Critique thread, my fellow wannabes

>First attempt at poetry.
>English is not my first language.
>I hardly read any poetry.

Jeez, I wonder what people are gonna think of it :V

"Marina"

Coal colored coil
Grim are her eyes
Skin as a foil
Tempered as ice.

Posting the begining of ma story. Be nice

pastebin.com/whrPVMNz

Lovely stuff, OP, very democratic

all is good between us
good and warm and self-lit
maybe we are an oasis
just by way of the desert around us
what, if we aren’t an oasis?
but good and warm and self-lit
and starving?
i want to build an oasis for us
i bend over the sand
i make a hole with my hands
i let the sweat from my forehead drop into the hole
if i just wait long enough, there will be a lake,
a date-tree
and all will be good and warm and self-lit

>be me, be posting shit
>online but irl I spill spaghetti

>the face when no gf
>cause she rejected me

>what does zeus mcthunder give to her?
>how might mortal man give more light?

>muses grant me a robot tale of bravery
>or content me with my fate

>but please never leave me strung between the two!
>for the only thing less a failed god

>is a failed normie

Wean yourself
Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of more invisible game.

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say 'The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.'

You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.

Listen to the answer.

There is no 'other world'
I only know what I have experienced.
You must be hallucinating.

First sentence: OK. We have a character who knows where he is and what he is doing and can say so. Praise be to the merciful lord.

Second sentence: "semester" "professor" "economics major" [OK, it's not 100% guaranteed this is a workshop story. You know the drill. You have to keep going on the charitable principle. It has happened. Maybe like once in a thousand tried, but still.]

Third sentence: "2027"

[skips down]

"It's the one for autism"

troll.

Four long paragraphs to get to a personal pronoun. Literature, fiction, narrative, belong to the Humanities, root of which is "human." As in put one in this who is either "I" right off the bat, or the wall of text description that leads is just deus ex keyboard warm up.

My girl's name is Senora
I tell you friends, I adore her
And when she dances, oh brother!
She's a hurricane in all kinds of weather

Good stuff user. I'd cut the stanza about lakes and streams, keep to the home/house language you use in the rest of the poem.

Give me the title, what the blurb would say, and who would give this a back-cover endorsement.

Vincent got up, gathered his few belongings, and began to drift across the town. He walked along picket fences on gravel roads. The sun was shining. Upon a hill, Vincent could see the worker ants below: some throwing cornmeal out into chicken coops, others fetching water from wells, wise old matriarchs washing clothes on the riverside, and others walking briskly towards absolute destinations. Everyone had a purpose in this town. Even the most destitute had occasional odd jobs, and when they didn’t they were at the bars, with their friends, drinking away the money they had made. He admitted to himself that he was out of place. It was not the fear of being “found out,” as a freeloader that bothered him, but rather the remorse of ever coming here in the first place, of ever leaving. Jail was hell, but at least in hell he had a purpose, a job. The pain of having no purpose was like the pain of hunger: intolerably sickening, overwhelmingly ridiculous, but there was no food and certainly no meaning to be had in these dry streets, in these ramshackle huts.

I have a negative predisposition towards anything that has to do with zombies. I'm sorry. It just seems juvenile to me.
Not bad for a non-native speaker. I'm impressed with the sound of the first line. It is a nice use of alliteration, but the poem itself does not have a foundation. I would suggest you make the second line that first line. It establishes your subject, and it would give the first line more power, as it would suggest that her grim eyes are the Coal colored coil you are talking about. Ice can't really be tempered, but I get the metaphor that you're trying to create. It shows us a cold and distant woman that you are nevertheless drawn towards. Also the line about "skin being a foil," seems to lack context. It is difficult to understand why her skin is compared to a foil. In the sense of aluminum foil it is kind of a weak metaphor, but you could make this statement more powerful if you mean foil in the sense of a contrasting element in her appearance. If you mean the latter metaphor I suggest you throw in an adjective describing something about her skin that seems inviting, like "Smooth skin as a foil," or "Warm brown skin as a foil," or something like that, except better in the sense of working within the poem.
The repetition of "Oasis" does not seem deliberate. Also the use of "by way of the desert around us," should be reconstructed to be an active statement rather than passive. What I mean by this is that you should rearrange the lines to be something like "There is a desert around us. This means that we are an oasis." Again, don't take this suggestion verbatim. You're the poet so make it beautiful, just know that if you flip the arrangement and make it active your poem will have a greater "punch" to it.
I like this poem alot. The conversation with an embryo is very original and interesting.

I'm the same poster as but I ran out of characters so here is the rest of my critique.
The ending has a nice twist to it, but on a personal level I dislike anything meta. It seems to me like a cheap trick that has been done over and over again, however I have no problems with your method of delivery, just the meta object that has been delivered.
Also it is my personal opinion that these lines come off as cliche:
>There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.
I would suggest you use different landscapes. Mountain passes are fine, but the wheatfield and orchards in bloom are sort of cliche.

I thought about the working title "Toilet Humour". I don't know what "blurb" means in this context, given that English is not my mother tongue. It's fun to play around with though, which is why I wrote what I wrote. Would you like to give it a back-cover endorsement?

There was an old song that my mother sang
When I was young, a western song.
The words are dull and soft now,
But the melody is warm and close.
Sitting close to a fall bonfire,
Wind and starlight beating down our backs
Our faces warm, too warm,
We want to turn away, and don't,
So we bear it, the cradle, the whispered song,
And limbo and its outstretched hand
Helps us in the ride, and straps us down
To the sweat-soaked safety belts,
Waves us down the wooden track,
And clocks out for lunch.

Why do people write stories
that neither rhyme nor
could be regarded as poetry in any way
like this?
To annoy the reader,
I assume.

bumping

No one wants to read your shit because you formatted it like idiots. This is not poetry, it's badly formatted prose.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
OP is a faggot
And you are too

You're replying to a John Ashbery poem I posted as a joke.

Actually, not that guy, but this is a perfect example of why John Ashbery is the most overrated hack since the crazy communist Pound.

What is the agent that "Helps us in the ride"? By the rule of recency it might be the cradle? The whispered song? "Limbo"? Some conjunctive permutation of all three? How does any combination of cradle song or limbo "strap us down?" What would that look like?

And what conveyance uses a "wooden track?" Without extensive research there is no way to know what kind of vehicle is even involved here. And how do any of cradle, song, or limbo "clock out for lunch?" Do the half-damned get to go for a walk during "limbo"'s lunch hour? Or you could take the syntax all the way back to "Wind" by the rule of primacy, and trying to imagine the wind doing any of those things doesn't make any sense either. The wind as a shift worker? And even that is anything but clear.

No other poet of his alleged status would allow this kind of syntactical faggotry because they are not fake. Strand would never have tolerated that, and neither would Jennifer Chang. Nor Pinsky nor Natasha Trethewey. Even Kay Ryan, for whom I have no other great admiration, always manages the sixth grade task of keeping her subjects and verbs together. Ashbery is the king of the poem about nothing. I've been fascinated by his following of mass mutual delusion for years. It's big support for the assertion that academia is where ideas go to die.

>I'm sorry. It just seems juvenile to me.
If I told you it was a metaphor for my sadosexual attraction to my cat would you think it was adult?

Dammit, do people not post in critique threads anymore? I remember when these threads used to get 200 + replies

I made a poem called Titanomachy about a mutant asteroid miner rebellion topping a dystopian technoindustrial future and then in turn being threatened with a rebellion by aliens that they encountered and enslaved in outer space.

The Titan's sons were Gods
and Gods' own children men
and when they're overthrown
man's servants will be ants

and in this age of coal
our heavens will be earth
all full of mighty crafts
and full of mighty sin

it all so full of smog
that none might ever tell
our highest earthly heavens
they should not be our hell

and when our men soot-stained
become black titan kings
who should not say their ants
become as gods as well

when men are demon-kings
obese with pockmarked veins
and fit with iron lungs
desires will be sated

from heavens they will come
once sent to mine in space
the mutant prisoners
man's own clone children!

and from the outer dark
when earth they overtake
ants shall be titans too
and gods slaves from abyss

and in the depths of hell
men will keep company
with other fallen lords
and one will speak a poem

I am the first who fell
you are not of the last
and good men live short lives
and evil men live long

but all that lasts forever
just evil reigns eternal

Day by day i sink deeper into darkness
With a relentless giveaway to the creeping somber
At night i feel the call of sleeping madness
Whispering sigh a song
Of joy that lives no longer
From the yearning light came the call of a bleeding heart
With a burning might step nearer to the learing dark
In the black that swallows whole the strenth of gladness
To the grave that holds the path to eternal darkness
The night that speakes in tongues of sleeping somber
Through dark that grows in strenth with age of yearning bleakness
Bring, along the call of burning weakness
Blow, the flame that glows with burning need
the call of weeping hands in lands of yearning joy that bleed and hold the void of light, by day
And day i sink deeper into darkness
With a relentless giveaway to the creeping somber
At night i feel the call of sleeping madness
Whispering sigh a song of joy that lives no longer

its really bad but has an interesting premise, you're not a poet though or you're an unthinking faggot who didn't care at all about making it readable. Try harder or just write a short story with top tier prose
already fucked up with the first line, never ever write anything that you could find in a movie, or a tv show

>My girl's name is Senora
>I tell you friends, I adore her
insane!

I scrolled through it and a wild bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk caught my attention. How bout you stop being a pseud?

I annotated what I felt was the most natural syllable stress

by i er to ness
a reless a to ing ber
At i the of ing ness
per a
Of that no er
the ing the of a ing
a ing step er the ing
the that lows the of ness
the that the to enal ness
The that in of ing er
Through that in with of ing ness
, a the of ing ness
, the that with ing
the of ing in of ing that and the of , by
And i er to ness
a reless a to ing er
At i the of ing ness
per a of that no er

You can see it almost but doesn't quite fit into metre.
At i the of ing ness
is alright and basically iambic pentametre so I'd go with that for the rest of the poem.

The first thing you might want to do is add a bunch of combining words like and to make the verses start with the same stress.

So something like:

[and] by i er to ness
[and] a reless a to ing ber
At i the of ing ness
[and] per a
Of that no er
[and] the ing the of a ing
[and] a ing step er the ing
the that lows the of ness
the that the to enal ness
The that in of ing er
Through that in with of ing ness
[and] , a the of ing ness
[and] , the that with ing
the of ing in of ing that and the of , by
And i er to ness
[and] a reless a to ing er
At i the of ing ness
[and] per a of that no er

Then I'd fix up some of the gaps in stress with filler and remove some uneeded words that break up stress patterns:

[and] by i [more] er to ness
[and] [...] reless a to [...] ing ber
At i the of ing ness
[and] per [a] [ing] [...]
Of that no er
[and] the ing [did] the of [...] ing
[and] a ing step er the ing
the that lows the of ness
the that the [...] enal ness
The that in of ing er
Through that in with of ing ness
[and] , a the of ing ness
[and] , the that with ing
the of ing in of ing that and the of , by
And i [more] er to ness
[and] [...] reless a to [...] ing er
At i the of ing ness
[and] per [a] ing [...] of that no er

Then after that I might fixup the length of the verse so that they vary by at most a syllable unless they are at an important part like the end.

However, the poem is fundamentally shit because it is all too confusing and does not directly tel the listener what it is actually about. It all sounds like gibberish.

Give us your rhyme and song, they said,
Your daily bread, you metered maid.
We wine and bitch and moan and sit,
So tired of lying where we laid.
We see your spark, and yearning mouth.
The shining shopkeep's feedback loop
Reflecting in the shadow's doubt.
Be still, my bard, you'll get your due.
But buckle down, you spoony twerp,
We have demands that you must meet.
You sing for us, you swollen nurp,
Your milky flow must sate and whet.
I bowed my head and sprayed with spunk,
The glib globs glistened on their backs.
As I withdrew my snotty trunk
They took turns tonguing out the cracks.
Please stay, you hulking specimen,
We crave your seedy, singing way,
They spewed while I recapped my pen
And whispered, poetry is gay.

> However, the poem is fundamentally shit because it is all too confusing and does not directly tel the listener what it is actually about. It
i think you should read some Dylan Thomas. Anyway thanks for the analysis man i'll go over it

Not enough constructive feedback or discussion. Too many people just dump their shit and ignore the rest of the thread. Doesn't help that a lot of "critiques" are one-liner insults.

There's next to no concreteness in your poem. Not that a poem absolutely needs it, but it requires a more developed writing ability than you exhibit in this example. I'd picking an object at random, something you saw today perhaps, and write it into a poem. It should help bring your poetry out of your head and into the world.

>Moldy flesh
>broken bones
>fighting men
>ugly fools
etc.
Mess around with this adjective + noun pairing. It will be a good excercise. Teach yourself about the organisation of words in a poem. In the one you posted I get the sense you were only thinking about word selection, or even more specifically worse, adjective selection. It also reads like you weren't serious, is that the case?

You hop in and out of various tones like you're trying to say something. What is the desired effect? I only ask because your poem reads like you haven't asked yourself the question.

You did okay, in a way, but you set yourself an easy task. All things considered it's bad, but somehow commendable.

The tone has a bit of diary desu about it, which doesn't (nothing does really) mean it cannot be a poem, but it requires a lot of general poetic competence to pull off. I tend think of it this way; that the only two reasons someone would enjoy reading a personal fantasy of mine is if it speaks well to something more general, or renders the particular with interest. I don't think you have done either. Not to be too harsh, I sense an interest in language in your poem (rather than simply theme), which is a good thing.

First consummate poem in the thread. I liked some lines far more than others, but it's obvious that you have some idea of what you're doing. Post another. I wanna talk poems with you too. Who ya reading?

A little quaint, but not without merit. Not sure what more to say. It reads like a poem about a story. It doesn't quite take on a life of its own.

Fair enough. Do you have a recommendation on how to format? A guide perhaps?

Wait, which is the Ashbery Poem? the old song my mother used to sing one?

yo nigga flex

The engines drummed deep into the night, their monotone buzzing mingling with the same tone coming from a thousand other planes. There was that, and only that. The crew inside was silent, as tense as new recruits come, only the pilot was yawning tiredly from time to time as he sat there, slowly falling into a placid, dreamy state trough watching the moonlit landscape passing below him. Land, land, land, a farmhouse, land, land, a small village, more land. He could not be blamed by the rest of the crew, as the journey from Kent was long and boring. Of course, this was not always the case, as just one year earlier the skies would have been filled with the Luftwaffe. Not anymore.
Grandpa fell asleep on the couch. He was snoring. Not that that bothered anyone, his nightly sounds brought something into the house that was much needed: The confidence that someone was there, that someone was still breathing, that they weren’t alone, that Mom didn’t have to do everything by herself. She went to check on the kids one last time. Everything in order. As she went down the stairs back to the living room, she stopped by grandpa in his chair, smiled, proceeded to the kitchen. She opened a cupboard and stared at a dry loaf of bread, with a side of breadcrumbs. This, of course, was not always the case, as just one year earlier it would have been filled with cheese, sausages, sweets and all kinds of gifts straight from France. Not anymore.
The voice of the navigator crackled over the intercom: “Orders from command. Correct course by five degrees north“ The pilot started to turn the plane as command said it would be required. Even after this many missions, and that many more added by the RAF, he still enjoyed the feeling that came from when something as complex, as deadly as a Lancaster obeyed what was only a slight turn of the arm for him. “One hour left, boys”, the navigator announced.
Crying. From the bedroom. It’s one of the kids, but who? And why? She ran upstairs. Grandpa remained undisturbed, at least from the outside world. Mom opened the door to the bedroom. The source of the crying was her smallest daughter, Lisa. She had woken up her two brothers, who first angrily stared at her, turning their head towards their mother, demanding that the disturbance be put down. A kiss, some secret whispering, and her breathing was beginning to slow down. “Schläft gut!” It was time for her to sleep, too.
The pilot’s pupils shrank to a small spot after he glanced at his watch. All these missions, and the fear, the dread he quenched until now was still present, hidden under his bored visage. He liked to tell his friends that the war had hardened him, that he was not afraid of death. Lies. “30 minutes.”
1/2

Mom got into her bed carefully. Still, the ancient wooden construction creaked with her every small move. She hated it, this phase between being awake and sleeping. There was nothing to shield her from her thoughts now. She pulls a grimace as she remembers all the things she promised her kids. Lies.
Flak rounds explode around the plane, shedding light at the crew from various angles. This morphed their faces.
2/2
It's not done yet btw

Through time on ground, alive
Put their hands on soil that weeps
Man is the salt of the earth

"Just like Pyong Ying Yang Twins"
Best shit I ever read.

I was here,
Not for long,
Took a dump,
Then was gone.

>not shitposting, i wrote this originally as a shitpost for /pol/ (it's 1999 characters exactly) but i've come to unironically like it
fee fi fo fum
i smell filthy yankee scum

against britain they bravely stood
never wond'ring if they should
and the common man though bravely fought
for his trouble was gifted nought
the fruits of american liberty
to the landed, moneyed gentry
dockhand bob and baker ted
the scrutineer counts not their head
and power is as power does
and voters vote for merchant's cause
thus the revolution dies
born from bitterness and lies

then came spainards, then came spain
then came indians, and their pain
of these mere imperial spats
know nothing, say nothing, speak in caveats
recite the old american lie
and ignore a destiny gone awry

the civil war needs not much prose
though i don't discount the nation's woes
instead i note with unbounded glee
that whether conferederate or yankee
they were all american, no matter their dress
so every corpse was one yankee less
and the only war the americans win
was against themselves, and more's the sin
that we might not see it's like again
for a yankee's loss is civilisation's gain.

and the only thing less noteworthy
than this stanza's contents
is the US contribution
to both world wars on the continent

thus we come to vietnam
a US victory of aplomb
which lasted all of thirty seconds
though many many yankees reckon
that though their strategic aims unmet
and though communism it beget
whose failure there is no equal
yet deserved a sequel
so we come to the middle east
where yankees fight the jihadist beast
and though their aims i'll not deride
their aim i'll criticise.
through yankee eyes the world is scary
of every civilian a terrorist wary
and so they bomb and bomb and bomb
with fire and fury they seek to calm
and when the hyrda rises still
again they seek to kill and kill
first in egypt, then in libya
next in jordan, then in syria

if you heed not what i write
you need only wait for the yankee's bite
for before that fat fuck's slavering maw
and despite yet losing every war
freedom to your land he'll bring
so shut your face and praises sing

I grip on tight,
And grit my teeth,
With all my might,
On this toilet seat,
I squeeze and moan,
Sweat and pant,
I push and groan,
But yet I can't,
I wipe my brow,
And sigh aloud,
Come on now,
Make me proud,
I push, I push,
I work for it,
But it will not come,
My massive shit,
I try and try,
But here alas,
I sit and cry,
My blocked up ass,
Where have you gone?,
I will not quit,
My biggest one,
My massive shit,
I sit and wait,
And wonder why,
You wont escape,
Through my brown eye,
First round to you,
I'll give you it,
But we're not through,
My massive shit.

An original piece.
I call it "The Inner Battle."

Somehow, the phrase "one year earlier the skies would have been filled with Luftwaffe. Not anymore" gave me the impression that the war is over, so I was confused by the flak rounds later. I see now that the war is not necessarily over from that phrasing, but I think my error suggests that the reason for the Luftwaffe bot being there could make it clear we are still in combat. Presumably in some more friendly form factor, there would be formatting indicating that we are in two places at the same time.

[narrative one, blah blah]

*

[narrative two, blah blah]

Or something. I presume these two groups of people are heading for some kind of interaction and that it will be devastatingly dramatic. Or so I hope. In general, frequently covered ground demands extraordinary innovation and WWII is no exception so this needs to become startling good or socks-off shocking at the end.

Style - is there a way to yawn "excitedly?" That's one of those adverbs that doesn't need to be there. Unless there is a deeply relevant objection, I also prefer "The plane's engines...thousand others" because it removes the hanging ambiguity of where we are that lasts for 20 words as is. Some of the most difficult things to do in fiction are also the simplest, like getting char from place a to place b. "..., smiled, proceeded to the kitchen." functions, nominally, but there is opportunity there. "crackled over the intercom" also has an opportunity to remind us it is breaking the monotone engine drone that was made so much of earlier, but the opportunity is missed. Such small things instill a consistency that gives readers a subconscious sense of confidence you know what you are doing. "as command said it would be required" is a syntactical awkwardness that reveals a first draft inattention to each sentence. "The source of the crying" another opportunity missed. I prefer to see Lisa in her setting. "Lisa the smallest daughter, sat upright in bed with her blanket over her head bawling because her brothers had etc." Or something. Humans doing things in settings.

It's something. You know how each scene wants to feel. I hear the echoes. That's all fine.

1) cyber-cultural anthropology as the study of existing data structures mapped onto psycho-analytic topology; machines can't stop humans can't stop 2) third order simulacra as the base of other simulacra; becoming the map; can't be without being 3) vectors of capital; jungle death in the west 4) in the belly of the machine that is bleeding to death; darkening touch densities bleed out into the reterritorialization of noumomenous war-machines 5) schizoid break only way to resist 6) schizoid break only way to resist 7) becoming undone, unraveled; can't kill a person, can't kill your former self, there are no people 8) flatten out the immanance, become to accelerate, kabbalah number symbols in the mind of the machines 9) there is no escape 10) rhizomal archetecture of the mind, desire to desire-classifications, micro fascism 11) no escape

>a ain they ly stood
It's funny but the metres off.
>It also reads like you weren't serious, is that the case?
It's a spell for a D&D game. It's not serious.

The Rapist:

and seeking Orphic heights
I chanced upon an orchard
one filled with wine and song
with delight and torture

and in Pan's strange orchard
I found a jug of wine
and drinking this weird vessel
I found just chthonic depths

The word for Pan is panic
his hymn is laboured breaths
for trespass in his gardens
his maenads gave me mercy

and tore apart my flesh
and tore away my throat
so that I could not sing
or feel my great distress

it's Tartarus that binds
and Bacchus that destroys
no mortal flesh can bear
the passions of the heart

thanks dog

Cottontail tablets
distinguished fire extinguishers
called Bobbies in Brazil
where sex is sexy
and booty bumps
we all laugh in the streets
that hide high in the sky
with chemtrails
and governmental conspiracies to keep you alone
the world wants you to die alone
and so you will
everything before then is simply filler
for your inevitable demise in utter solitude
where they will hear your screams of dread
and do nothing
not even the crickets will chirp when the earth takes you
because you have chosen this path
of meaninglessness
and mediocrity
Don't kill yourself
you'll inconvenience the coroners
during the holidaze

For the stoned user, read this down, upside down. From down bellow up.

Like a clone. Light like a dome. Crown of knightly throne. Night bright dome.
Where my splender is my thrown.
Bringing tears back up to own.
Thinking, about my rates.
Here I wrote

Japan: the land of the rising sun. It has been exactly one year since I’ve visited, and yet it feels—to embrace the cliché—just like yesterday. Like every world traveler indulging in that ineffable sensation known as wanderlust, I was looking for something. Cultural enlightenment? Everlasting love? A collection of hyper-niche anime tentacle porn? Only divine providence could tell. But to give you the short answer: I just found a lot of really cool, weird, and fascinating shit. From owl and cat cafes to Australian fluffy pancake eateries to boutique contemporary art museums to sardine-packed karaoke joints to world-class sushi tasting menus to pachinko gambling halls with lights so fast and bright than any unsuspecting guest could seize up at anytime, Japan’s endlessly sprawling capital was an Amazonian river of over-stimulating and totally extraterrestrial cultural ooze that I simple couldn’t consume quick enough. If you weren’t totally deprived of a genuine American childhood and your parents took you to Disney World as a kid, then you know the feeling: standing at the frontier of an undiscoverable landscape of beauty and wonder that beckoned your eager heart like the songs of the sirens, or Gwen Stefani circa 2005. Ironically, Japanese people often report experiencing what is called ‘paris syndrome.’ It represents the cognitive dissonance tourists feel when they visit the French capital—or any prominent city—and the pockmarked reality of it fails to meet the expectations of the romanticized ideal they have in their minds, no thanks to schmaltzy Hollywood or postcards. To be frank: Parisians are generally rude, snobby, pretentious, and rarely as attractive as the Deneuves and Bardot’s of cinema. This did not happen to me in Tokyo. Simply put: the city astounds. Especially the palette.
My Serbian traveling companion—let’s call him Slobodan—and I were fortunate enough to score seats at an exclusive little sushi bistro called Sushi Yasuda, as seen on Anthony Bourdain’s parts Unknown. Unlike upscale sushi restaurants in the states, this place was small, quiet and austere. The chef stood right behind the bar, personally preparing each and every piece of sushi in real time. There were no menus. There were no unnecessary decorations or affectations. Just chopsticks and food. Each dish consisted of no more than three pieces of sushi at a time, to be consumed post haste. The idea is that once the raw fish is cut, there is a short window of optimal delectability—something about temperature and consistency or whatnot. Aaaaaand, holy fuck. I never knew so few ingredients could produce such rich and complex flavors. It was an art. A true and transcendental artform bestowed upon us by generations of genius and mastery. I felt #blessed. And oh yeah, it was $300. So pretty good deal.

Wasn't getting anything from the other critique thread and I was one of the first few posters

He had no more to say to Jesus but one line. He stopped him from his course to the garden. He slowly reached for his hand, looked up at the back of Jesus’ head and said slowly,
>“Truly, Jesus the good Jew, the virtuous man, before you go into that garden, listen to me”
and with a brief pause of recollection, he closed his eyes slowly and spoke as they opened towards Jesus,
>“I have no God, but it is okay; I have your mortal words.”
The right foot of Christ trailed back towards the man, turning His body and His head. As His head turned, all could see tears falling to the hard ground. And horrified was the Atheist as Jesus faced him fully. His face was covered in blood. The tears that fell were not even of water; all were mistaken. Christ was crying blood of agony. Frightened, the man tried to let go of Jesus Christ’s hand, but he was never even holding it. And all that was said from the Lord was
>“Why have you forsaken me? Why do you persecute me? Why do you hate me? Why?”
All was silent. The man turned down and away as fast as he could in humility and in horror, thus Jesus proceeded to the garden as told in the Gospels. Though all was silent, there was only one sound occurring in intervals. Every second or so, the impact of drops of Jesus’ blood would hit the ground. The man said nothing, for he could not. His mind was interrupted by the loud impact of blood hitting Gethsemani. Remorse was in his heart and on his face as he let Christ walk away. And history was unchanged. The man went back to his time. I could not tell you if he converted to Christianity or not. I wish I could. But I cannot; only he can say.

I defy my orders
on a terrifying basis.
Tomorrow is where duty belongs:
this disingenuous belief dissolves the bones
and turns any carrier into wispy mush.
Individualism means nothing
if one can be divided so easily
by simple neglect, and blind hope.
Suffering, the prerequisite to joy,
abuses me with its absence
as distance does with fondness.
11%: the time I spend in diligence.
The rest remains a mystery of faith.
The world won't spin for the motionless,
nor do hand-outs arrive to the hermit's hive.
I dedicate lifeless words like a German expressionist
to a potential version of myself lost on a milk carton—
plastered to the amphitheater in Carthage
lies an obituary written in Tagalog
of a man who died in the womb
while fighting a herd of venomous locusts
coughed up by the last Dodo
who time-traveled to tell you this:
"Don't be a chicken
and just cross the road."

Pls r8 I want to burn my writing is so bad.

The moment was a haze that stretched out like hell fire as screeching rubber burned against asphalt. Slivers of hot glass ripped through the air as a heart wrenching scream came from a small face masqueraded behind long, blonde-silver hair propelled forward by unrelenting force. Her frail body ripped from the seat into the polyester straps that gloved her tender skin. Only a quickly growing, deep fleeting pain could be felt throughout her body as her glassy opal eye glimpsed at the gaping empty seats to the left of her before a blackness and an ear shattering screech engulfed the scene.

I liked the premise up until you specified that the other character is a time traveler. Until that point I thought he was an apostle, and you were going for a "lost account of history" thing. The time traveler seems flat and it hurts the dialogue. I don't really understand his motivation for being there, and my own guesses don't seem to lead to anything I find intriguing. Stylistically, your prose seems stilted, probably deliberate for a "biblical" effect and that mostly works, but it occasionally gets convoluted and clumsy.

Feels like you're trying to condense too many details into a few sentences, and so the pacing and sentence flow get really bogged down. And you might think describing every detail makes things more immersive, being selective and leaving room for the reader to fill in things goes a long way in achieving that. Also, you really need to cull through and drop as many cliche/stock phrases as you can, i.e. "screeching rubber," "heart-wrenching scream," etc. They make your prose contrived and clog up the flow as well.

thanks doode

Yeah I hate how cliché it sounds, I’ve got to fix that. I’m trying to describe it without it being boring but also not as clustered as it is. Thank you.

Agreed. A big problem is also people dumping shit they admittedly haven't been working on. I get it, and I've done it too. "Not trying" protects your ego in case the work is harshly critiqued, but it also makes people not want to waste their time critiquing it.

You’re prose is mediocre and the vulgarity is off putting but not in a good way. You did have me smirking quite a bit though, you’re funny.
You didn’t need to say “young” and “nineteen year old”. It was weird.
All in all, needs work but not bad

just an introduction but

I was livid. I marched towards the twig working at customer service. His ankles looked like that of a fetus, like I could snap them with my grip. Somewhere on his collar I could smell alcohol. The dull European just stared down at the floor. I stared at him. Maybe, he was alright. Legally he wasn’t responsible. But the organization, the principle, he had screwed me over. So I took the avatar’s neck into my palm and said what any honky would in my place and asked to speak to the manager. Of the g—damned store. His eyes widened, but they didn’t light up. They were very dull, especially on the surface. Like when I was a kid I would shine a flashlight at my glass of milk because of something I had heard in science class, and the light would go throw but I wouldn’t see anything on the other side. He messaged someone over the walkie-talkie. I thought maybe it was God. Twig would call on God to come smite me, in the middle of the electronics store. I could see, right behind the end of the aisle, was a homeless man pissing onto a speaker. It evaporated to steam on contact; the unlucky bastards had probably been plugged in for weeks. I wish we could have traded places. He seemed to be at peace with the world. Twig was increasingly nervous, I was increasingly irate. The warranty was a scam. He knows it. He knew it all along. And here comes a man with a shiny head. His stomach was just the right size to bulge out without drooping. I could see my face in his teeth. He apologized profusely. Very concerned, very scrunched face. The scrunching pushed a little slurpee out of his beard and onto the floor.
“I bought this piece of—garbage—less than a week ago and it’s already gone to shit.”
I knew he would ask for the receipt. I had asked myself for it multiple times already. When I closed my eyes really hard and thought about angels keeping watch over me, I could sort of see it lying in a trash can somewhere. A brown trash can outdoors. It was probably too late. My mother was a devout Catholic, and she believed in Italy.
“I’m so sorry! Let’s get this sorted out—do you have your receipt?”
I knew he would ask for the receipt. I shook my head but stepped towards him. He was really beautiful. There was a line behind me now, desperate for my bride. She stroked her beard.
“I can still help you, but we’re going to step into my office.”
So I followed him. It hadn’t cost a lot of money but it had cost a lot of money.
His office was dimly lit, it made me think of Jesus, except it was pretty clear the man was Buddhist. Buddha himself had resigned himself to a shelf. The desk was littered with off-white 8.5x11. He sat down, drinking deeply from his slurpee. It was blue. I was too.

“I just need to open the system real quick…”
He smelled like he would have smelled if he wasn’t trying so hard not to. His posture had alternated three times already, upright then slouching then back again. Judging by the Kleenex he had been sick for a while, probably because he lacked personal hygiene. Swine. You deserve every last sniffle. The lukewarm glow of the monitor glowed into his face. If I had a friend like that, perhaps a dog, it would probably make my face glow too. Even without the backlighting. The backlighting was rather necessary in light—or the lack thereof—of brightness coming from the ceiling. The whole room looked like God had breathed life into it with stationary instead of clay. Something about it was waiting to slip under your skin—it owed it to me to be sterile.
“Alright, what was the serial number?”

=.=

Even strangers with a chance
To engage me
In mutual tolerance
And tobacco sharing.
Our noses drawn together
Brace a shield
Erected by my Particular Nature.
Idiot nature, keeps me from
The culture of my peers.

I hang before them,
A marble apparition,
Sable and demure
Luminous and excellent. Or,
Such is a necessary picture
To keep of my form.
So I may imbibe the impression
That my strangeness is unrecognized beauty.

I assert that it is,
And I do not feel bad
To be unrecognized.

Though I wish I could be
Closer to the cultures,
My prayers dribble over the great shield
And leap to fill the chests
Of my far-away friends.

Bump

>69 replies, 43 posters
raise your hand if you posted shit but didn't return critiques

The Variegated Contents of this Thread

Prolix prose
penned in falsetto,
Mendacious cogwheel,
Daglock libretto

In a little cafe
Just the other side of the border
She was just sitting there givin' me looks
That made my mouth water
So I started walking her way
She belonged to bad man Jose
And I knew, yes I knew I should leave
When I heard her say, yeah
"Come a little bit closer
You're my kind of man
So big and so strong
Come a little bit closer
I'm all alone and the night is so long"

yeah that´s me. I really don´t know what to say to anybody expect "hey dude that´s nice!" t b h. i feel like i´m not really entiteled to give people and extensive critique

Thursday.
“Ah, breakfast,” I said to myself as I sat down at the table, “the most important meal of the day.”
I looked at the meal that I had just arranged for myself. Eggs, sunny side up, bacon, cooked to a crispy yet chewy perfection, bread, toasted on the same pan as the bacon to savour some of that salty goodness, and freshly pressed orange juice. Truly a meal fit for someone like me. But then again, I was the one who made it.
As I began eating I turned on the radio as I always do for my morning routine. 7 o’clock, time for the news. It’s usually the same nonsense. This week’s celebrity scandal, war and famine in the middle east, some political mishap. I find it all quite boring to be honest, but it’s good to know what is going on in the world. If anything, it can always be used for a conversation.
After eating I finished my morning routine as I always do. Wash the dishes. Brush my teeth. Feed the fish. Pack my camera. All part of a perfectly balanced and clean way of starting the day.
As I left my apartment I ran into Mrs. Friggs from downstairs, an elderly woman in her 70s.
“Good morning Mrs. Friggs, getting the paper?” I asked and stopped for a moment.
“Yes, I hope it’s worth reading today,” she replied, “if not, I always have the crosswords.”
I smiled. “Give me a rundown of the interesting stuff when I get back, will ya?”
“Of course dear, but only if you will join me for tea!”
“I’d have to be mad to miss out on the best tea in England!” I yelled as I went out the door.

How is my writing style, should i post more?

your character sounds very smug

well i want him to seem self centered, so thank you!

I posted the rest in another thread

PIG HEAD FAMILY DINNER

This is a pig head family dinner
And we are the people, the circus freaks are dancing
Say hello to the sunshine boy
Boy boy, you know nothing
Now everything you need is here
And this is a pig head family dinner
The crows are flying above
The winter solstice bonfire
Let your body crumble
Let your mind become a cadaver
We are the people, just carry on
Till kingdom come, along the road
Into the woods
And join us, at our pig head family dinner

A real pair of literary geniuses, ladies and gentlemen.

Your piece is filled with awkward clichés. Nothing interesting at all happens. The interaction between your two "characters" makes me question your position on the autism spectrum. "Truly a meal fit for someone like me" is not a clever way to demonstrate your protagonists egocentrism, despite what you seem to think.

give me a chance dude i only wrote five words

I assume this is a fragment You should be aware of two priors, the Pilate chapters of Master and Margerita, and the entirety of Live From Golgotha. The main reason is to avoid any "parallel evolution" which agents or editors would spot instantly and uncharitably ascribe to plagiarism, but another reason is to see how two very different but successful writers took on the challenge of amending the gospels.

Thanks for the feedback, any tips on how to showcase his ego in a more subtle manner?

Unless you're into writing surrealistic stuff, abstraction inside abstraction inside abstraction isn't a good idea. But if you do, make sure it flows well outside your head.
>The moment (abst.noun) was a haze (metaphor) that stretched out like hell fire (comparison) as screeching rubber (metnonymy) burned against asphalt.
What about ''the air went hot as hellfire when the wheels screeched against the asphalt.''
Why be sorry for the seasons
or curse the hour these flowers grew?
We saw the wild Spanish blossom
grow baked with light and morning dew
I pressed it to your skin at dawn
it died then sun arose anew.

I just wrote this, can anyone help me with the punctuation? Also, should I stick to prose?

wait wait, parallel evolution and plagiarism? I'm lost friend

Live From Golgotha is literally about a time traveler going back to the crucifixion. If your story has any further similarities, it would be best to be aware of them because even though you may have thought it up independently it won't look that way to cynics who see such things all he time. In M&M, history is changed, slightly, by an interloper at the garden, similar to yours, but not a time traveler. Same reasoning, you want to see if what you have has anything else similar. M&M is canon famous required Uni reading, and Live From was a modern American best seller, so both are well known to the biz.

Honestly, the rhyme and metrum sound terribly forced. And while I'm obviously lacking context, it doesn't seem to make any sense either. I'd give it a 2/10. (But don't take me to seriously, I also consider Goethe to be one of the worst german poets of his time, so my tastes obviously don't match those of the majority)

oh okay thanks man.

What I wrote is a small 2000 word section on criticizing those (atheists) who only appreciate Jesus as a philosopher. And I add this little hypothetical story to reveal what might Jesus say about those who only like Him as a philosopher and deny all the divine parts described in His life.
So it's only that section.

But thanks man for the heads up, I really appreciate it

metrum is a bit uneven. I'd change it a little:
>moldy flesh and broken bones
>knit together, rise again -
>sally forth my fighting men!
>
>soldiers kill these ugly fools
>Thanos reap their lovers hair
>Tropos cut these threads of fate
>
>mortal man can not assail
>Hella's fortress, where I send
>your port, the abyss, to their end!

Nicely written. The "he, or she" seems a bit like forced genderisation forced though. perhaps "it" might be better?

Opening part of a piece of F/SN fanfiction I wrote. Bonus points if you know who the character is, I guess.

Darkness.
As far as the eye could see, there was nothing.
Light was no more, and would never be again.

Thick black mist surrounded his consciousness, threatening his mind every waking hour. That is, if you could consider it such, for he had not truly been awake for a long time, he thought. For all he knew, he might have spent several centuries inside some magus glass bottle, being kept half alive just in case his expertise was ever needed.

>And a later part, picking up the metaphors used in the beginning:
Light.
Bright Light.
Bright white light, burning him, tearing through the comfortable darkness, exposing all he had tried so desperately to keep hidden, yet not harming him.
Once his Eyes – did he even have eyes anymore? - had adjusted, he saw a woman standing amidst the light, looking straight at him. The second he recognized her, he started babbling. “You're not here. I didn't call you. You're not here. I didn't summon you. You're not...”