Pussy fiend ran his fingers up the consent of her every move and motivation. She mirrored his actions...

>Pussy fiend ran his fingers up the consent of her every move and motivation. She mirrored his actions, moved to his apparent feelings, following each other in an endless play of mimicry and secrecy. Sorceress of nothing, a daughter of the damned, the last glimmer of an ancient kingdom with castles and white knights peek through her beauty, one last time. Now nothing but a slave, a feet woven candy stuffed white pot belly pig waiting in the white seraglio of a psychotic maniacs widowed fathers home. Whatever he did she did. They spoke unspoken the language of love, the unspeakable signs posted on the bazaar wall near the fruit vendor selling apples there, lady left a sign- she does love me! Pussyfiend, naked in front of the computer screen, imagining his princess bride to be, saying to himself, “she does wanna fuck”. This must be love she thinks, ignoring the last time she screamed and he just kept going and going and going and going- this must be love she thinks, even though there’s nothing there, but nothing is so familiar, now he is familiar, familiar in my nothingness. But what is this orgasm, why does it hurt? she thinks. One day she will be embraced in the arms of a Daddy, a man who will look into her eyes and with every breath enunciate with the winds of time the wrapping of life within the womb of love- I-LOVE-YOU, and shell have her first orgasm. Father, brother, lover, no, he will be her savior. But not just now. Now she remains, like the peacock, a beautiful turkey waiting to be mauled, plucked and tied, frozen then thawed, stuffed and seasoned on before being baked under ultra violent scorching temperatures and palm trees. The king palm, queen palm, zombie palm, etc. The desert, the beach, they endure and reappear always already anew.

How’s my prose?

Overly convoluted but could be used to good effect in the right context. What's it from?

This dick

...

I wouldn't mind reading another 300 pages of this

Bad.

I got like, maybe 90 pages

probably worth keeping:
>a feet woven candy stuffed white pot belly pig waiting in the white seraglio of a psychotic maniac's widowed father's home
>the unspeakable signs posted on the bazaar wall near the fruit vendor selling apples
>the wrapping of life within the womb of love


but kill the rest of your darlings, they're mediocre.

Needs more control. First two lines are beautiful though. Except I'd not use "following" but hold onto the simple past

pschhh the last line is killer

Fuck the simple past bro

thanks cocksuckef

it's too obvious, it gives me the feeling that I've read it before.

i like it, some of those run on sentences should be longer

mostly I think it would have more impact if there was something else where "The desert, the beach," is, that's the boring bit. Deserts have been done to death.

What would u put

I think you're a kook but some of this is unironically beautiful. I'm impressed mang.
How long have you been writing for? Did you set out to achieve this style, or did it just happen to evolve this way?

update: the more i read that paragraph, the more i like it. you've got something special goin on son

I mostly think of Salinger. Just say what you want. And I think of what heidegger said, like language is dead poetry. Like Tao, sprezzatura, effortless. If it seems off the cuff it is. Ion, wait for the muses and they speak through me. There’s no technique, just slowly lift the mirrors, “never mind the maneuvers, just go straight at them” admiral Nelson. I don’t even like to read or “write”. But every once in a while I’ll begin on the page and all the sudden it’ll happen. like in Dubliners, I was reading of Eveline the other day. It plays like a song. I’m a musician too so I like rythm. There’s always a secret baseline that’s driving the story. Like I’m recording, you just wanna bring out that key, that sound, clearly. There’s something that’s happening to me, i just sorta allow my recorded to express it. Call it Geist or Peter Pan. I’m a terrible writer, but I’m a firm believer and like a Saint Simeon that’s it, just a pure shot of straight AHHHHHHH
Knowm sayin

>The desert, the beach, they endure and reappear always already anew.

I really like that. Post your 90 pages?

I'd put

>under ultra violent scorching temperatures and palm trees, the king palm, queen palm, zombie palm, etc., their shadows on sand dunes endure and reappear always already anew.

my thought process being

The rhythm of "the desert, the beach, they" is good, so I'd look for something that fits that. "shadow" fits where "desert" is and is, I think, more satisfying - you can link this up with the list of palm trees so they form one sentence which is still building: "...zombie palm etc., their shadows..." and now we have three syllables left to bridge the shadows and their endurance - "on sand dunes" evokes both the desert and the beach by creating a specific image rather than simply bluntly stating their existence, and as a bonus "shadows on sand dunes endure" has a lot of assonace.

IMHO, YMMV etc.

NB you roast turkeys, baking is for cakes.

Fuck bro that’s like a full years work. If ur really interested you find it under archive on lit I’ve posed before. Either under the name ov1d. Or the name pussyfiend should come up in the post, he’s my lead character. I would love nothing other than for someone to read it tho, it’s fucking madness. Every once in a while I’ll go over the entire thing, it’s fucking bonkers. One day I’ll publish, it’ll be a punch in the face

take it bro

The problem with this "there's no technique" attitude is that you end up producing lazy and self-indulgent gibberish that nobody wants to read

If u like it, fuck it
An author should reach for his own standard of perfection, Salinger said that


I personally can’t stand bukowski, but that don’t stop the millions who he resonates with

ya man. i try to encourage that ballz2wallz attitude in myself too, but it's a work in progress.
your talents are appreciated my dood.
i don't know if you can generalize like that. most people would probably benefit from some semblance of a "process", but i fell that authenticity of expression is sometimes inversely related to how polished a text is. and i think some people just have a knack for playing with sounds and semantics, and can recognize aesthetically moving combinations thereof
and i think that "good" writing can at best temporarily hide a self-indulgent writer's self-indulgent tendencies. unpolished self-indulgence is at least honest. and OP's text honestly does not strike me as s-i

>OP's text honestly does not strike me as s-i

It’s so kind you say that but I must admit- it is completely self indulgent. Because what’s crazy is that when you pierce through the unconscious you find the being always already prepared to serve and protect and help and love.I think the concept of self indulgence as a negative thing is a interjection in that it is an idea that’s unquestioned by user. For me the only way to God is through the self the shattering of all false idols, and facing the sun. I think in the Hegelian sense that It is man who is the ultimate expression of he were to be what he was born to be destiny flourishing, Spinoza attunement comes to mind, or Bergsons concept of freewill and time, like the future will always be totally unexpected but necessary, man like one day you wake out of your stupor and in the midst of a intense project it’ll dawn upon you that your a flower that’s trying to bloom. And you need water and sunlight. You were born to fly, but this cocoon was made a little to full proof.

i think i see what you mean by self indulgence now.
perhaps this is related to what's on your mind. to overcome the ego, one must in a sense embrace it and follow it to its logical conclusion, so that one may eventually expose the illusory nature of all that exists within it (this shattering of false idols you speak of)
speaking from personal experience, it is a strange state to feel that the self is all that is. to destroy the self is to simultaneously expand its reach infinitely in all directions.
>the future will always be totally unexpected but necessary
just as the past, no matter how problematic, must be embraced as necessary if one is ever to grow to the point of categorically unconditional acceptance of the present (which for me is just God by another name)
i haven't read the dudes you mention, so you may be talking about something different entirely, but in general it never ceases to amaze me how often the ideas of people who thought deeply about the nature of their existence and were able to turn inward (this self-indulgence, perhaps, that you mention) always seem to compliment one another

this