Critique Thread

And so it returns.

Post your work here. (Maybe) get feedback from others.

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/0AGvQcie
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I was seven, an age you have to spell out
Because the number loses its meaning at
That age, when numbers are just rumors
Of your father. I was gullible; I still see
The Boogy Man when in family palmings
Who sits with us in a drunken miasma of
Children and disappointment. I wasn’t a
Football player or a nascar driver in one of
Those formula one races or whatever the
Fuck he’d be on about. I was a reader of
Books and not playboy, not the real good
Things in a life of materialism and cheap
Beer. I was hopeful for art and not hunting
Not that I was scared to kill something, but
Because I found it ironic even at seven that
I was going to kill to kill myself even sooner.
I was seven when I didn’t know how to build
A car from scrap metal (sorry) and pretended
I wanted to join the military so I collected G.I.
Joes and toy soldiers which I thought were
Cool but I would have rather read about the wars
Than play with them. “He’s one of those guys
Who can read the whole gun manual and not
Know how to shoot it” says Grampa. I don’t
Blame him. I was seven. I was lacking. I’m
Still apparently seven. A paradox of Bud Light.

fool fool you have work to do o cursed of god cursed and forgotten form shapes cunningly sweated cunning to simplicity shapes out of chaos more satisfactory than bread to the belly form by a madmans dream gat on the body of chaos le garçon verge of the soul horned by utility o cuckold of derision

stars in my hair in my hair and beard I am crowned with stars christ by his own hand an autogethsemane carved darkly out of pure space but not rigid no no an unmuscled wallowing fecund and foul the placid tragic body of a woman who conceives without pleasure bears without pain

what would I say to her fool fool you have work to do you have nothing accursed intolerant and unclean too warm your damn bones then whiskey will do as well or a chisel and maul any damn squirrel keeps warm in a cage go on go on then israfel revolted surprised behind a haycock by a male relation fortitude become a match flame snuffled by a small white belly where was it I once saw a dogwood tree not white but tan tan as cream what will you say to her bitter and new as a sunburned flame butter and ew those two little silken snails somewhere under her dress horned pinkly yet reluctant o israfel ay wax you wings with the thin odourless moisture of her thighs strangle your heart with hair fool fool cursed and forgotten of god

>Set kills Horus's father: The King
>Its a big courtroom scene as to who should be the new king
>no one can decide
>??? 80 years of filler
>Set anal rapes Horus
>Horus catches Set's semen in his hand, so no homo
>Horus shows the cum to his mum
>mum cuts his hand off
>Horus regrows his hand and puts the cum in Set's salad
>mfw Set eats the cum salad
>Horus is now king because Set is gay

Please don't give me the kid's gloves, Veeky Forums. I've got my Scribe's exam in a week and I need all the help I can get

i like this, but i'm not really sure how to improve it. i think it kinda deflates about halfway through, can't really explain it but there it a notable change in tone- might be intentional.

pastebin.com/0AGvQcie
reposting this from the old thread. there are a few mistakes that i am aware of.

suddenly I hate myself
the island of irreversibilities
and lost opportunities
in which I live
the stupidity at large
the same old troubles
nothing changes
I want to quit
I want to quit quitting
I want to quit quitting quitting
doubt sprouts and I am paralyzed
all the promises and all the mantras
accumulated
can't get me out of this feeling
everything is dust

nice try
I have near unstoppable power level
you cribbed that from Mosquitoes by William Faulkner if im not mistaken, Gordon's stream of consciousness

ive studied, alas, philosophy,
law and medicine, recto and verso
and how I regret it, theology also
oh, god how hard I've slaved away,
with what result? poor fool that i am,
im no whit wiser than when I began
Ive got a Master of Arts degree
On top of that a PhD,
For ten long years, around and about
Upstairs, downstairs, in and out
ive led students by the nose
To what conclusion? That nobody knows,
or can ever know, the tiniest tender
which is why I feel completely undone

really good until you started bragging about your academic accolades.

There lays adrift in sadness yet to be
Potential pains of greater savagery
For I cling to notions found in reviere
That we can dance until the morn I die
Nightmarish depictions of you and I;
Assail me as lay there weak of mind
For every night e’er further do I stray
From ethereal beauty come my way
My brightest light casts shadows deep
And doubts plague my soul during fitful sleep
The things I dread come swiftly haunting me
At night my mind succumbs to mortal sleep
Like spectral riders they thunder towards
A weakened aspect of my failing will
Yet there she is my waning lumine moon
Shedding upon my beaten soul of yore
Silver’d droplets from Selene’s teary shores

(Structure needs working on.)

Let an old man walk and make his way
And modestly follow for a day
As he goes to the factories (the one where the horses die)
And sniffs some glue
And turns to you
And says, would you like some too?
The adhesive that chemically separates
The mind from the body, and negates
The clarity of day for the fuzz of twilight
For a moment or two

Would it be impolite? You stretch your mind and think,
Linking consequence to action, and note the passion
In the eyes of the old man.
Tears in the corners of his eyes
He sighs, says, you simply must try.
I implore.

A horse looks at you, and sneezes.

You gnash your teeth and clench your fists
I shan’t!
You declare. Things have been hard enough as it is
Without a hazy miasma fogging your eyes.
What a shame it would be to live
Knowing you were huffing glue
The decision vivid, the memories thick like clotted cream.

The horses give their bones to you, the old man cries.
The meal boiled to perfect consistency
For the glue’s tacky resiliency.
He spreads and smears the glue on his fingers
And brings it to his nose. Deeply, he inhales.
A smile stretches across his lips.
Deeply, he inhales.

You turn to leave, and upon your back
You feel the old man’s stare.
You do not yield, nor turn around
A short laugh pierces the air
And a soft squelch as the old man
Returns his fingers to the glue.
Simple boy, playing saint!
I used to be like you!

is this some cribbing of Faust

I haven't actually written anything but will you guys critique the premise of my story?

Let's see then

First one (and the one with the most fleshed out story being the /k/ommando that I am) is an Alt-History story. In this timeline Germany wins the war in Europe, pretty much everything that could go right for Germany goes right, meanwhile the US stays out of the war and the Pacific War never happens. The remnants of the English and French government goes into exile in Canada and plan their next move, Germany realizes that they can crush what remains of British and French and its possible with all the resources that has been freed up. Anticipating this, the Canadians beef up their coastal and AA defenses, effectively turning the Eastern Coast of Canada into an impenetrable wall.

Germany knows that a head on invasion of Canada will not work in its favor, so it weighs its options and decides that invading the US, who is still recovering from the Great Depression, will yield greater results. They'll invade the American Northeast and use it as a staging area for the invasion of Canada, the truth is that the invasion of the US is also vital in keeping the German economy from crashing since no plans were made for a peacetime economy. Thats basically whats going on before the events of what I'm writing happens, the initial invasion is a huge success, the US Army and Nat. Guard units are steamrolled and massive swaths of New England and South are occupied. And thats where things get sour for the Germans, US militias led by the remnants of the Branches of the US Military in the areas start a brutal guerrilla war that effectively halts the German War Machine in key strategic points in the US. The German Command now realizes that they must push out west as rumors of a US Base called Los Alamos is developing some sort of superweapon that could turn the tide against the Germans. Pretty much, the invasion of the US turns into Germany's Vietnam, there's a lot more detail into the different fronts and factions I'm going to write about but thats the gist of my Autism. Here's a map of how things are at the moment of the story

no thank you

Sounds like the wet dream of every backwoods fake country-thunder kid I went to high school with.

It's certainly not bad, though.

Alt history is always interesting. I'd say flesh it out even more and go for it.

Was it not even worth a shitpost?

It gets even more convoluted, I'd write it out over series of novels concentrating on the different factions and regions, I did a ton of historical research, mostly the history behind the different regions of the US to see how an insurgency would rise and here's what I've come up with.

>The SS fight a brutal insurgency in the Deep South against the KKK and Neo-Confederates trying to establish Old Dixie in the midst of all the instability (Louisiana Tigers will make an appearance)
>Wehrmacht is stopped in Northeastern New England by the Old Yankees (supplied and supported by the Brits and Canadians) during the coldest winter Maine has ever seen
>Texas Rangers, Militia and the National Guard hold off a massive German Offensive to buy the Federal Army enough time to get their shit together
>Utah and parts of Nevada and Idaho secede, still send Mercenaries and equipment to help the Texans fight of the Texan Offensive
>Appalachian Mountain Men dancing with snakes and talking in tongues before going innawoods and fucking with German Fallschirmjager attempts of breaking through
>What remains of the Military in the Southwest fight off Mexican Nationalists pouring in with the help of German advisors

So far the Texas Offensive and The Deep South arc are the only ones with an actual story to them.

Mechanically, you've got some word choices that really stand out as odd.

>Rich soil caked his fluttering trousers.
Maybe I'm being pedantic, but if something is caked with soil, how is it fluttering? I get how it's possible, I just had to reread it a couple times.

>His satchel, bulging with books, flew behind him and never got a chance to slacken so long as he kept his blistering pace.
The grammar on this is just weird.

>monotonic teacher
Monotonous? Had to look this up. Looks like monotonic functions in the same way, it just caught me off guard.

>quickened his already quick pace
What's quicker than being quick?

These are just a few things that stood out most to me. There's a lot of weird sentences in this thing.

Stylistically, what is this, your DnD campaign? Do you watch a lot of anime? All this was missing was some toast hanging out of Ray's mouth and this could have been the intro to any slice of life ever. Whiteleaf? Blacktree? I sincerely hope you don't procreate. What would you name your kid?

Jokes aside, I like the big-picture flow. Having Ray run through the setting to describe it was a great way to get an exposition dump. The level of detail was right in regards to capturing the environment, for me at least. The word choice is often awkward. If this was more polished, I would read it.

Thanks for reading the whole thing. I really appreciate the praise as well, such as it is.
Like I said, I've never really gotten an outside perspective on anything I've written, so my apparently weird sentences are probably a result of my own incestuous critique.

Sorry if the setting is insipid. It's just some pablum I'm writing for myself. You'd probably judge me even harsher if I told you the whole things was basically just fantasy school romance. I have some ideas for other stories that are a bit less trite, but I don't really have the confidence to tackle them yet.

Is there anything specific you think I'm doing wrong? Like my word choice, sentences being too long or too short, clauses being shuffled incorrectly, ect.

Solid concept but execution is everything. My concern of these kind of epic pieces is that the 'human factor' typically gets left behind in favour of grand armies sweeping across the land. Keep Joe Everyman involved and you could have a winner.

No judgement. Write what you want to read.

As for "wrong" things, I'm not the right person to ask. I just know how it comes off to me as a reader, so take this all with a brick of salt. At times it sounds like you're parroting things may have read or heard somewhere.

>Verdant vines
>Cows chewing cud contentedly

It sounds like you're really forcing some alliteration here.

>telluric thump of untilled soil

sounds much better to me. It sounds like you came up with this yourself.

People can smell bullshit a mile away. Like the user below you said, execution is everything. If it's consistent, it'll be good. If it reads like what you think a story like this is supposed to read like, then it'll be bad. I would keep writing this, especially if you like it. It seems as if you do.

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Here I lay surrounded by these fresh and crisp greens.
Shredded carrots slip between my fingers -
sliding through, an orange stain still lingers.

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Cranberries and soy cheese crumbles haunting my dreams?
I tilt my head back, and seek his blessing,
and I am baptized in a vinaigrette dressing

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Slivered almonds, walnuts, edamame, black beans?
My eyes roll back and I bite my lip
His finger glides down to my hip

My vegan daddy, with a kale kiss
Gentle, soft, secures my bliss.

this sounds a lot like a rip off of j alfred

i've seen red dawn. the whole glorification of guerilla warfare is so trite at this point, beside being implausible. it honestly reads like kommando fanfic

beside all that, i find military fiction incredibly tedious, like all tom clancy shit. unironically the best military scene i've read was El Sordo's hilltop stand, and not for the guns but the dialogue.

"Those flutters of femininity which flashed past her face."

Is this line, with no context, decent? I don't think I have any real intuition nor talent for this stuff.

Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, als N.M. klingelte. Sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig: Die Augen unseres Helden, D.F., bewegten sich rapide hinter seinen zugezogenen Lidern, Wasser mag doch jeder, das Klingeln dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong vermochte ihn erst beim dritten - aber nicht letzten - Läuten zu wecken, dummer Hurensohn, dummer Bastard, und er verließ das Bett (lechzte, lechzte, lechzte), noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erlosch, mit einer Bewegung, einer Rührung, die die allerletzte dieser Art bleiben sollte. Ein Mann wächst nur bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Ein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, sieben Uhr sechsunddreißig, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum - er wollte ihn ermorden - wusste nur er, allein, einsam, keiner sonst, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül. Er trat auf eine Plastikflasche, er war schon angezogen. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, mehrmals, immer wieder. Heute Morgen: Nicht einmal Vögel hört man, dingdong dingdong dingdong. Er ging die Treppe runter, wie jeden Tag. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Die Tür ging auf. Er hat wunderschön gekotzt, gestern noch, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, ja, jetzt ist alles dumm, jetzt ist alles blöd, kein Vogelgeschwitzer vernahm er. N.M. stand vor ihm, wie ein Baum, hinter ihm war der Rest, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, unverändert. Der Rest: Sein Auto, die Straße, die Zahnarztpraxis, weiter rechts das Tanzstudio. Er, N.M., versuchte sein Grinsen - er grinste wie ein Schwertfisch -, wie immer zu unterdrücken, meistens gelang es nicht, --Sag auch, warum du lachst, D.F. fragend, selber lachend, er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, sein Rücken tat weh, seit Jahren schon tat er weh, trotzdem hob er seinen Kopf, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, entwürdigend war das, sieben Uhr achtunddreißig war es. Das wusste er nicht, konnte es nicht wissen.
--Hat seine Gründe, immer noch wie ein Schwertfisch.
--Seit wann bist du in V.?
--Seit ... Er schloss seinen Mund, musterte das Vorzimmer, als wäre D.F. nicht anwesend

Conan readied his stance, and then struck with the force and ferocity of a wild mountain lion. The leader fell to the floor like a ragdoll. The rest of his posse stopped behind him, and seemed to start walking back slowly. But Conan gave them no quarter, and charged in headfirst. Little could be seen in the mass of limbs and bodies that surrounded Conan as he fought. The martial arts of the dojos of the civilised men couldn't stand a chance against the raw, barbaric power than Conan fought with. He took a man to the ground, elbowing him in the face, and then swept a man's legs from underneath him. He punched two more men, and then kicked another in the ribs with a horrible cracking noise. Despite the gang drawing short knives and clubs in desperation, Conan fought on without stopping. More and more men fell to the ground, either knocked unconscious or grasping their broken limbs or their bruised bodies. After a brutal few minutes, the Barbarian stood victorious.

>the whole glorification of guerilla warfare is so trite at this point

I agree wholeheartedly, like said, the human factor gets left out too much and we're stuck with too much armchair general bullshit. While the reader will have an idea of whats going on in the big picture, the characters (most of whom will be insurgents on the ground) will only know as much as someone fighting in the wilderness would know, with the exception of the SS Officer I intend on making the main character of the Southern Plot. For all intents and purpose, the insurgents are losing or making a fighting retreat with only the Appalachian insurgency being able to truly hold their own without outside support. I'll be drawing a lot from how guerrillas fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and Partisans in Europe during WWII when it comes to the technical stuff.

I'm writing this right now
in my current state
of lacking symbolism
on purpose
to create the effect of blank slate
to see from one side
to the other
to speak to to
to finally sit down and eat my food
without wondering
why my food tastes
the way it does
and how it relates
to POSTMODERN DECONSTRUCTION
TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

the time
the dime
the rhyme

the school
the fuel
the jew

the night
the light
the fight

the me
the she
the D

Did you type this with one hand and masturbate with the other?

I masturbated with one hand and typed with the other

Tom was one of those people who was very sad in corners. He sat in corners and was sad. Robins were his favorite bird. He had this theory that Robins were like the kind aunt of the bird world. That birds singing were what let the tree know to grow. That a really nice green maze in the square of a house was a very nice idea. That the idea of flying over a maze was very beautiful and metaphorical. That comedy was essentially just making very crazy metaphors. That artists and comedians were on the same line, a line that started with face value and ended with absolute truth. That both were somewhere in the middle, and if he had to be honest, he was biased towards comedians, because in the system that he had set up, the fact that comedians made really crazy connections. That any true definition of the universe would connect things that have no business being connected.

He also thought thought a lot about what the most beautiful fruit was. Then he told himself that was a very gay thing to think about. Then, he reminded himself that gay was not derogatory, then he went through a loop of thinking that it was derogatory because there is always a hint of it in the phrase and correcting himself until he finally just got to the point where he gave up and moved onto something else. Then he chided himself for having a short attention span. All this happened while he was in the corner and was very sad.

Then something else happened and he actually changed what he was thinking about.

The hopping toad and the frog who swims;
The one dives low to darker depths,
The other striving to reach the sun,
Goodness, but don't they both eat bugs?

I’m at the library, at the bottom of the library. It’s dark and cool. I wore a sweater because I know that it is sweater cold down here. The books they are happy to sit on the shelves, so they make the air smell sweet. There are the old marbled cover books from the century before last century. There are the inconspicuous books with gold etched shapes. There are conspicuous books made of gold and marble etched.

Click click click my shoes go on the grey stone. I apologize to everybody for making so much clicking and clocking. Time time. I shake my left arm in a weird way, my freedom down here. I shake my leg too, one of the books I walk past has a title that lets me know I am only a visitor, and to not push too many boundaries.

I walk walk click click click clik. I like this place because you are not trying to impress anybody, at least in that moment. But later you will use it to write about and impress people. It is an investment.

Blue blue birds sitting on the vine outside my window. I assume they are blue but I have never seen them because they grow on a column that is just out of view. The ivy has blue flowers so I assume the birds are blue too. Little flowers have feathers. My room is blue with blue light from what I assume is the blue sun that is smaller than the yellow sun. I can’t think of any other reason why the light would be blue. Outside my room is another room where my sister sleeps, and down a hallway is my parents bedroom, where I get excitedly dressed when I’m about to nearly catch the easter bunny, but other than that I don’t spend much time there. Down the stairs is and to the left is the most important room, the sunroom. This is the best room for sleeping in the late afternoon, while my room is the best for sleeping in the morning and early afternoon. The water and sand time of the afternoon. Going to the lake with striped things part of the afternoon The late afternoon is the golden sunlight and waxy leaves part of the afternoon. The dust breathing part of the afternoon.

I like this, some of the lines might be a little cringey like rhyming seems and dreams. The idea is very funny

We walked for hours over the mountains looking for the lost cows. They can move quickly over that marshy ground. They have wide hooves and can go where horse, quad bike or jeep cannot. Only man on foot can lay chase. And that we did throughout the day.

The sky was a total grey washout but a humid wind from the sea made the walk a little more bearable.

I was repeating Zen koans to myself. Trying to cut to the heartwood or see the obvious truth that's right in front of your nose or closer than your breathe. I did not find it. Perhaps that is the problem. Trying to find something separate from the "I". It is the meeting of the void and form, but not both and not either. The non Zen.

It seems that it was a cure for Buddhism, for obsessing over Buddhas, and angels and complicated paths to enlightenment. Some purists speak poorly of Zazen even, saying that it is not a path as there is nowhere to go but here, in the present moment ?

Fucking Knausgaard. His writing only causes pangs of envy and revulsion. We cant just pick and choose, we must... Who fucking must? And do what to who where ?

Come on, now. He gets paid to publish his diary and embarrass his friends and family on the process.

Anyway, I kept labeling all sensations; the footsteps, the sounds, the changing emotions, the thoughts, the watching, the fading of perception of the perception.
It kept returning, but from nowhere. There is no place to retreat from. We can focus on a few sensations. Not to the elimination of the rest but for their temporary pacification.

But that is not Zen. That is the quietening of the mind. Dhyana, meditation.

They teach the simple truth. When cold cold, when hot hot. Its stupidly brilliant and still, I love it.

Diary of a reformed madman. He did what he wanted to do. And now it flows a little better, I think.

Maybe I will leave and still it will all continue, unabated. Forever. In what context ?

Is the struggle for meaning a real meaning ? Does there have to be a real meaning ?

The lack of English talk is forcing me to write. Perhaps that's how Knausy felt, in Sweden. Ugh, what a clever little observation, what a little shit, a little poof you are.

Blessed, cursed need to flow and be at one. Blooger-tough. Answer-nonchalant. Here comes more jib jib. If that faggot Joyce could do it, then why not me ?

Absolute madman he was. He liked a big arse and a regular poke. I'm not too keen on either. I'll take it when needed. But all the time. Isn't it ?

We wait for the next installment from the masters. The ones that seem to offer something new. They seem to revel in the obscene, in the totally ordinary, in the normal greed, the painfully adhered to Order, the rule book that guides and restricts and directs like the barrel of a gun, a burning ember of eternity.

Guilt and remorse over unfinished business. Sad, really. What is there to say and do. I live at home but really is it even possible to move.

Sleep time and i think i will sleep.

Would've replied sooner, but I was masturbating with all ten fingers. Your original post was goddamn awful, but you knew that already. See for a true 10/10 postmodern masterpiece.

If you weren't you you would have realized that it wasn't postmodernist. Try being someone else for a while.

wrote this on a whim

Again it is autumn.
Little brown-yellow leaves,
Leave their homes and fall,
To the top of brown-yellow
Mounts at the bottom.

I would, but every time I do, I'm already me.

A man looked at others like he was one
(numerical one, not one belonging)
and told himself
I finally carry responsibility
and with that
he picked up his bucket of water
fed his cats
and stoked the master's fire

The way the meter in the first and third line mirror is pretty impressive. I wish the second and fourth did as well.
a bit too lolrandum for me, but I am clearly engaging with similar ideas.

This one is interesting, but I worry the lack of punctuation and absolute lack of music work against it (although the second definitely seems purposeful)

Gar nicht schlecht
Wirkt auf mich aber wie viel Effekt und wenig Substanz

lolrandum? what are you on about? I'd expect you to see past whatever filter you're putting up with that comment given the nature of your writing. or is your symbolism just the result of an unstructured mind connecting dots that pop up w-hilly n-hilly.

>With the ghostly light of lightning bugs and the near bloodlessness of thunder flies, here lies the entire storm crucified.

this is a nice line, but your writing isn't enjoyable. it's beautifully written, but it's disgusting. hoping this is the equivalent of a totem you hide away in a furniture-esque subconscious so that it bleeds into your every day. and at the same time. I hope it's not. This is far too esoteric. Come back to us my dear.

I allow you to worry for the both of us

He who thinks his words are of
Marble to a sculptor
Wears a boastful bramble crown
Scavenged like a vulture

Deconstructs that which he has
No chance to understand
In his right a pen is clutched
But where’s the other hand?

well i'm back with my meter-less Italian sonnet for a qt in my department. Feeling pretty set on the first two stanzas, but i have no idea how to wrap it up with the last six lines. I was thinking of saying that cliches do not do her justice, but i may be shooting myself in the foot there and it's been very difficult coming up with lines that follow that train of thought.

Understanding i am not a poet, any criticism is appreciated.

Spartan Features set in Graceful Mystique.
A face befitting Marble, not mere clay.
I speak for all in our troupe when I say
It’s only fitting that our Muse be Greek.

Ecstasy radiates from umber eyes,
And mirth reflects in alabaster smiles.
A nubile allure inhabits your styles,
Betraying the drive behind your stark guise.

banal allusions do not come to mind,
for every cliché that exists fails you.

Sorry, I mean that the Caps definitely didn't add to the poem imo, and the meta-self address of the lack of symbols (while immediatelly using slate as a symbol).

>to speak to to
this looks like you're trying to hide a stutter, but I'm not sure why

>it's beautifully written, but it's disgusting
thanks, that's a bit of the aim! I hope the resolutions I'm trying to do work!

Perhaps another in short story format?


Seeing the different ways her body squirmed upon being poked and pronged with the stick was deeply intriguing for me. Her ghostly appearance and cold eyes whisked me into one of those dark places of the mind, the sort of place where one sees it acceptable to fantasize about morbid act of an amorous nature.

I had it in my mind, and let the ideas develop perhaps because of my current semblance with her appearance to insert the stick inside of her. My first oberservation was how little resistance there was upon penetration, followed by the fleshy sound emitted to which I anticipated giddily. Satisfactory feelings indeed.

I worried someone would walk in on us so. Locking the aging door I then turned to see her lying there with the large spruces arm still inside, with the hoary light pouring onto her from the dusty window. For me, it was surreal and I still don't understand what came over me from the dark recesses of my mind; I first must make it clear, this for me or at least up until now- was strictly a exercise of my queer curiosities for anatomy, there was no venereal motive.

Regardless of how I think of it now , it doesn't change the regretful actions that followed soot. I gently pulled up her snow white dress, remarkably still in prepped fashion from her funeral. I tried to gracefully remove her undergarments aside, however they seemed now to tight. The state of decay on her bottom half already begun, which caused swelling to a minor degree, the smell was likely not bearable for common folk but alas, I was not what one could consider "NORMIE REEE!" (Top kek I added this just to fuck with your emersion)

1/2

Frustrated, I decided to do the deed with her bloomers still on. I yanked the musky panties aside, naturally I was already fully aroused so penetration was simply a matter of undressing myself. Entering inside of her lifeless body I felt a cold shiver crawl through my spine, regret soon followed. Penetration was not as easy as I expected, when I begin to use more pressure I caused a pocket of gas to erupt from both her bottom orifices. I paused to catch my breath then continued on, thrusting myself with much friction, occasional exhaust of heavy smelling gas exited her, eventually the room reeked of the odor. I next grabbed her head and did unspeakable things of a grizzly nature when I got too carried away, " Damn it all!" I had cut myself lightly on one of her canines. I poured some cold-well water over it and for a moment I considered retiring for the night, regretfully I objected. No longer concerned with my cut I had the idea to try myself at her derrière area, from here I am with much shame, so I will not go into detail, but it did bring me to a satisfactory climax, which was almost ruined by my assistant who was delivering a cage to our office. I had heard the front doors iconic creek just as I was finishing, "Just One Moment!!"
I yelled in desperation, exiting her taboo hole with my fluid seeping out behind. My pants were up as quick as my assistant swung the old door open entering our office where he then laid the cage down and upon viewing the corpse I made sure to rearrange orderly, said "You know doc, people who dress their dog up for a funeral make me sick" Satisfied with his lack of conjecture, I retorted "Yeah I know what you mean"
I knew I had dodged a bullet that day, never again will I perform such acts with canines. Felines are sufficient as their size makes it possible to sneak in my apartment in providence.

The other hand, he asks about
a telling questionnaire
reveals more about the one
who thinks he sees the other bare

The deconstruction critic tries his hand at deconstructing
"I'm always me", he says as ginger
To the raw, no glance, sashimi
The difference is a life lived underground
vs.
being caught, sold, and eaten. With pleasure

>to speak to to
I used to three times in the past three lines, so I used it three times in one line to even things out

>meta-self address of the lack of symbols (while immediately using slate as a symbol)

it's almost like I'm trying to say something here.

>the caps definitely didn't add to the poem

who says every line needs to be an addition

>I hope the resolutions I'm trying to do work

it's becoming apparent why you don't write in everyday language

Dawg, it's a critique thread. I was showing my issues with the work. It's easy to explain away why your poem is perfect, but I obviously wasn't interested in your 'evening out of to' or the ALL CAPS of the last two lines for no reason.

>it's becoming apparent why you don't write in everyday language
why?

why are you getting defensive of a critique while you're defending criticism?

>why?

the grace with which you think you write with in your symbolic persona is completely detached from your social persona. the ideal you're trying to embody is only available to you in your detachment. I get the sense that when you speak normally, you wish you could be speaking otherwise. Try and bring the two together so you can begin painting beautiful pictures for the receptive.

CHAPTER 1

If Anton needed a reason to leave Alguazas, the angry mob gave him one.
The rioters rushed up the street loud enough to make his floorboards tremble. By the time they reached his door downstairs, he had to force his hands from trembling too.
Anton nearly hit the rafters when a torch shattered his bedroom window. Nighttime wind blew through the hole and chilled the sweat on his cheeks. Then came that timeless phrase:
“Burn the witch!”
Ice-cold fear rimed Anton’s spine. He needed to act before things got out of hand – or at least before things went through any more of his windows. With his back against the wall, he bunched up his robes and stomped out the torch. As he knelt to grab it, he glimpsed shard-sized reflections of his narrow face and pitch-black hair. He averted his eyes as quickly as he could. This was hardly the time for vanity. His knees wobbled as he peeked over the windowsill.
Around thirty townsfolk and half as many guardsmen swamped his doorstep. They fit the portrait of your run-of-the-mill rabble: pitchforks, clubs, tha sort of thing. What set them apart was their pack of wolfhounds. Surely few towns in the realm could boast a fiercer breed than Alguazas. Their fangs glowed by the torchlight with blood-red lethality.
Anton rallied his courage. He’d survived the last three mobs and intended to continue that streak. Springing to full height, he hurled the torch back from whence it came.
The rioters released a volley of gasps and trampled one another to get out of its way.
“If you want to burn me alive, that’s one thing,” Anton shouted. “But if you set this house ablaze, then every one of us goes up with it!”
“What’s that mean?” called Rodrigo, the local blacksmith.
“He’s fixing to bespell us!” hollered Camila, Anton’s next-door neighbor. The mob jeered at that.
“Like how he bee-spelled the Bishop!” shouted the town drunk.
The mob jeered even louder.
“That’s not what I meant!” Anton knew better than to explain the flammability of brimstone to these buffoons. Any reference to his reagents would be lost on them. He shouted at the top of his voice, “My point is that I casted no witchcraft! Not unto my home and most certainly not unto the Bishop!”
“How about enchantments!” shouted Camila. “What happened to Anton the Extraordinaire!” “Yeah!” agreed Rodrigo. “Enchantments! You sold me that elixir of hair growth just three weeks past!”
“Quack or wizard!” boomed the drunk. “Either way he says it, the Bishop’s dead and it’s ‘cus of him! Let’s killim!”
The mob’s cheer gave Anton goosebumps. In a choked voice he cried, “Sheriff! Get me the sheriff!”

>try and bring the two together
believe me, I am. I'm obsessed with modernists, but I live in NW Georgia. It's a weird clash and I'm trying to figure it out. I've got it to work a couple of times. Barring spamming the word aint and dropping g's on every -ing, I feel like my accent is hard to write out for me.

>hard to write out

I think this might be your problem. Instead of taking the modernist approach of trying to eliminate. Try instead to incorporate. It's much easier, and eventually more fruitful, if you take what you have and apply what you've learned to it. Not erase what you have and replace it with what you've learned. Otherwise you become the product of others who have done what I've just suggested you do.

And being a product of that sort is the first step to a life of needing validation and suffering from neurosis. Don't fall victim to the trap my southern brother.

I'm from Southern California. So I understand the problem of the "accent and lingo that detracts from commonly accepted ideas of intelligence and aesthetic". Just because we talk like them, doesn't mean we are them. Embrace your sense of belonging and add to it a degree of separation.

I believe in you. Heavily.

The Day I Saw a Man Eat a Handful of Beetles.

In his hand he holds out a pile of beetles: very Kafkaesquelikeish. I ask him what he's doing and he says to me, uh, not much really, just gonna eat these beetles. I wasn't sure why he'd shown them to me. He poured them all into his mouth, shoveling with his hand, and I was like man, you sure ate those beetles, and he was like, yeah, that I did. We went our separate ways. To this day, I still think about the day I saw a man eat a handful of beetles.

Formless, thoughtless, tinfoil prose,
Spineless, boneless, on-the-nose,
Would I have known,
I would have left it alone.
I wouldn’t have tried.

I’m sure you’re wonderful
And charming in real life
And surely you don’t see the world
To be so black and white
Why, I’m sure we could be friends, you and I.

If you were to die today,
I still would be your friend.
I would put your kids to sleep,
And put your wife to bed.
I’m sure we could be friends, you and I.

Du hast tatsächlich Recht. Das ist eine weitestgehend ziellose Stilübung und das erste Stück fiction, das ich aus eigenem Antrieb geschrieben habe. Magst du näher drauf eingehen, was dir gefallen hat und was nicht?

Sore roast ain't just one pot ina' rubberized hose, all pulled appart like Jerrard's pink tubes.

(Ain't no thing, ain't no damn thing.)

We says we, but we means NO.
Then--Witha' deeper billow of rawing lungs:

(A harsh cough from a trout's jaw.)

Just fuckin' launch me on to that white n' red oilcloth picnic with Philip's trebuchet

At last, the change
From thorn to petal

Our dance, a maze
If tall, it settles

From start, we pirates play
stabbing for the blood that spray
The treasure that is mopping up

You and I
We've lived a life
In front of all

To most, segmented action
Without the next incorporated
Into that before

Now four.
From two, to three
Tinfoil covers as reflection
The underbelly hardly seen

The crosséd leg
to mask the beast with total self-control
My friend, if you touch my wife
From one we must begin once more

Half of the line-breaks don't have any purpose other than making prose seem like poetry. Either use enjambment to create duality of meaning, or use it to complete an image.

Thanks! I wrote it just for you :3

What makes a rhyme not cringey to you? Is it because it is too obvious of a rhyme?

If he's still using the word cringey to describe something in his criticisms you shouldn't pay much attention to what he's saying. Let alone dedicate a work to him.

Your rhymes are stilted and have the quality of elementary school. They're definitely the weakest part of the work, but this doesn't mean they're cringey. Cringey is something someone says who worries about that quality in him or herself. Disregard cringe. Disregard the neurotic.

Brutally honest and raw. Possibly the best thing in the thread.

This reads like really shitty spoken word poetry.

Some other user said to use enjambment to make split meaning, but some of the clever-twists you try to throw in are actually more off putting that the more pointless line breaks.

Generally just stop ending on articles etc. It sounds like I'm watching a tape reel that wasn't properly stitched together.

As opposed to...a gentlemanly and refined Mountain Lion?

This is for all of you: enough with the weather, and the clothes and facial expressions and fucking ADVERBS!

John Green?

You guys have to get over the idea that your 'ponderings' are unique or interesting. Fiction is characters and plot; stop blathering about your feelings. You all think and write like teenage girls.

wachu got sluggo

The subtext here is that you are subtlety implying that you too have nothing interesting or unique to write about beyond plot or characters, which is sorta sad and emotional, like a lonely teenage boy with self-esteem issues. Maybe you should try believing in others and yourself more.

Find the second stanza much harder to understand compared to the first, which to me feels jarring when read as a whole. I like the first stanza though, I actually remembered your original posting of it back when you wrote "face" instead of "features" because I liked the first line a lot. I don't quite think you need to capitalize all those things in the first stanza, especially when you don't to anything in the second. Overall, it's a very sweet thing you've done for this girl and you should give it to her regardless of what you perceive its overall quality to be - if she is worth knowing further, she will be grateful for the simple fact that you've put so much effort into making something like this for her, and so you needn't feel self-conscious at the final product.

thanks bud, you too, but I think you misunderstood me. I'm not trying to get rid of the accent, i'm trying to find good ways to write it out on paper. I def don't want to be anything other than myself when writing. I just have a love of Eliot and was raised on southern-fried KJV idioms.

I didn't write fiction you dumby. It's a poem.

If your buds unwrap to swan’s sweetly song,
And your gown floats so gently with the wren,
Have thee crown bow to verdant tree’s sarong.
And curtsy the clouds of the burnished green;
In forests these off’rings of you polite,
May tip the trees in majestic hindsight.
Hath the bushes been burned for skies to night
Or laughter flown high in and out of sight?
Lend me thy hand so soft to human touch,
And dip thy legs in the yule of a stream,
Beauty is a princess, laughter of dreams
But duty to a forest the sun gleams

...

>know
what makes you say that?

does he lick your vegan vagina?

fuck off,

have I struck a cord sweetie

I liked the idea in the first line. It's just the blathering that's bad.

>This is a terrible thing, to see petals creased, as if plants were shapeless before being folded into some paper bird
Why start with that word and not "it"? The comma after creased is confusing. I get why it's there but it and the rest of the structure makes the middle part seem removable, as though it were something in parentheses, which causes the sentence as a whole to sound strange.

Then you blather into "Pluck away at the whorls like eyes as I have plucked away the world. Thou pluckest me up, lord- oh, pluck me harder lord! pluck me in the ass! Oh pluck, I'm gonna pluck! Pluck me daddy! Pluck me!" etc while attempting to rely on your word processor's formatting options when you don't have to.

In the "I cannot imagine" line, consider changing "but" to "and yet", then killing the comma after "trunks" and putting the word "in" in there.

>And the thorns, who could forget the thorns?
Yes, who could forget what is perhaps the single most obnoxious literary meme of all time next to "poetry in motion"?

The next line is neat. Would be neat if it was from the perspective of whatever's being pressed into the book. I defaulted to a butterfly since we were on the subject of pedals before the thorns poked in.

Then you have "Here lie", and then "here lies". Also, "thunder flies" is a real letdown combo. Thunder! -and then, flies; the whole line makes me imagine lightning bugs going between book pages, and then a going splat as the book snaps shut, which works against the otherwise delicate tone you want to strike. Although, reading it a second time with the image blocked out, I can say I at least like the sound.

>The rosehead, [which was] sitting, and was curling and beckoning."
The rosehead what? Complete the sentence. "The rosehead sitting on the shelf." would not be a complete sentence.

>How
end with a question mark

>much more like a harp on fire, whose sonorous twanging crashes up against the crackling fire, which also seems to somehow be on fire, because I can't stop ending on the word fire, and
etc

I would have liked it if the last no was it's own thing. You could get away with an exclamation point somewhere. You also could have had a colon after "over".

The next line feels like you want to tell me you just watched Saw without leaving your subject matter.

I don't hear the word "calyx" much, but I guess the confusion made me appreciate the next line more where you directly tell me what some other thing is called.

The word "shit" really stuck out like a sore thumb.

It would have been reassuring if you'd wrote "one last time" after saying you were going to start again.

The comma after "grapevines" should be a semicolon or a period unless you're really okay with comma splicing, and there should be a comma after "taller".

Colon after "loudly".

At I wanted another "and again," and an "again" before the last "begins".

I liked this.

Warm things I like:

Sunrise hitting me. The hope that comes along with the realization that another day is coming, that I can make anything of myself. That life is what you make of it.

Warm pee hitting my face

Raindrops patter onto water. He stands transfixed, unaware of the slow saturation of his clothes. Three magpie siblings huddle, invisibly, on a nearby treetop as alien climate unfolds around them. They call out for maternal comfort, assurance of safety, as fractured reflection falls through the surrounding still air. He inhales, a thousand scents announce the presence of a world dappled by light spread below. A company of ants traverse a puddle rocked to and fro, gripping to a ship granted by the bounteous decay of an ancient nearby oak. A small stream meanders once more, etching, serpentine through the crevices of a rocky outcrop. The tick of a clock. He presses his cigarette into an ashtray. His boots sound against concrete.

don't call me sweety, sweaty

don't call me sweety, sweaty

>At [a certain point] I wanted another "and again," and an "again" before the last "begins".
I ran out of space and cut something out of this sentance that fucked it up. Just remove the "At".

I actually don't have glands

you misspelled father

you misspelled im a failed suicide attempt

>been gotten

i keep a bunch of band-aids in the back of my throat for moments just like this one

Chalk sounds against blackboard busily amongst a chorus of hushed voices diffusing through heated silence. Pavlovian circuitry straining to quell simmering classroom rebellion as shimmering sunlight shines in through an open window. Leaders and loves are lost and found, enemies befriended and friends forgotten by a subtle economy of notes written in messy adolescent hand, signed by smirks and giggles. Didactic dictation demands attention from the front of the room, some listen. Fingers drum on a desk to an unheard melody, the hand of a clock harshly hits a high-hat, the bell rings.


Dark sleepy dome gives rise to sepia tones as the sun stretches across the sky. A long, hushed sigh floats over fields of lemongrass speckled by morning dew. From waking hamlet streets to a disparate world of green rolling hills I walk, soil underfoot. A steady, melodious hum of bustling life beneath the waving shoreline of wheat gives hint of interwoven cities in soil where lives, unknown, are lived, loved and lost, as generations past. On a rock, nestled in dirt of sprouting nettles moves a snail, feeling the weight of things wrapped in cloth under my grip, in a shared moment of hauled possession, I walk. At a fork in the path stands a weathered wooden sign, eroded by the elements, it stands, a monument to a life long since passed. Here the ancient carver now resides as a guiding spectre to many a traveler, here his memory remains. From a distant tree line the rush of a stream calls to an empty container wrapped in cloth, a path is chosen, breathing trees brush the sky as I walk.

Two random excerpts

>i keep a bunch of band-aids in the back of my throat for moments just like this one
glad I made a friend today