dark in the trees, he lit his lantern at last and breathed a sign of relief to be in light again. For now, he waited, for there were two others to come.

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The day started off without a hitch and all he could do was fawn at blue skies, lazy and dull, the hazy white mixing with the sinking blue – Eric was lost in it.
“You ever think we’re alone?” said the voice long ago. Eric remembered it like it was the pale blue of yesterday. “Like,” said the voice, “out of all the galaxies and intricacies and stars out there - could we possibly be only one in the universe?”
The summer tinge of red in her hair set a flame in his heart, a long charcoal snapped in the fireplace as he reminiscent of the scent of cinnamon in the folds of those superficial extensions.
How long ago was it since he had sex?
Not long enough, apparently.
There was lousy rain outside. The grey hue of the sky had forgotten it was summer break, and Eric sat by the sofa chugging his days with tomato soup, entranced by the dancing of the flames in hopes they will kindle the warmth again.
Summer was going to be short indeed, but where else could he go but here?
Little Savannah was a small off-the-coast place in rural America, like some kind of ghost town in a horror movie you’d be hard pressed to find any of it’s services on the yellow pages, much less pin it down on Goggle Maps. It’s partly known for the Cape Cod and for some the local cola factory, but not much else, you’d be more intrigued to find one of Elvis’ first nose hairs the next town over than something like this dust bin, and dust bin was indeed the correct word: it collected dust, a town falling apart because all the mechanics left for the city, and the few that did stay were either too old to leave their pensions, couldn’t bother, or both. What little attention was left for this rickety old town was from the kids at Baskerville the next state over when they ran out of jobs for the summer break, and even for them coming here was a last resort.
Summer fever was always an excuse to leave a town of winters blue. When it wasn’t cold it was cloudy, and when it wasn’t cloudy it was damp, and when it wasn’t damp it was cold. A never ending cycle of blues - one would think this town was the birthing place of jazz or American slavery, funny being this was once a famous battle ground from the great civil war, namely, a confrontation between two confederate forces that couldn’t decide wether they wanted to free their slaves – because they were too inferior to fight, or to keep them – because they’d be too outnumbered to fight against the much larger union forces.
Sometimes Eric thought the same – not the slavery part, of course – but in the letting go part. Some part of him just wanted to leave this inferior town behind, but another part of him knew that he couldn’t really make it out in the big, wide world without anything else except this dump.
Perhaps some chains are worth keeping.

>>9654712
First of all, this is geographically incoherent. A battle between confederate armies off the coast of Cape Cod? Like, do some research my man. Lots of weird phrases in here: "the grey hue of the sky had forgotten it was summer break," "chugging his days." Ditch all this "the voice said blah blah blah" stuff. Give her (?) a name or at least just use pronouns. The "cold-rainy-damp-cold" bit is clever, but again doesn't really fit with the summer weather of Cape Cod or the American south

>>9652962
>>9654521
Who do I believe?

>>9654750
>>9651453

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Please rate the first two paragraphs of my short story.

:)

>>9653656
>>9653660

Is it strange, that on my day of rest, I should feel so compelled to offer my constructive criticism to anonymous users of what, quite frankly, is a simply infamous online community? No I say, for surely despite their notoriety, the creative spark of man must lie within every soul, however far from the common road he should choose to wander. With newfound resolution, a determination, I choose to offer my knowledge and experience to these poor souls, to better help these misguided individuals to strive for, and achieve, their true creative potential!

I select my first piece for critique...

>>9654811
>>9653732

>>9654621
Can someone critique mine, please?

>>9654762
Here is how I would write it, better than listing off my thoughts, without straying from your description too much:

A businessman shoved past me, snapping me out of my half-asleep dozing, my head pressed uncomfortable onto the cold metal railing of the bus seat in front of me. A gust of wind made me shiver, my blouse still damp from being caught in the rain. Now that I had regained my senses, I saw a well-dressed woman roll her eyes at my likely unkempt appearance. In response I used the backpack that had been at my feet to hide my likely see-through blouse, and held it there until the bus arrived at my stop. I got out of it, wiping the wet hair from my face, and held my cut finger gently. Delicate as I was being, the pain was radiating into my hand regardless. I had cut myself working at the restaurant, picking up shards of a broken plate. I had arrived late, the manager eyeing me from the kitchen as soon as I arrived, and so was not allowed to take a break to deal with the cut properly. Now it hurt, and I bandaged it again once I arrived at my second job, using the storeroom to wrap my finger in a waterproof plaster and a towel to dry my stringy, dripping hair. Since I was alone, I got out my textbooks and spread them on the counter, hiding them under the counter whenever the occasional customer came in only to bring them out a second once they left. At this time of night, customers went straight for the cheap alcohol and brought great cases of it, leaving as quickly as they arrived. Near the end of my shift, a young lady came into the store, shaking a designer umbrella and kicking off her high heels before strolling over to the counter. She squinted at the bottles above my head.

For the most part, I like it what you wrote. Has potential. But, naturally, we can all improve. I thought the jump from getting off the bus to working in the store was a bit jarring, so maybe think of a way to make the journey interesting, if you want.

>>9654897
>>9654621

You jump from "they" and a "trio" into a "he" and "lone traveller" without any transition.

"Mountainous", "huge", "broad", "mountain man", " the man who had toppled trees and lifted seemingly immovable rocks", I GET it already, the guy is BIG.

What is a "disguising cloak"?

The night being "black" is a visual perception and should not be combined with a temporal one "late".

"To any that saw ... none saw, for they were all asleep." this is inane.

That birthplace fact comes out of nowhere and seems irrelevant to story at moment.

"in [the] light again."

There are more issues but, they are too petty to list. For what it's worth I think this story COULD be interesting after a lot of rewrites and editing.

>>9654621
>>9654897

It was a moonless night that they had chosen to depart on.

Awkward phrasing.

The first of the trio was lumbering up through the uneven cobbles on the town with the greatest level of silence he could muster.

This needs to be better evoked.

That is to say, he walked slightly less clumsily, his mountainous trunk supported by huge legs, his broad shoulders covered by an undersized cloak.

Reads like erroneous detail; doesn't serve a premise.

To any that saw the lone traveller that night, they would have easily recognised his intimidating presence under the disguising cloaks he wore, but so black and late was the night that none saw, for they were all asleep.

Lots of unnecessary words.

And so the lonesome mountain man found his way to the edge of the town where he paused, nervous, before leaving his birthplace for the final time.

Laboured.

Brief fear over, the mountain man found himself by the edge of the wood, and with one eye fixed on the consuming dark in the trees, he lit his lantern at last and breathed a sign of relief to be in light again. For now, he waited, for there were two others to come.

No real promise of conflict throughout this piece. Seems like you're going on and on, knowing what the point is, but not driving the point home.

Having said that, you do have a degree of control that a lot of people here don't have.

>>9651266
Progression is slow and tedious.
Act itself has no interest.
Prose has no imagination, and seems obsessed with large vocabularies.

Here's how i would write it:

Thirsty, I walked downstairs to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of milk. In the corner of my eyes, I espied a can of banana flavored Nesquick powder which mother had bought the week prior. Holding it in my hand, I wondered if the brown humanoid rabbit, trapped as he was in a perpetual state of optimistic smile, also ever felt the pang of thirst.

I put three spoonful of the powder into the milk, watching the white swirl turn yellow. Without waiting it to settle, I gulped at the banana milk, feeling it glide down my throat in a sugary, if not heavenly cascade.

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>>9655058
"seems irrelevant to [the] story at [the] moment"
fuck.

>>9655083

Have you studied linguistics at all? Reworking another's story in your own language annihilates any of the authorial decisions about syntax, word choice, sentence choice etc. and, seeing as you almost certainly haven't meditated on the nuances of the story like the original author of the piece, your revisioning of the piece is almost certainly doomed to be at best uninformed and at worst utterly useless.

In short, offer critique. Not your meme reworking.

:)

>>9655100
maybe when the writer has an authentic voice, not some paranoid clutching at unfamiliar vocabularies, and awkward stumbling through unimaginative prose, detailing the uncompelling task of drinking piss milk

>>9651468
Please don't try to be deep, just tell a story.

>>9651484
This reads like non-fiction; your sentences are all statements of facts.
Your narrator is explaining a story, not telling a story.

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Oh shoot, I've been waiting for this sort of thing for awhile now. I've got some 'short' stories I've been meaning to post but couldn't find a proper place to post them.

https://pastebin.com/P2zKvdw3

https://pastebin.com/X5LsuxYz

First before the second. Looking back at it, I'm not too proud of the first. The introduction is pretty abhorrent and it's my fault for making it first person. The second is much, MUCH better imo. Any and all critique is extremely appreciated.

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>>9653006
>>9653012
I think we need separate threads for poetry and prose.

>>9655058
Thank you for your thoughts. As this is the first chapter of something, 'they' are actually three people, but the excerpt is only following one person for now, the lone traveller. I will tone down the descriptions of size. I'll disagree about having black and late in the same sentence but it is a valid thing to bring up. Missing out the 'the' in 'in light again' is valid too, so thanks again. This is a very quick first draft I wrote for the thread as I am currently outlining this story. I hope it is interesting!

>>9655063
I'll work on the phrasing. Would you not agree that 'this needs to be better evoked' and 'reads like erroneous detail; doesn't serve a premise' contradicts each other? I will work on refining my use of words. And like I said to the other poster, there is not yet conflict due to it being the first paragraph of the first chapter of a book I am currently outlining and wanted to write a little, so thank you for your thoughts. Can you elaborate on how I have a degree of control that a lot of people on /lit/ do not have, please?

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>>9654432
>>9654437
I came here to critique not to feel.
A few minor errors here and there; nothing a proof read can't fix.

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>>9655254
Maybe the problem isn't combining "black" and "late" but instead also having "night" in the same sentence.

>It was pitch black and very late, any good and unsuspicious folk were already tucked into bed; fast asleep; unawares to the creeping of giants.

I think if it both dark and late we can trust the reader to assume that it is nighttime.

>>9655147
thanks, that was very helpful

>>9655254

The people who post here are shit at writing, as a rule. You are slightly above that. But your writing is still pretty damn bad and iterative. Also, don't rewrite other peoples works instead of offering critique.

See - >>9655100

>>9655058
>I GET it already, the guy is BIG
4u

Should I kill off a baby character in my book for the sake of edge?

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>>9655447
shit, now I feel bad.
I really don't know the first thing about poetry but, I will try to critique this anyway.

On the first page I think your presentation may be a bit too much. I can't tell what parts I'm supposed to read. (is it a fill in the blank?)

The second page follows a more traditional layout and my eyes has a clear path to follow.

The poem itself is... odd? I don't know what I am supposed to feel here. Am I supposed to marvel at mankinds progress from biblical origins? or am I supposed to feel a crushing sense of terror from the treat of nuclear annihilation?

Maybe try to clearly define what you want to say and the themes you want to present before you write? I don't know.

>>9655866
thanks man! I appreciate the issues you highlight, and do you think working cubism in more explicitly with improve the themes perception?

I know the presentation is unorthodox, hopefully I'll nail it.

You have prose in here? I mostly write poetry (most more traditional than that), but I can still take a look at voice, diction, and rhythm if you care about rhythm at this point.

>>9654501
I swear this is exactly how I write. Are you interested in film too? Because this reads a lot like a screenplay.

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Might be part of a chapter in something I'm working on (it's about drugs).

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>>9654762
The sentences read nice, but I think the story has too many settings for just two paragraphs.

>>9656094
don't write

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>>9656094

>it's about drugs

Don't.

Hey fellas, I'm working on three long form poems I'm going to turn into a chapbook and submit to some local presses in the next year or so. However,in the meantime, I'm looking to submit chunks of these poems to journals so that it'll be easier to find a publisher for the complete manuscript later on. Here's a chunk from the first poem, Neon, that I'd love for y'all to take a look at. It still needs tons of work, but it's the first piece of any of the three that I think has enough continuity to stand on its own. Anyway:

Neon (#1):

Neon prickle summered
stiff collar neck in an
air conditioned room
Brown hair against the white board
and I kept going on about speech
as a cup we all have to drink from
I am three elevators passing one another
on different floors / A game of hands and
feet in the grass or worse outside
a brick building I don’t remember
Set the kitchenette on fire
with oil and smoke move
like the water we did not have so far
from the Lakes at least the ones
yr used to / Fake sleep or stay
in bed but always again moving warm
bodies to and from the coffee maker
while the printer isn’t working by the sounds
and smell a clutch of bushes
green / Further the sizzle of embers
in a paper cup / I’m done with my coffee
but not with you and a theory of speech
I want us all to draw from scraps of paper
or the grass against my legs in shorts
as short as yrs / Is it like a well
can you bring it up from a dark spot
in the ground and drink / Does
it help you speak this breeze to
everyone or is it only in the shadow
of slouched green mountains
east above the water I have not had (
yet) but that waves away a thirst
I did not know was there / The ruffling
slide of paper, muted chalk almost
the way it won’t quite screech but stage
whispers I did all the work
this morning even before I drank
that cup of coffee and smoked
in a green feathered cave a piece
of organic manufacture, trimmed
around a short wooden bench
the sun shines in the leaves
and needles and warms us up, retreat
on the island campus changing
the speciation of the squirrels
slowly I imagine I can already see their
tails becoming wiry and startled
the traffic enforced separation from their
kin in the wilderness of lawns and trees
just far enough away from each other
to remain counted as solitary beings
at least for now / At least for now

https://flapperhouse.com/2017/06/08/mercuria-the-androgenie-poetry-by-zoel-paupy-stirner/

Here's a rhyming short story I wrote about a magical hermaphrodite prostitute

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>>9656280
>>9656285

Okay. I'm just starting out, could you give any pointers at all?

>>9656297
Pynch, is that you?

>>9656295
you cool with me critquing this in google docs and putting the link here? I think it'll be more helpful that way

>>9656360
Yes please.

>>9656362
cool, keep an eye out might be a second, but it'll be done today (i wrote the thing that looks like a typewriter exploded so keep in mind your thoughts on my piece when reading my critique)

>>9656369
Right on, thanks bud.

>>9656421
here you go
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mLVFL3u3r-2ZVcrJF-cozZO7o8pLuwrqdfb5rRa-u0U/edit?usp=sharing

>>9651266
this is funny

>>9656489
Can I respond within that google doc? We were a Microsoft school at my undergraduate institution, so I'm not very familiar with google docs.

>>9656548
yes, you should have the about to comment on the comments i made

>>9656551
Ok, awesome. I'd like to keep up a dialogue with you about this particular piece and the larger context of the poem and the other poems surrounding it. I'd also be more than willing to look at some of your stuff. I've got to go now to see my buddy play some music at a bar, but I appreciate your comments and I'd like to keep talking with you about the poem.

>>9656559
cool, will do then

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>>9656313

A lot of taste depends on knowing what's overdone as a topic. Drugs as an edgy lit topic was Burrough's thing. Trainspotting was only memorable as a movie- the novel was a re-tread. Drugs were never the point of Fear and Loathing.

Drugs are always a great starting point for new writers with poor imaginations and a poor grasp of drama and tension. Very few writers can spin a career out of having bad ideas and a weak understanding of people (pic related), and he needed a marketing blitz and an endowment to put him on the map.

I didn't even read what you wrote, btw. Just write about something else, please

>>9656615

I'm mentioning wallace btw because he padded out his novels with endless descriptions of people doing/fiending for drugs, along with irrelevant, edgy drug trivia (that wasn't always true)

>>9654747
Thanks for the critique, man, I just wanted any rural town to be honest, the town itself is fictional, and I mistook Cape Cod for a fish, whoops.

>>9651324
"In the distant vacuum of space"? distant vacuum. distant space. in the vacuum. of space. In space. In space. In space. Just fucking say in space. Say it. Say it one more time. One more for me. You know how to say it don't you. Say it! Well? Say it! Space. Say the fucking word! Say space like here. Like here, right here in the board. The square vacuum. A vacuum! Not a vacuum cleaner, but a vacuum where everything is space. Everything in that god damned fucking "there" there in that place. Space!

>>9651468
A lot of people use these kinds of techniques to better explore new information they have learned. People who have encountered new information will also attempt to over explain their concepts while thinking that their audience isn't aware, or expects to hear vast details. You should continue doing this type of task only though with the knowledge that you are bringing some information out of your unconscious which makes it more accessible to discuss, and so, may attach itself to your personality. Seeing as how you posted it here, you've most likely not been critical enough after you've brought it forward. Either that or your just another ironic crownester shouting, "Land ahoy!"

>>9654437
I don't know what the other person was talking about. I kept expecting to laugh. Instead I just felt nothing. Maybe you understand this feeling. And your prose are horrible.

>>9654621
"It was a moonless night" is introduced and than not followed up on until: "but so black and late was the night that none saw" and then "consuming dark in the trees". I'd tighten these images and put them in secession somehow or else start talking about person first. You're scene setting and mingling it with character description and not doing either justice by muddling the images, nor are you using the images to suggest anything about the character or vise versa.

"So black and late was the night that none saw, for they were all asleep." The greatest worst sentence to have been chosen by the guy who dreamt up the scales by which sleepers - in black gowns too vast to sleep within, but necessary to graduate - peer into places of dull glimmering lights looking for structures that they know are rather oddly misshapen for being the house in which they are sleeping.

>>9654811
I come for the bums to be entertained by begging, for the rotten scent of eggs tossed wilfully, killing moments fructivously, or just to squall. Endgames. Double downs. Lick the floor of a library once and you're king for a century!

>>9656295
I like your technique, and restraint, but what is lost in coherence here is found in too much subjectivity that either cuts itself off from another or is too caught up in itself to give the other a space for it own subjectivity. "I kept going" "I am" "I don't remember" "I'm done" "I want" "I have" "I did" "I drank" "I imagine I can" This is the worst part of your poem. No boring poems that have personal meaning should be printed for everyone. Narcissistic.

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>>9655641
Was getting caught part of your plan?

Morgan Nichols was in a hurry today, and it left him feeling very indignant.

“Iced tea, two lemons coming up”

The waitress greeted him by reciting his usual drink order as she passed. He appreciated the convenience, but he couldn’t help but think she was a little proud of herself for remembering what her (surely) most regular customer drinks with his lunch. The trick is to make your customer wonder what your motivation is, but never actually let it show. People don’t buy things from other genuine people; people buy things from their friends.
Flipping open the menu to the pasta dish he always ordered Tuesdays at 12:15, the well-dressed professional confirmed that his usual meal had not been replaced or altered since last Tuesday at 12:35, and he placed the thin, vinyl book back upon the ornately decorated table cloth.
Morgan was in a rush because, as usual, video-conferences had been re-scheduled at the pleasure of those who made much more money than he did. Morgan didn’t mind, he understood the hierarchy of the workplace, but affecting his lunchtime was affecting his lunchtime. One day he would never eat lunch at any other time than 12:35.

>>9654432
>>9654437
Brendan!!

>>9655138
It is non fiction

>>9656791
>And your prose are horrible.

>>9656791
Not that guy, but what's wrong with distant vacuum of space? It's logical, and you do realize he's writing poetry right? In space wouldn't work

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Been working on this for a while now, would love some feedback

1/2

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2/2

Far be it from me to act like an expert, but isn't polishing your prose much further along in the process? I'm writing a novel and I can't count how many pages I've cut out. Imagine how much time I would've wasted if I focused on making those pages look good.

>>9657205
replace deluges with floods

>>9657213
draft->cut->polish->cut->polish

>>9657216
at the risk of sounding stupid, why?

>>9657205
deluges is pointlessly latinate, and floods allows for a tasty bit of alliteration, while cleaning up the rhythm when read aloud.

>>9657238
ah shit you're right that does sound a lot better, thank you

>>9657245
no problem-o

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how you guys feel about this piece then?

superficially inspired by Robert Duncan's The Fire

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My lower jaw was shivering. The old man sitting a mile away from me on a stool with a large magnet labeled "reefer tang" whispered in my ear that it really helped bring out the pupil dilation. The corners of my lip elongated, wrapping the top of my head to show off more gum. And substance rewarded me with a cigarette that came to my lips slipping through the gap between my bottom front teeth. I took one single violently voiced sip of the cigarette, and I was left with only the filter and the sight of the background gargling several colors, instruments, my hair, and a fast food logo or two. Then, I bit into the filter to finish things off, with intent to swallow and manually dissolve with stomach acids, but I found the bone to someone's finger inside. This made me the horniest I had ever been in my already hormone saturated teenage years. I called out for some Barbara. I had to, despite never having met anyone named Barbara. I had to show her the bone that was now melting into my pores to strangle my veins until they admitted to the plastic sauces. But Barbara never came. It didn't matter. By then I was already to far into the strangulation to think about Barbara and her gorgeous features. That was also around the time that the damn phone wouldn't stop shifting tones. It rang and smelled like whatever excessively specific thought I had experienced within the last eighteen hours. That was also when—
"I need you to tell me what you did or I won't be able to help."
"I've thzinks I did somill eLezzvSdeeD."
"Alrighty. Now, we're gonna take you into a room and keep an eye on you until you pass this, okay?"
As I've been told, I was taken into a room split in half for another patient who's tongue had gone lysergic that night as well. I called her Barbara, she called me Todd, and that's how I met my wife and learned to play the trumpet in the same night.

>>9657363

I like this. It really invokes the winter almost subliminally.

>>9656791
>The greatest worst sentence to have been chosen by the guy who dreamt up the scales by which sleepers - in black gowns too vast to sleep within, but necessary to graduate - peer into places of dull glimmering lights looking for structures that they know are rather oddly misshapen for being the house in which they are sleeping.
What did he mean by this?

>>9655952
Yeah I write screenplays as well. I'm trying to get gud at writing first, screenwriting second.

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The rain fell ever so quietly amongst the rooftop and the sound filled the entire street and drowned out every other noise. A bike can be heard racing through the street, cutting the collecting pools of water apart. The soft sound of the rain bouncing and running off of the canopy of his umbrella occupied the remaining space between him and his refuge. His bright green eyes shone with the passing street lights and the water and blood running off of his knuckles shined as he passed each pole. The thought of her couldn’t escape his mind and the thought of everything was locked up forever swimming around in his mind. He was a broken and ambiguous man with simple ambitions, finding the mug of dreams.

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My attempt at an Animu plot
Yeah, bash it as much as you like, just please tell me where it CAN be credited, if only for the sake of the writing.


A wrought dream of so long past, where stars clashed and collided in great waves like oceans in two parts separate going against two coasts at their opposites, and there she was, Camilla, standing by the coast of one world, waiting for the coming of that other.
A great wind turned howl at her back and she screeched as she turned to face the noise. There, upon the beach, stood a man wrought in iron, clad from head to toe in great mails of grey metal, the very plate infused with his skin as if he wasn’t a man wearing a suit but the suit himself imbued with the flesh – a gory image which always snapped her back to reality.
“Hey lazy!” said Wendy, tugging at her big sister’s skirts, “It’s time to wash the clothes!”
Camilla woke in the middle of the laundry, hands full of a basket. She had been daydreaming more and more frequently these past few weeks and her aunt wasn’t liking it, spending more time for lectures on their worthiness to stay for free at her house than to actually get some work done to earn said worthiness, but maybe her Aunt Clara was just a lonely woman who inwardly needed people to talk to, and at times like this with the whole world spiralling – a friend in a friend wasn’t so bad a thing to wish.
Wendy ran up to her sister’s side, basket full on her head, “Have you thought about whom you’re taking to the Surefire Dance tonight? All the boys in the village look like they’ve been taken, except Randal of course, yuck!”
Camilla couldn’t even bat a gesture towards her usually puppy-adorned charms when all she could think of was the meaning of vague, unnerving dreams, and even more so that perhaps, and this was just a theory on the part of a sleepless maid, if these dreams had something to do with getting a partner for the Surefire Dance.
Camilla wasn’t ugly, not that she thought, nor was she particularly beautiful, but again as she thought and what she particularly thought of herself might as well be the next vapid steam of another’s, for even the ugly can call themselves princesses if they wished, so how would she be any different from them if she sought to praise herself the same?
Can ugliness lead to something beautiful? That was the question. Camilla thought back to the man of iron and wondered if it was significant for something within her particularly, or perhaps an omen of the things to come. She knew not of anyone in the village who’ve ever worn armour in their lives much less tasted the liquor of war outside a stick fight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t particularly looking for a fighter in a man, and maybe just – that was the significance of the dream.

Part 1 of 2

>>9660955

Womanhood was a strange thing indeed.
Her old dresses washed roughly upon the banks of the Sontoon, the old stains a reminder of labours past and a grimmer reminder of the labours yet to come. Little Wendy was about ready to cry from the boredom of her own weight, Camilla thought it justice seeing as Wendy couldn’t stop buying useless hand-me-downs for almost every occasion of her life outside the manor, which wasn’t even much in comparison to all the dresses she loved to put on. Perhaps she too was going through a crisis of faith in her own character, but that was something yet to be seen for the young Camilla, whom, despite her ten year gap from Wendy, was almost identical in every aspect of maturity, having never truly grown up nor matured by perhaps a force of never trying, or never seeking anything else but the labour of her aunt’s manor. The world was a scary place indeed, and the very thought of identifying herself with such a world sent nothing short of shivers down the spine of a young woman still trying to find her own.
Perhaps today would be different, she convinced herself that it would, perhaps something else will happen today to put out the fire of the furnace, perhaps yet.
Wendy screamed.
Camilla fell back and squealed for a moment. “What was that for, you little runt?!”
Little Wendy pointed up the river to show what seemed to be a frozen batch of metal clunking on some nearby rocks.
Camilla’s heart froze for a moment and immediately thought back to her dreams. “What is it?” she said, getting up to get a closer look.
Wendy tugged back at her sister’s skirts. “Don’t! You’ll get in big trouble you will!”
Camilla pulled her along until she couldn’t bear to get any closer at the ice block trapped between two rocks in the short rapid. There was a sort of air about it that drew her like a moth to a flame, or in this case, of the creator going to the creation, a dreamer in seeking of the dream – Wendy simply wouldn’t have understood unless it was her own.
Camilla reached out her hand to touch it – a cool mist feeling a her finger prepared to land upon the ice.
“Camilla!” said Wendy.

Part 2 of 2

>>9657184
Explain the logic then.
And he's not writing poetry, no.
Going over the things said,
you should understand return
keys are not door unlockers to
dancing with friends in armchairs.

>>9657205
Paragraph at "an old man"

And "deluges" eh? That the word you're going with? "Avant-gard mess"? Is pulse code for state of being? And hey, end a paragraph on your weird description....? Why? Arg. Never mind. It's all this boring. You've seriously been working on this for a while? You need to undergo a lot of criticism and learn to edit just as much as you need to learn how horribly decadent this is - if again this isn't some ironic post. In which case, what the fuck...are you that bad at making jokes?

>>9657245
No, no. For fuck's sake. What are you people doing? This is why no one wants to criticise you all. Sure go ahead and flood your work with dead metaphors.

>>9657363
I like what you've done with the place. It's nice in here.

>>9657405
Shush. We must be quiet in this town. You see, we live so close to the snow cover mountains that any unwise word spoken directly in that way may bring an avalanche. Yes, it's maddening, but one must shush anyhow.

>>9658091
Clarity is grace. And obfuscation a fun thing to do when you're bored, or when you're trying to write well.

>>9650893
>https://pastebin.com/ci4qmzBy
Got halfway through and stopped caring. Maybe it's because it's in a crit thread. Or maybe it's cause it's boring.

Originally written in Hebrew so sorry for my awful translation

In the narrow streets of Jaffa
Prayers in two languages mix
With the smell of hooka and seared meat
And the smell and the sound goes up to the heavens
And pleases the lord

For he is not one merciful God
But a mixture of many
He is the God of the armies, filled with arrows and spears
He is the God of the sea, ancient and wrathful
He is the God of the sun, giver of life and also their taker

And this mixture of many exists in the wrinkles between the eyebrows of Humans

>>9654501
>http://imgur.com/a/SxcHY
It's really enjoyable but there are a few quibbles.

1. Give them names. It's frustrating to do the "he/him" game and constantly focus on who you're talking about. Names just make characters more real, no clue why.

2. "There was tension in the air between them now."

LOL HOLY SHIT NO, REALLY? It was a major flow breaker to be told something I was already pretty sure of.

3. Please put quotation marks around the dialogue if you're going to do a conversational narration style. It just makes life easier for the reader.

4. It doesn't seem to matter who's saying what. You have two dudes but it's difficult to establish a personality for either.

5. There's a few weird past/present tense shifts in there. For example, when you cut to the future, you actually go to past-tense, which feels odd.

But that's all technical stuff. The tone and the aesthetic are both there and that's the hard part, I think. I mean, it was interesting enough to finish despite those glaring technical issues, and that's saying something.

Give it another pass and be nicer to your reader and I think you'll have a really solid story, amigo.

>>9661160
Sorry, he's writing verse as he said. Yet it still has a meter of its own hovering around iambic pentameter. If you can't hear it, that's your fault. Also, space is a vacuum and I'm assuming he meant in space far from earth. Breaking it down in order for you: 'distant' -far from origin- 'vacuum of space' -space is a fucking vacuum-
Clueless, my brother.

Baby really hurt me
Crying in the taxi
He don't wanna know me
Says he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm
Says it was poison
So I guess I'll go home
Into the arms of the girl that I love
The only love I haven't screwed up
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
I do my best to meet her demands
Play at romance, we slow dance
In the living room, but all that a stranger would see
Is one girl swaying alone
Stroking her cheek

They say, "You're a little much for me
You're a liability
You're a little much for me"
So they pull back, make other plans
I understand, I'm a liability
Get you wild, make you leave
I'm a little much for
Everyone

The truth is I am a toy that people enjoy
'Til all of the tricks don't work anymore
And then they are bored of me
I know that it's exciting
Running through the night, but
Every perfect summer's
Eating me alive until you're gone
Better on my own

They say, "You're a little much for me
You're a liability
You're a little much for me"
So they pull back, make other plans
I understand, I'm a liability
Get you wild, make you leave
I'm a little much for
Everyone

They're gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun

>>9661258
Sorry, not pentameter. Idk how to explain it but he as rhythm in there if you just read it and don't try to read read it. He could probably say it better, and I'm honestly done standing up for him now. He's clearly left the thread.

My 6th Grade Sex-Ed Teacher Lied to Me about Pleasure


Healthy living is a cold sandwich
pummeled by pimento cheese
and a toothpick brandishing olive named Kyle.
The more you love the more you're loved,
the rhubarb standing outside of my house (#6)
chants. Slang is short for—tergiversation:
a great word to end an haiku, like refrigerator.
It's been two years
since Randy Newman told my dad
I wrote beautiful lyrics
but unsubtly hinted at my poor
rhythm. You got just a friend in me,
he later said to Biz Markie(v).
Then the point arrived on the round gone merry—
the vinyl record rotating against the grain—
where Panamanian ear canals opened up to
the idea that gray matter spins like LPs
(Licensed Proprietors)
giving birth to the phantasmagoria of mind
formerly referring to itself as the artist
formerly known as The Artist formerly known as Prince™
[Article 1, Paragraph 2: operatives must dust for]
but presently the subject of Lil' Wayne's (non-illiestic) quasi-eponymous hit single:
"I'm Me."

p.s. Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport is the world's 11th most trafficked public jetliner hub,
8th in terms of drug transportation,
27th in terms of human trafficking
(to say nothing of the wives).

If you take the vacuum out of the ether
you—the universal 'you' presupposed by you's—not nothing
but something like a thought experiment
thunk up by zombified ex-Wrestlemania executives
whose deaths symbolize the recent Armenian genocide
that I, as a upstanding citizen of Ankara, submit did not occur.
But I'm lying to you till I wasn't. Heaves and sighs.
Anyway, back on track, I do not, sincerely so, have ADHD.
The vacuum I referred to earlier disposes itself
to the sweet succor of shitstains performed by Beckett—
every word an unnecessary stain on nothingness—
or something of the sort, breaking bad news
left and right, back and forth, your parents love you
even if they're dead
for the idea that life consists solely of ideas
reverberates in many highly esteemed literary journals,
such as Friendster and Xanga and other geocities sites.
Home of the brave, home of the free,
home is where the heart is, if your heart has a fee.
Delicately the sisters of fate scissor the gozzamers
of a billion billion particles betwixt the two poles
of yes and no, something and nothing, and you
and me. My my, miss American Pi,
she kisses my lips, but says she's shy.
Why why Mrs. American Pie,
why can't you simply let me
die. Yes I ended on that note,
you and me, mingling motes,
separated by lingering moats,
sequestering every soul to a boat,
until pressure gives way, and my bloat?
turns into just a teensy-weensy bit of
hope hope hope hope hope (say it once).

My roommate told the landlord
that he wanted to commit suicide
but implicitly wanted to be committed
to the local, checkered and plush, psych ward
named by enthusiasts Green Spokes
(referring to the stultifying blur
produced in minds of its guests).

Unneedless to say: my roommate lives,
but does he really?
When I told him, "Don't kill yourself
today, do it tomorrow, during lunch.
Make everyone see, how bad of a marksman you are
so that they'll be sure to never induce unwittingly
anxiety unto thee." But he heeded not my advice,
and added vice to vice, and inhaled Dust-Off,
trying to reconvene with the gods—ghoulish and dim.

It's a shame and wonder
how your landlord
won't just be a normal and decent person
and listen to the voices inside his head
telling him to kill us all
the fistful of voices
inside our apartment.

[A rustling comes from the wardrobe:
Keep it Quiet Jeremy!
No—You!]

Mental note: buy post-its.

>>9661265
a-are you a girl?

>>9661400
transgender ;)

>>9661406
you're not the person who posted that poem. which is pretty good by the way

Capybaras have recently become trendy,
as well as angular momentum
(as exhibited by "fidget spinners").
Mental health stands behooving
to those who unknowingly have it
like non-inflamed mind herpes
that commonly gets diagnosed as dysthymia.
So the rec-centre recently retired
it's most common fixture: Sal the Janitor.
A true paragon of diligence, Sal safely
pursued a lifelong career of subterranean
philandering on a scale inconceivable to mere mortals
such as Dr. Phil, or Lief Ericsson,
though not to the sempiternal goddess of lustful desire,
known as your mom. That's right,
that filthy whore who barely felt your departure
from her syphilitic wasteland of a womb
that veterans refer to as ground zero:
the theatre that makes Stalingrad look like a barroom brawl
in Utah.

Sloths have also received much social media attention,
third only to pugs and the aforementioned king of rodents.

>>9661415
well, on the behalf of the aforementioned poem's author, thank you

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I don't think I structured this well any advice?

>>9661469
shit ese that's like six lines son
best be posting more if back-to-the-feed be what you need

>>9661469
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dash
no comma after a speech fragment that ends in an em dash
whose not who's
man just do "It was good," Johnson [...] said [...] shaking the snow off of his shoes. "A good speech. [...]"

Be gentle.
1/?
Luanda’s a big place, at least bigger than Douglas Ritsen was used to. He was used to 2 things, the boring emptiness of Montana and the boring hostility of Afghanistan. Now he was landing in Luanda as the newest contractor at Cartwright Security. He didn’t really like the idea of private security work. All the stigma of being a mercenary without actually being a mercenary. At least it beat another year of homelessness.

“I wonder if actors who play Hitler feel the same way.” he thought as the plane bounced onto the runway with a level of skill known only to beginner flight sim users. He would’ve spited their skills, until he remembered where he was. After getting off the plane and gathering his luggage he made his way outside, onto the streets of Luanda proper. The first thing that struck him was how functional it all was. Africa’s always had something of a bad reputation in the international community, what with the complete lack of safety, economic stability, political stability, or...anything resembling a functional military. But for a few moments, Douglas wondered whether or not that was about to change for the better. The Angolan Civil war ended nearly 30 years ago now. Plenty of time to recover and grow. But right now he needed a taxi. Cartwright Security wasn’t going to send a car for him. Thankfully he had the address written down. After walking and hailing for nearly 20 minutes a cab finally pulled alongside him. Doug handed the driver the paper with the address on it. The driver seemed uncomfortable with it all, but took him there anyway. The compound lay outside the city limits, nearly an hour’s drive. The buildings eventually gave way to greenery sparsely populated by pedestrians and the odd motor vehicle. Indicative of a certain inescapable gap between urban and rural that he understood a bit too well. The cab stopped a couple hundred feet away from the main gate.

“No closer.” The driver said with a thick Portuguese accent. Doug nodded in understanding, it’s not like it was a far walk. Doug paid the driver, pretty much all of the money he had left after the plane ticket. The compound itself was surrounded by a 20 foot high concrete wall with barbed wire lining the top. The gate was solid metal and had a Cartwright Security insignia painted in white on it.

“I suppose that explains why the driver was in a hurry to leave.” Doug thought as he walked towards the guard’s booth. The guard himself was reading with his feet up, hardly an intimidating guard but it’s not like he had the authority to yell at him. Doug tapped the security booth’s wall to call the guard’s attention. The guard perked up immediately, and looked at Doug for a solid 30 seconds. Just enough time to create an awkward air to the whole conversation.

>>9661590
2/?
“Can I help you?” The guard said, not putting his book down.

“I’m new, my name’s Douglas. Douglas Ritsen.” Doug said, wondering who the insane one was between the two of them.

“Ok.” The guard responded, still unmoving.

“Can I come in?” Doug asked, without the massive Cartwright Security insignia stenciled onto the wall he would probably think this is some eccentric coke fiend’s mansion.

“I suppose an eccentric coke fiend would be redundant” Doug thought.

“Sure.” The guard said flatly, finally getting off his ass to open the gate. The gate, made from what appeared to be solid metal, parted itself on magnetic rails.

“I guess they’re really serious about being able to keep it locked, so long as they have electricity of course.” Doug thought as he walked inside, “That was probably an executive’s decision.” Just beyond the gate was a massive garden with a road running through it, not unlike some millionaire’s estate. Doug took his time walking up the road to the main building to observe the many plants and trees present in the garden. He figured that many, if not most of the plants were probably imported as he didn’t see them anywhere during his ride to the compound.He wondered whether or not the plants were there for some specific, practical reason, like how hedges are surprisingly useful defensive emplacements. But there weren’t any real hedges around, at least none worth noting, and Doug continued on to the main building. The main building itself looked about as benign as the rest of the compound. A tired tan tetragon that just sort of came into existence at some point in the past and figured it might as well make itself useful. It’s not like Doug was expecting some retardedly-ostentatious corporate playground like back home, but he also was expecting more of a show of force and capability.

“Did I come in the wrong door? Was that guy just fucking with me?” Doug thought has he reached the steps to the front door. Too late to turn back now. Doug took a deep breath, if he couldn’t do this, he had nowhere else to go. Well, he could theoretically join some militia out in the bush somewhere, but he didn’t speak any portuguese and he didn’t think they would actually pay him.

>>9661503
There isn't anything more it's just to show how I usually write.
>>9661517
You're right I should have written it less confusing, and I really should learn all the grammar rules.

>>9661160
>thanks!

>>9661590
you make some really serious elementary mistakes that I think could be easily cured by reading some books on how to write and how to read (dont shrug off the latter). The god news is that you can develop scenes, at least partially, which some people here struggle with. It seems to me that you're not enjoying what you're writing. I say this because everything that would be interesting to hear about is entirely abandoned. You can't just through in the "boring emptiness" of Montana and Afghanistan. Not only is this a chronological crime, but also fucking boring. What exactly are you trying to convey? You seem to be developing the character as the story progresses which causes some confounding information giving. Like everything is happening so fast... we know nothing about this guy's perosnality or character but we're supposed to draw him up from his past geographical locations? homeless, afghanistan, montana. Also some really puzzling sentences and narration choices (not to mention the fact that the narrator is easy going and childish but the story is about being a fucking mercenary in Africa... not to mention the stock version of this type of narrator, the poor Salinger derivative, but anyway...) Like you need to consider temporal relations between the consciousness of the character and the external event, for example in the first sentence of second paragraph: just plain clunky and boring description of what's going on, also strange thought from character which is clunkily placed and doesn't develop him one bit. Doug is also an idiot or you're writing him poorly: "he was surprised how functional Africa was.." are you fucking /pol/? wtf is this? You're gonna need to do a lot more articulate explaining of this and why he believes it other than being an ignoramus. You really just need to explain more. Each sentence here should be given its own set up and development so you can describe the character's psychological state, what the environment looks like, how he is interacting within it, and any other things going on. You also need to figure out how you're going to weave all of that necessary information together. Your descriptions are extremely imprecise and boring. What does it mean to seem uncomfortable? inescapable gap between urban and rural? (make this sensical, also a good chance to talk about Doug's past, probably) awkward air? Be more precise, articulate, and fun! Your prose is too colloquiocal for the foreboding or tense tone it seems like you are kind of looking for. Adapt your language accordingly. Also make some notes about your character before you start writing the story, it's obvious he was being developed on the fly, obviously not a good look.

Overall, you need to develop everything more so that it comes across organically. There is at least fifteen pages in these two posts, if not more. I'd suggest reading intro writing books and reading more widely before picking up the pen again, but that's just my opinion.

>>9661659
sorry for typos

>>9656622
>>9656615
so stupid

>>9661659
>>9661590
also you write too much like a movie camera. don't do that, at least pretend like you havent been addicted to video games and the tv for the past XX years (we forgive you for your sins)

Oftentimes I walk around the apartment following footsteps and whispers, the weight of the world pushing my fingers into my my palm. Ill sit in the leather armchair hidden away in the corner and and try to read a boo,k or smoke a cigarette only to get up minutes later to search for the repetitive intrusions. I've attempted a flat-mate, but the inevitable noise of everyday life covers the sound of the intruders, how silly it is, but I cannot stand company, although loneliness bears me down everyday. It finally happened yesterday. I was amid my usual routine of following what I thought to be the sound of invasion (I'm not even sure I believed for myself of the intrusion, investigating became more of a habit than anything) when i heard the rust-addled squeak of the front door opening. I dropped to the floor, my heart burning with realization that it was finally happening. I had imagined this very thing happening so many times, but now that it was here I behaved nothing like I had planned. I was cowardly. Now I tell this story to you, gentlemen, as I truly believed my life was threatened. I brought out the small, cheaply made revolver on my belt. This was always met with bewilderment and suspicion by anyone told of the fact, but now the situation called for it, and I knew they were all wrong. I aimed at the doorway and fired. All the air was released from the lungs of the intruder as the first shot settled itself into their gut. I fired several times after, to assure retaliation wasn't in their future. Some may say I acted to excess, but it was necessity! The dark crimson blood lurched to fill the gap between the hardwood floor and rug, I washed my hands in it. I felt more powerful than I have in my life, fearing no intrusion, no unexpected visitor! I told no friend to ever visit me unexpected, and Im certain you can forgive me for acting in the way I did. When you understand how I was thinking, there could have been no other outcome.

>>9649919

Is this testing whether I'm a replicant, a lesbian, or a q.t. pie 2D anime grill with a sweet coquette button-nose to match, Mr. Deckard?

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>>9661696

By the time Anton reached the ground floor, the fireworks ended as expected. The last of the crowd lounged in the portico open to the innyard. Above the hum of their conversation could be heard the burble of fountain-water.
Anton took great care to navigate past their tables. The entire time he latched his eyes to the scattered carpets as if enchanted by their patterns. When at last reached the counter, he was all too relieved to see a familiar face behind it – a familiar hijabed face.
Even in this dim corner of the chamber, Anton recognized Fatima by her almond-irised eyes. At one time it struck Anton as unseemly that Ali would let his daughter attend to his establishment. But then again the Chief of Kabyles had his own way of doing things - as did Fatima. She flattened her muslin-sleeved hands on the counter, leaned toward Anton, and whiffed him.
“So.” Her voice came as a coin’s splash in the fountains. “What is your fragrance this evening?”
Anton tittered in self-satisfaction. “I call it Lavender Musk.”
Fatima curved her face amusedly. “I prefer your Tangerine Tempest.”
Anton flicked some pretend dust off his sleeve. “I can teach you some lighter aspects of the craft, you know. By the time I depart, you’ll be able to concoct perfumes by your own hand.”
Fatima tapped a finger to her chin. “Only if you also teach me a thing or two about the shadier aspects as well. Poisons and sedatives, particularly.”
“Your father would disapprove.”
“He’s the one who encourages me to learn.”
Anton yawned in what first came as a gasp. From the start he surmised that Fatima had a hand in the shadiest of her father’s ventures, even the more mercenary ones that made some men squeamish. But to hear it aloud was something else entirely - akin to seeing an unwritten law being broken.
“I’m not so inclined to do your father’s bidding. Not currently, at least,” Anton returned in a tone curter than intended.
To that Fatima fixed him with a searching gaze. Finally, she prompted, “Do you recall that one fable - the one about the tortoise and the hare?”
Anton caught her implication as soon as he heard it. “I know my Aesop. Were you eavesdropping upstairs?”
Fatima shook her head and laughed with the resonance of wind chimes. “It’s plain on your face.”
Attempting to mask his unease, Anton jested, “In that you have an advantage.”
She offered another laugh, though it lacked the former’s luster. “My face is plenty visible. You need only learn the signals.” 1/3

check it out
https://www.wattpad.com/story/111855875-you%27re-never-too-young-to-have-a-world-war-3

>>9661226
Will do, anon. I can be lazy when it comes to redrafting. Thanks for your input.

Having a job is merely subjugating yourself to the hierarchial structure of wage slavery in the modern capitalist world.

>>9662767
not having one just means curing up like a bitch right at the bottom of the shit heap

>>9663012
Ego driven statement.

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Two months ago Gluos had picked himself off the floor, fell into a couch and called the engineering department of NorBrunt Arms AG, forwarding a schematics file found by the AI based on Gluos’ search history. The lead engineer on XX Company’s retainer asked what he was looking at.
Gluos was looking at the ceiling as he said, “just contain a thermonuclear explosion in a chamber, direct it into tungsten-molybdenum cap at one end, and put a trigger on the other end, the specs are in the file I sent.”
There was a long pause, the engineer said, “there are some warnings on the use of this... what do you call this thing?”
“You guys figure out the name, keep the production license too, and don’t worry about the warnings, we are trained professionals here.”
“Let me put you on hold.”
Gluos threw a ball into the air from the couch for a while, then got up and made another drink. There was cough on the line.
“The team is calling it the Cheekoff, for obvious reasons, uh, we can get you two for next week.”
“Great, charge it on our account.”

>>9661989
After reading the first few chapters it seems you've managed to write something as sophisticated as YA, but with content that would not be marketable to them. So congratz.

Not sure how to salvage this piece, maybe remove some of the more glaring cliches like "once a good girl's gone bad..."

The whole thing made me want to eat a gun too, so at least I can relate to the main character. Maybe read Starship Troopers or Born on the 4th of July, and learn how their authors write, before trying to copy their plots. Also read a style guide on how to format dialog, right now it is an inconsistent mess.

>>9661449
The last two lines don't work. It's not really an anticlimax as I can't be sure that's not a spambot or that you had a stroke or what. The rest is strong, but the call backs to the opening lines make the reader more lost than you need them to be. If you cut them, it would be a stronger poem, because I'm having trouble integrating them anywhere else either.

It's Leif and the surname is usually spelt Erikson but if you just correct Leif I'd stet. the atypical Ericsson spelling because it's a very American poem.

its most common fixture not it's

If this were mine, I'd cut the "wasteland of a womb" down to "wasteland womb".

It's very strong overall, and the majority of the mistakes are tiny copy problems and the last two lines. If you're deeply attached to the last two lines, maybe go for a very long title?

>>9660955

No one's going to take this?

I check my feed it's the same few things
Live streamed lynchings and SpongeBob memes
I stay inside to beat the heat
Smoke to eat and then smoke to sleep

>>9664212
Listen. I saw you post this in the poetry thread too; I don't know what you expect to hear. It has flow, sure--you need a hyphen after feed (even though you're trying not to use punctuation for some reason (punctuation allows you to preform more interesting tricks with your structures))--but it doesn't do anything. Much like what seems to be in theme with your routine. Write something real if you want real advice.

>>9663620
>sophisticated as YA

NO REDUNDANCIES

>>9664234
I think to mean an em dash rather than a hyphen. I know how to use punctuation. I just think it's self-defeating to put an em dash in a poem about Twitter.

>>9663457
>Gluos
This name keeps throwing me off, and makes me think of "glucose". There's not much to work with either, but you write well enough. I can tell it's a part of something bigger, so there's not much context to it. Overall, OK, but I'd have to read more.

I entered the commune that morning sick with weariness, and where nearly everyone greeted me in Portuguese. When I would call for Professor Faustus, I was left with a clueless, “Quem?” Not here, apparently, his closer-than-most, and English-speaking, colleagues had told me. It’d been a long train ride in, so I decided to find a park bench somewhere, somewhere to stretch my limbs, lay my back down on, flattened like a pancake, and sleep. Once my eyes shut over, I couldn’t help but imagine the scenery from the train window shifting by like a whirlwind. Almost a phantasm in its lack of clear shapes, lines, any visual distinctions or opacity. Although I was lying on a park bench, I felt the window next to me, the wheels spinning and screeching across pig-iron tracks, I felt the driver pull the levers and I felt the ticket-taker ripping receipts.

In that ride from Dulwich to Lisbon, I re-watched all the professor’s lectures on insanity and civilisation from his, now, infamous 1989 May Day talks. They’d gain infamy, basically, since Faustus had practically influenced the dismantling of most practices for “dealing” with the “mentally ill”. I gesture with quotation marks – though, I admit my fingers are too stubby for the task! – since those are archaic ways of viewing insanity. That is, if insanity exists at all. Prof Faustus doesn’t reckon it does. On the park bench, I remembered how he would raise his hand dramatically, spit out some platitudes in French, and then dissect them in English, finishing with a couplet in Portuguese just to finish it off to the applause of many students, distinguished intellectuals and some hippies. Prof would show how all input, whether auditory, visual, whatever, were all valid. So, what about schizophrenics and hallucinations? Surely, these were valid too. And, that’s what Faustus said. Even hallucinations are valid, really, or so the lecture goes. Goes and goes. The tracks make a 'ting' sound every time the wheels make a revolution, going and going, round and round. I open my eyes, and I'm all dizzy on the park bench, vomit on my lapels and tie and beige undershirt.

1)


As the sun's streams of golden light receded from view, I continued homebound. The piercing chill of wisping winter had begun to make its conquest of autumn’s breeze, and although the bronzed leaves still clung to the encompassing wood, a sense of change had gripped the land. The dusk melody of crickets, howling wind, and rustling branches had become more pronounced with every minute of sunlight’s retreat. Every step I made scraped the ground. I was tired, exhausted even. It is a strenuous task to try, again, the process of constructing a “new” you. My first day at my new school went like all the others I was paraded in and out of every couple months. There is a contradictory nature in only ever attending “new” schools. One discovers that when you can only breach the surface of these numerous communities, they all play by the same charade, and thus their “newness” is negated, new tricks can be learned to make this process easier. I had discovered that fabricating one's past can play to an advantage in those precarious few days when your fellow pupils must make their judgements about you. The recent move had been quite dull compared to the previous ones, and yet the countryside of rural North Carolina seems to have interested me in a way the population did not.
.
That didn’t matter. What mattered was that at this moment I was lost. I wanted to walk home today. However something had went wrong. I had walked a bit too far before making a wrong left, or was it a wrong right? Houses began to grow in distance between each other, and brush immerged and trees appeared with every step. Darkness began to enshroud my visage. The heart fluttered and the stomach dropped. Yet, the worst part of panic is not the rapid beating in the chest or the churning of the abdomen, it is the clouds that descend upon the judgement. I had the opportunity to turn back and retrace my steps, but instead I inadvertently plunged headlong into the unknown. When one is vulnerable and struck with terror, the mind often wanders into enemy territory. Thoughts not only began to race through my head about how I would be kidnapped by a deranged forest man and feasted upon, but how just like the first days at all the previous “new” schools, the highlight of that day for the student body was the new kids ragged shoes, his unwashed sweatshirt, and his mouse-like voice.

2)
Those hidden, mysterious eyes that conjure when one thinks too contemplatively of his own aloneness settled its sights on me. I was being watched by someone or something, I was as sure in this as I was in my abject fright. As I darted around the dirt roads, the deep forests that seemed to stare down from the canopy heightened my already shrieking nerves. As I was only a child (a young man I would've consider myself at the time, but only a “young man” of 11) tears that were only moments ago small droplets began to break through the floodgates of the stoic dam I had raised for this first day of school. Today I had tried to come off as unfeeling and uncaring in order to fake strength and confidence. If asked what lay beneath this icy exterior, I would of responded with “cold water’. Now, surrounded by the sounds of night’s orchestra and her thousand eyes, I became a bubbling mess.

“Wake up son”
The voice rang through my groggy head like a mild kick. I had fallen asleep (or collapsed) in a grassy field. I was wet with morning dew, and a gray haze lay overhead in place of the sky. As I came to my senses, a overweight yet brutal-looking police man held out his hand. “We were searching all night for you boy.” I grabbed his hand and in a daze, he helped me to my feet. “Your mother was worried sick about you, don’t you know it is against the law to run away son?”
I answered in the affirmative, and walked with him to the squad car, my head ached as if I had hit it against a rock. “Your Ma says you are moving even though you just started school, was that the reason you didn't come home son?” The wheels ripping through the grass made a strange sound which caught my attention for a moment, and as we drove onto the dirt road, I saw that a tree was missing a couple of those ripe amber leaves.

>>9663743
Hey man, really appreciate the feedback. I think I agree with you about the last two lines. They feel hammered in, like a nail in concrete—fractures the rest

I'd be happy to bounce feedback off on your stuff if you have any in the thread

>>9650893
I know I'm not adding much to the conversation, but this is too verbose.

>>9651266
Like the previous post, too wordy.

>drought on my mind and drought in my eyes with the feeling of nothingness
breaks the parallelism rule, it's better to just have two fitting details than two fitting details and one extraneous detail.

>the beige superannuated broken down cupboard door
Should be punctuated. Again, consider dropping one of these adjectives. Separate the remaining two with a comma.

Overall, funny meme, but could be improved.

>>9651468
Rupi? Is that you?

>>9651484
Very dry. Didn't really feel like I "knew" the narrator or Mark, just read some facts. Some of the sentences like
>He eventually got a job just in time for the summer tourist boom.
are poorly worded.

>>9653408
This isn't a flaw per se, but it'd make it easier to differentiate between these two characters if they had different pronouns. They could be "the lad" and "the man" or "the boy" and "the man," or something along those lines. This is easier in romance languages cause you can just turn adjectives into nouns, but there's ways to do it in english too.

Unfortunately, the punchline didn't quite land.

>>9654762
This moves a little too quickly, try to space things out so there's at least one reasonably-long paragraph per setting.

The "umbrella with a large designer name" is a kind of clunky phrase. Why not just use an existing brand, or a different way of establishing its value?

Also,
>When the bus had reached my stop,
is the wrong tense. It should be
>When the bus reached my stop,

Interested to see where this goes. Is it slice-of-life-y?

============================================

Pic related is my piece, thinking of sending it to a contest soon. Thoughts?

>>9664522
All the characters talk like the same person, making the story unbelievable and unconvincing. I don't understand the ending. What was the guy doing on stage then? Or is the guy playing the Rock Lobster solo? Kinda funny, but overall seems rushed and draft-like.

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>>9664522
Realized the screenshot wasn't cropped, cropped screen here.

>>9664570
this is awful. what makes you think anyone would want to read that for more than twenty seconds? seriously?

>>9664570
You're writing is the same as what you are criticizing.

The pastry shop closes at 8
in the morning before opening
the Ziplocked bundle of children's hair
saved by mother's weaving memories
of squeezed hands in church
followed by a stern look like a seal
protecting its cubs from waltzing sharks
who fling air bubbles from serrated gills
and grow manes of algae along truncations
reminiscent of mysterious sky-dwellers
floating past celluloid neighborhoods
watched by somnambulant patrolmen
who cauterize bloated carcass wounds
etched on posthumously like lapidary indices
of Mary's busy sons and daughters
who ran (exhaustively) a derelict carnival
home of spherical hard mesh eyeball sidewinders
and caracals leather broken in by
Barnum's retarded Niece named Helen
of Troy of Keller of Mirren of Prancer of Vixen
who by virtue of virtue relinquished bona fides
pro bono to the semi-conductor's wand
magically able to synthesize caterwauling
into superfluid mellifluidity bound to extinction
an instantaneity meted out by metered beats
digested en vogue by the Hostess CEO
and exhumed in the most willy-nilly fashion
most inconceivably called the square dance
of cats snubbed by lofty atoms and eves
of a new day's dawn postured as night
elsewhere where the sun don't shine
also known as the better part of rock
numero uno—the one rhymed with mirth.

Easier it is to deceive oneself
than to take the baby out with the bathwater—
recycled bathwater bathed in by brothers
who, due to slight epigenetic variances
and nothing else but dinner placement,
smell similar: apples and apples:
or, if I may, sardines and lawnmowers,
for four separate things sharing not
(nor not not) names but also form
inscribed thereout of function and duty
rarely reflecting non-identical inexactitude
insofar as 'altitudinous' is used to
compare the black sheep 'verisimilitudinous'
to the not yet mentioned 'definitudinous,'
as we (this is a team effort here) did—
and we're talking apples and oranges here—
with apples and apples and brothers
of the identical variety, rather than fraternal
(to say nothing of the disenfranchised term sororal).

Now that clarity has restored itself,
though not entirely without the help of yours trulyish
(nor entirely within the help of yours trulyish
(my mother helped me write this desu)),
I believe you (in the impersonal sense)
& I
can continue on with remembering
that we're currently breathing
and that the clothes touching our skins
have recently caused an itch
that only a wtf can scratch
or a backscratcher purchased from The Sharper Image.

some size up a statue
and turn yells into screams
others blow up a plane
to better see the asymptote
tickling the tips of our tongues
like heaven's clitoris coming forth with sacrifices
made of unpacked ideals
glittering in the apples of our eyes
drum-filled with sweet cyanide
and calls from our local law enforcement agency
asking us to pick him up again
just one more time
or so help me god
i'll break down like the van
hailing cabs to leave town
as long as forever stands
its godforsaken ground

Hey How Are You? (please don't tell me)

A continuum of rain pours up from the floorboards
Syncopated by the Peter pipers drum roll.
The rubber on the road punctuates the static between notes
Culling the herd of children
Into hobbit holes trademarked by sightless feints.
The destination is the journey
Reminds us of communicative properties
Such as the Dallas/Ft. Worth
International airports. Stop me if you can,
Say when if you catch me.
I'll be Tom if you'll be Jerry
And Ben'll be none the wiser, no more
Than angry men sitting in a room
Arguing over the placement of Ö
In the new worlds newfangled alphabet
To be named in time due unto itself
As others hath fury as a woman scorned in hell—
Hounds hopped up on meth
Rabidly file taxes
And flee the state
Scoping out resistantless paths
Offshot a road not taken,
Offbeaten and not traveled
By any streetcars forgetting their name.

The fact that you are a lot
I just want to go back
The best thing ever

Proof they're getting smarter
Obselescense ours is planned
Tolstoy told his wife
I love you honey, sweet as sunflower
Seeds sewn and reaped by the reaper
A sickle celled scythes wielder
God grant me a new welder
For the lost and found doesn't have it
Said the maudlin man of tin.

(Suggest a word
And you'll have two)

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The sun was touching my face, my eyes opened slowly as if trying to ignore the fact that it was a new day. This is where I am supposed to wake up and face the day; but as usual as it has been lately, turning around in my bed as I feel the blankets embracing my body is the most satisfying thing I could ever aspire.
Total silence.
It was probably the middle of the day. The City was roaring alive. The Sun, incandescent as it is, it was striking hard on life. Other people got out out bed, they were doing, they were being. But there was silence in my small and untidy bed room.

Fuck this. English is my second language. I've never even been on /lit/ before; never tried writing before, not even on my mother language. So yeah.

let's operate in the interstice baby
the frenulum's friend if you give me a kiss
catch me in the jukebox baby
a pinky-swear stare let's call it a tryst
I met you like I knew you baby
punching holes in holes breakin' my fist
so backwards bend to the weekend baby
and ill pretend my flight's the one that you missed
lumpy bumpy sticky icky ragtime baby
you're a melanomic cyst oh how you persist
i'm the tab on your tongue, the rabble you numb
let me know if you wanna taste of this
i'm every note that you sung every zero to one
baby here's my grocery list:

(oh baby)

the last shot of the night
the first sip of sunlight
baby take a ride in this
the last wrong you left to right
the only wrong left to make you feeel alright
baby take a ride in this
you'll never know me or know me you just might
the flight before the fight
time to rush get tipsy 'n' hitched
baby take a ride in this

(oh baby, time to baby
let me tell you something baby)

I can't live if I'm living the lie (baby)
so see me when you see me and wave say hi (oh baby)
then i'll know your name and you'll know I'll know mine (baby)
yeah and then I'll feel so very fine (yeah baby)
forever forgetting how I wanted to die (oh baby)
till death comes knocking as I'm watching you cry (no baby)
And only then baby oh baby will I not want to die (slow baby)
leaving my home inside of your eye (home baby)
there and then i'll be living no lie (whoa baby)
love to love and meet you till then goodbye (baby baby)


my back itches

>>9664570
Is this supposed to be funny?

Here poem I just wrote its:

The color blue sits alone with the concept of green and debates how to better better the world

The color says to the concept that more water would surely make this place clean but that would be far too much wet and remove all the color green objects the concept

Then the color asks for alternative, and the concept proposes destroying all the things that make the world unclean but blue better yet suggests that this is just another version of mass genocide and not exactly a solution

The ideal of a worm passed by both the color and the concept and either of them simultaneously realized that since they reside in the world of forms beside appearance that they closes they can get to a tangible facsimile of cleaning an accidental reality was to ignore it completely and hope it gets better

>>9665998
Is the last sentence messed up on purpose?

>>9664261
Thanks for input, it helps to just pronounce the name like Glucose, I could send you the first couple chapters if you want, I've been publishing it in sections.

Your first visit to the NBA First-Year Player draft should like visiting your first whorehouse — you should do it when you’re young, and you should bring your own drugs. I spent most of the drive down from Hebron, CT, arguing the merits of the Derrick Rose signing ipso facto. When myself and my chauffeur, Levi M., grew tired of the triangle-tinged tautology, we tricked ourselves into enumerating epistemological arguments against the invective “traps are not gay”. These were facilitated by illegally obtained codeine-and-sprite cocktails, consumed with increasing vigor and narcotic-to-soft-drink ratio as we achieved a sort of singularity he slow crawl of traffic on the BQE. We took painkillers because we are Knicks fans. Nihilism for us is a type of pant leg, to be stretched and rolled up by prescription.

>>9669239
the drugs are only making you feel like you're getting better, they are not making you better. please stop.

>>9665697

IS this a song. It is pretty cringy,at least, I don't know how it would sound if sung,brainlet here.

Doug reflected.When someone is outed as an anal vore enthusiast,the victim is never the man who is caught. Worse than father's pride misplaced is the face of a man whose brain has to process 2 gigabytes of unbirth. Synapses fire,and alongside childhood memories is burned forever the image of a man enveloped by lugia's shitty asshole.And,thought Doug,this was the fate of Pastor Ned.
Doug reflected from under the drip drip of rainwater falling from the ceiling of a Pamplona hostel. He looked to his right,an irisman by the name of Tom Macarrick slept with his mouth agape and feet hung from the bedpost. Perhaps it was here,in the damp cold of the hostel,where Doug realized he was a mess. When he combed his hair,his fingers came away covered in grease. His genitals resembled more a burn victim,shriveled and pink,then objects of procreation. They were greasy as well. When his fingers came away from any part of his body,it was like a vinegary scratch and sniff. He started to rub his smells against the wall,and it became like an invisible mural of shit. Doug craned his neck,and the way the light covered the wall would allow him to see his finger painting. A pretty flower.
For the first time in two days,Doug slept. He forgot his dreams,and woke up to a spanish housekeeper staring him blankly in the face,mouthing something.
"What?"
"Agua,agua,wader,wader."

File: impressed.jpg (11KB, 328x368px) Image search: [Google]

11KB, 328x368px

>>9669239

>triangle-tinged tautology

Alliteration is bad.

Dave likes the tautology, though. It's a smart-sounding word.

>>9669262
Why is alliteration bad?

>>9669266
Prose lulls you in by the images detachment from the text itself. Poetry lulls you in by the images connection to the text. Alliteration is a tool suited for poetry because of these aspects. Using it in prose is distracting.

>>9669266

It just sounds corny. Ask yourself, is it impressive to string together a bunch of words with the same first letter? And does it sound good?

(the answer is no, btw...)

>>9669298
Why can't you do both in a single work?

>>9669377
>>9669313

File: Mouse.jpg (62KB, 1200x634px) Image search: [Google]

62KB, 1200x634px

True, boring story
https://pastebin.com/iaFvjLtJ

You seem to me like a man on the verge of disappearing, as if one of these days I'll find myself trying to remember your face or your voice but won't quite be able to with enough clarity to scratch that itch. You bareley exist, no friends, n family, no job, no meaningful accomplishments. You're on the road to the gutter where all the crazies, the pariahs and lost end up going once the world forgets them.

There will be no heroic ride into the sunset after all is done, no meaningful death to make a martyr out of you, no, yours be a quiet and gradual descent into non-existence, meaningless and anonymous, a mere collateral consequence to the causes of your undoing. An ant drowned by an ocean's wave.

>>9669377
they're wrong, alliteration is fine, clumsy alliteration is bad. be more careful and look at lauded uses of the technique to get a feel for how much you should use it.

A man
dying of cancer
in a tiny room
while outside
women in sundresses
walk the night
that's the greatest cruelty
of life,
that eventually
it moves on without us,
high heels
and see-through dress
and all.

>>9669700
Saying alliteration is fine is no different than saying its corny.

>>9669721
explain your reasoning. alliteration is p commonly used in stylized prose as subtler sonic device, but stronger that [prefix]-onance. jamming them three-back-to-back is the actual issue there.

>>9665697
I don't personally like these kinds of songs but I know many people that would so in that sense I think it's good

>>9669726
First
>>9669298
Then
>>9669313
Lastly,
>>9669700, because as you said: it's 'fine'.

File: Tree.jpg (66KB, 490x616px) Image search: [Google]

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>>9669701
I feel like you could approach your subject stronger if you trusted your reader to infer the meaning.

>that's the greatest cruelty
>of life,
>that eventually
>it moves on without us,

this kind of feels insulting

>>9665480
Maybe I'm just being impatient in reading this, but the funky grammar makes the subject-hopping even more frustrating to grapple with.

these lines:

>Seeds sewn and reaped by the reaper
>A sickle celled scythes wielder
>God grant me a new welder
>For the lost and found doesn't have it
>Said the maudlin man of tin.

suggest to me, that you're more interest in the sonics than anything, which is cool, but I still want a stronger sense of coherency here.

>>9669070
Sure, upload a pastebin or something, so long as you crit me :) mine is under the same name and below my crit

>>9669262
>'tr' alliterates with t<vowel>
what did he mean by this
>>9669298
joyce btfo

>>9669858
Hey I really appreciate the feedback don't be surprised if you wake up with no toes and I definitely agree with you about my tendency to favor sonics over more substantive content thematic element such as motif

https://one.denizenscript.com/haste/42788