CRITIQUE THREAD

this seems a lot better. The key is to connect in a unique way, which you seem to have done in this one

Ending just seemed forced. Shouldn't take long to fix. Just a suggestion, though. Don't listen to everything an old man on Veeky Forums says.

I'm not a prose guy
I like philosophy
But this is shit

No, I agree. The ending bugs me too and Ive been playing with it. Thanks for the input.

Currently busy doing HW but when I free up I'll read yours and let you know what I think.

...

synthesis.blog/2017/04/07/the-mask-of-social-media/

Anyone whose read infinite jest share your thoughts

You best be trolling, nigger. This is unintelligible horseshit.

burp

...

Nice, but a couple things:

Your rhythm could be improved. Try to make the number of syllables and the emphasis consistent.
>but I don't know her all too well
>and shed this tedious spell

Also, you use the word "tedious" twice, and it may have been on purpose, but you may want to try finding a synonym for one of the lines.

That's it! I like it!

Definitely use "univocal" and its derivatives more. Clears up any confusion.

thanks!

yeah the use was intentional but idk if Ill keep that in there

Wrote this yesterday. Still ain't got a title.

Steve was
an empty husk,
or so his girlfriend had said

The word “husk”
particularly
fucked with him.

On the bus back from New York,
more specifically Brooklyn,
his neck hurt, and beer
stained his “Big-Ups” t-shirt

The gig
was alright

He got to meet those other,
more musically experienced empty husks
shared a joint with them, and

as his girlfriend later pointed out
didn’t smile through the whole thing

“You,” she said, “you never do.”
“Do what?” he asked
“Show your teeth,” she said.
“Not even when you eat.”

Passing through Hartford
his eyes glued
to the ruinous buildings,
the word husk crept up
again.

Husk
Letters like the sound
of dry tree bark cracking
on the axe of a lumberjack

After some thinking, Steve realized
he did not remember his girlfriend’s name
Or how he met her
Or if she loved him
Or if he loved at all

They reached South Station
at three in the morning
and he left his bag full of clothes

and some vinyl he’d bought
and his girlfriend of three years
and he walked, aimlessly, until
the night collapsed into morning.

WALK WITH YOU

Why I walk the way I walk
Is because I do
It is me, ah, and you is you
I like the way you walk
Do you like the way I walk?
If so, lets walk under the trees
Let's walk through the fields
Let's walk down the blocks of the city under the moonlight
My favorite walk, is always when you walk with me

He didn’t care at all. He just did whatever, and he made it look so good. That’s why I liked him. That’s why I danced with him, and that’s why I let him put a pill in my mouth. Later, I left with him for my place. Finger at my lips, I let him in.

...

Does intimacy make you feel uncomfortable?

Bad, boring, pointless, simplistic, edgy writing makes me uncomfortable.

look babe, if you let him put a pill in your mouth, and you let him bang you then that's your fault

I see you do not write professional literary criticism

1. I am a man and this experience did not happen to me

2. This paragraph doesn't pass judgment on who's to blame

This is a critique thread on Veeky Forums. Professional criticism doesn't factor into the equation. The fact is people judge here based on their opinions about the writing, and in my case, I find yours terrible. Prestige doesn't elevate anything about your opinion.

Well as a critic your work sucks and I agree with what is there to critique? You sound like a tumblr poet who writes sloppy, boring, short poetry. If you looked like you put effort into your writing I would have more to criticize.

This is a critique thread, you're right. It's not a flippant opinion thread. Why don't you offer something more substantial?

I didn't say anything about prestige. I was referring to ability.

If you can't find anything meaningful to say about it that's your problem. There's enough there to talk about the style, the voice, the progression. But if you don't find it interesting well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

>I went to a club
>Liked a dude
>we fucked and I let him
>???
>poetry

Fine.

For starters, your premise is simplistic and uninteresting. There are elements worth exploiting here: drugs, sexual attraction, self-destruction, regret, hedonism, etc. Yet, you do not expand or even make an interesting scenario out of any of these elements. You simply describe what sounds like a dull explanation for self-destructive behaviour, posed in a teenaged, romanticized way.

Your main character seems like a typical "girl/boy gone bad" without any kind of charm, definite personality, depth or interesting trait. If anything, he/she comes off as flat, predictable and somewhat self-centered. Again, "edgy," attempting to find some kind of meaningful rebellion in inebriated sex with strangers. Had it been presented in a more sophisticated way, it would perhaps be at least a bit compelling.

Your secondary character, "he," is only characterized by how cool the main character seems to consider them. And established as we have that I do not care for the main character, I do not care for the second one either. The fact that his only quality is being cool out of apathy, and that that is considered cool to begin with, indicates an intensely childish understanding of character judgement.

What bothers me most, however, is the condescending tone your writing takes. As if the reader should be intrigued, bewildered, shocked, threatened even by the very common, very played out, barely even described situation at hand. If you gave me something else than a crude popsicle stick skeleton of a narrative, perhaps I would give a shit about what's happening to your characters.

This is the start of a small piece that I was reasonably happy with it.

He could feel it in his stumps again. The hot pain that crept up his palm and extended out into the air where his middle and ring fingers used to be. Folsom let the duffle bag slide from his shoulder and sat in the remains of an old road. He rocked himself back and forth, the gutter his cradle. Folsom sucked at his stump until the pain went away.
He dragged his duffle bag along cracked asphalt until it was at his feet. A small amount of digging around put a bottle of watered-down whiskey in his hands.
If the gutter was his cradle then this was his breast milk, and he sucked at it accordingly.

I'm not sure stating that Leniford is lovely is necessary if you're devoting the next paragraph to showing us that anyway. Maybe that was intentional and I'm an idiot.

Apart from that, while I wasn't particularly engaged by what I read I wasn't put off by it either. I'd read more.

I agree with a lot of what said. Rhythm could be tidied up a little and improved.

I thought the first stanza was pretty good.

*I agreed with what said

Ill rephrase as a good opinion, this is a ok attempt. If you want to get good at poetry read real poets like Frost and Whitman. I know in your life you have been disappointed by the outcome of your short inspiration, but when I say you suck, and someone else says you suck. Then what will the real critics say?

I think some of your criticism depends too heavily on the fact I've only posted a few sentences. It's not really reasonable to expect them to accomplish a lot of what you've suggested they might. It's a simple, straightforward beginning that doesn't try to do too much, while setting itself up to explore those elements and subvert those tropes you pointed out. The character continues to develop

But a lot I agree with and I thank you for putting in the effort

Thanks, but it's not poetry, it's prose. It just has an element of rhythm. To be honest I think that's clear.

I'm only defending my work in order to tease out better feedback. I am aware it is not anything special and I'm open to the idea it's genuinely bad

>and I'm open to the idea it's genuinely bad

There we go

My meditation on the stars is an obligatory duty, indispensable to me for a multitude of reasons. Tonight, I stepped into the royal observatory to gaze at those twinkling lights of heaven illuminating the abyss, once more. It is not hard to ponder under the stars, for there is a peculiar quality of mystery about them that makes even the slowest philistine thoughtful. It makes a man think of his utter insignificance: nothing but a speck in the vast expanse of space. Upon some reflection, man is analogous to a star in a certain light, in that both are miniscule grains of sand along the shores of eternity. But how majestic are the stars, that illuminate this dark infinity? Ah, if only man could shine like that!

Learn only to pause and reflect, if you wish to be wise, o ye ambitious ones. For you will find meaning in the celestial dance of lights then. Your head is bent towards the ground, man, worrying about trivialities. Look up! Look up with the sense of awe and wonder of the innocent child, and interpret this divine message.

The fresh air jolted the young submariner as he leapt from the black and barnacled boat, across the beaten brow, pausing for a quick salute to the ensign before he hobbled onto shore, still sprouting his new land-legs. The heavy sea bag, far too stuffed and with its lazy green pads, cut into his shoulders as he and his crew moved to muster stations. Allison Rory, along with a handful of others, were submarine riders, and therefor they would be off to the hotel as quick as possible for a swift check in to their command sponsored hotel.
“Chief, mind if I smoke real quick?”
“Not yet. Wait for the hotel—You really want to smoke right now? What’s wrong with you? We just got off deployment and you want to start smoking already.”
A grimacing look coiled within Williams—another rider—down casting his glance in subservience. Fresh air after a long deployment, as Williams described it, made him want to smoke relentlessly. He coveted his pack of sealed cigarettes back into his pocket, and heaved his own heavy bag up and aboard his lanky frame. The rest of the group followed suit and began the long trek down the sun-beaten pier in the country of Singapore. The first bus arrived, swallowed up the sailors, and sent them along the long, prairie roads that surrounded the city. A few of the submariners held up their phones to take pictures of the winding road while many more held them down, texting loved ones that they, once more, arrived at shore.
“I hear you can get Cuban cigars here!”
“Yep.” A different Chief replied, “And there’s a thing called purple-gold if you want to get something nice for your lady friend. Last time I was here I bought this nice little pendant for my daughter and she loved it”
“How much was it, Chief?”
“Not too much. You can afford it”
The bus glided gracefully underneath the concrete overpasses, sliding through narrow turns and headed towards the glittering city. Night had fallen quickly, and the streets were dense with tourists and locals, swapping steps with one another as they headed through brightly lit, perfect glass doorways on designer buildings. Skyscrapers mirrored the last rays of the setting sun, glancing them downwards onto the street and blinding passerby pedestrians. Rounding the last corner, the bus stopped beside a desolate street and opened its doors to a squat looking hotel. This wasn’t the rider’s hotel, but one reserved for the low-ranking seamen who were to share rooms like they shared bunks while underway. The ship’s crew cast jealous glances towards the riders, while the transient crew hailed a pair of taxis, unloaded their once heavy bags with a sigh, and flew off towards the night.

It was at this next hotel, on this auspicious night, and in the cover of anonymity, that Allison, the once quiet and reserved shipmate of the privileged riders, was to fall madly in love. After his comrades had retired to their rooms and were preparing long-distance calls of proper length to their families back home, Allison made his great escape into the city. His thoughts raced as his feet carried him, for he knew that punishment would be dire should he be caught and reprimanded. Still, the promise of the evening pulled him towards the dazzling lights and bustling sneakers of the Clarke Quay. The great fountain in the center hosed him in surprise, and his camera caught frozen memories of the elevated spirits that festooned the streets, just as the wreathes of colorful bulbs decorated the awnings between restaurants. A live band was playing at a quiet bar on the corner, near the waterfront, drawing Allison to the outermost table, where he ordered a Rum-and-Coke, and sat in pensive silence as he let the lights, people, music, drink, and ambiance cover his soul. He leaned back in his chair, pushing two legs into the air and felt a brush of hair behind him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— “
“It’s okay! Don’t worry about it, you’re fine!” a sweet voice chuckled in a hard-to-place accent.
Allison swiftly set down his chair back to proper order and swiveled fast to meet the voice, accidentally tipping his half-empty glass across the table, sending ice chunks sliding across liquored wood, sailing on only to fall into the newly formed puddle on the ground. A flush of red came over his cheeks and he found himself apologizing again to the stranger. She had laughed and met him with kind eyes
“Oh no! Oh no!” cried Allison, dabbing the table with his napkin coaster
“Here, let me help you.”
“Oh you don’t have to, really, I got it”
But the stranger moved impetuously with her own napkin, helping to clear Allison’s blunder from existence. In subtle glances, he noticed her thick, brown hair had dabbed the table like a painter’s brush, and it too was now soaked with the remnants of his drink.
“Miss, your hair!” He pointed
“Oh crap!”
Allison, now sensing that he had caused a bit of a scene, stood up and went to the bartender to get more napkins. When he returned, he handed a wadful of brown paper to his hapless victim and she began to dry her wispy strands of soggy rum-laden hair. She had hazel eyes, Allison noticed. She glanced up and smiled, half-cocked and timid. It melted his heart; it was the kind of smile that makes a man want to cut oceans in half and flatten mountains to dust, if only just to receive such a smile. It spread and threw laugh lines beside her button nose and filled her olive-toned skin with a vibrant hue of life. He felt even more guilty for having been the thorn in her evening, but noticed that she, like him, was alone in the night.

“You gotta let me buy you a drink, I’m so sorry about all this. I didn’t mean for any of this to, y’know, happen. I swear this isn’t some sort of pick-up line, even though you’re drop dead gorgeous and I don’t know if it’s the alcohol saying that or—” Allison was stammering.
“You need two” She replied
“Two?”
“Yeah. You need two drinks. One for me and one for you” She shot back through curled lips.
“Haha. Alright. You can have whatever you want. I’m so sorry!”
“Really? I might make you regret that.”
“Anything, I promise.”
“Just a beer, then.”
Despite the smile and assurance of her traceably Persian accent, he still felt the uneasiness of having ruined a perfectly good night, especially for her. His heart sunk once more, but not out of shame this time, but out of pure infatuation; the beginnings of a famous crush.
“My name is Roya, by the way.”
“Allison.”
“Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
“You’re only the hundredth person to say that”
“I see.” Her voice trailed as his fought to catch up
“Roya is a really pretty name. What does it mean?”
“You’re only the hundredth person to say that.” She laughed “It means ‘Dream’ in Farsi. I’m Persian”
“Oh? I’ve never met a Persian person before, at least not in person. I saw a movie about it once. Where is that on the map?”
“Silly, it’s not on any map. Persia is where Iran is and all the areas around it”
“Oh. I—I’m not sure I’m supposed to be talking to you then”
She looked quickly at the clumsy fellow, disappointment had turned her once dazzling smile into a tepid frown, and her face sagged away from its once upbeat and gracious countenance. Her head cocked sideways as she softly asked:
“Why is that?”
“I’m—I’m not sure I should tell you”
“You spill your drink, get it in my hair and now you’re playing ‘Mr. Mysterious’. Ha. You’re not very good at this, act, tough guy.”
“Oh, It’s not an act. Honestly. Well. You see, I’m in the military, and they tell us not to talk to strangers, because…”
“Because?”
“Because you might be a spy.”
A half-second paused in the air and clutched to the moment of her half-depressed face, before suddenly pulling her features and her head into a boisterous, slightly-too-loud cackle that filled the streets and brought strangers to a pause, as if they had missed some epic joke and had only heard the punchline.
“You think I am a spy? Oh my God! I’ve never heard that one before! I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never in a spy! You have quite the imagination!”
“I’m not sure how to answer all that. I’m sorry if I offended you”
“Offended? Not. At. All! But how am I supposed to prove that I’m not a spy?”
“I really don’t know. I guess I could ask and see if you’re lying or not”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you a spy?”
“No.”

“I honestly can’t tell if someone’s lying or not” he admitted sheepishly.
She laughed and settled into a smile. With one fluid movement, she moved to sit beside him and pulled out her phone. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume, which hinted at green apple orchards, as well as the lingering scent of Coca-Cola. A small part Allison’s heart moved strangely from within his chest, catching and entangling itself within heart strings. He remembered the days in middle-school when Megan, his childhood crush, would sit beside him in class wearing too much of her mother’s perfume. Whenever she had raised her hand, or was otherwise distracted, he would steal a glance from the side and count the freckles on her cheek. Small splotches of brown flecks gathered and sang choruses around her small button nose and bright, crystal blue eyes. She, too, would tie knots in his chest whenever she spoke with that soft, sing-song voice of hers.

too many adjectives, and purple. It feels like you're trying to push your philosophy and images into a person too hard.

i genuinely liked this.

very good rhythm to this. sickly sweet however.

Sounds like a vagabond or a bum or a hippy. Vagabond could be your title.

when you write free verse, try to use the beginning and end words to add emphasis to your points. in this case, on line 4, end it with "possibility", since its the premise of your entire poem. I like the rhythm and rhyme of this as well.

This is beautiful, nice work.

Morus, Chapter Two

williamguppyblog.wordpress.com/category/two/

I'll go through the thread and critique now

Steady on, Lacan old boy.

Novel idea, funny and sad. A tad on the nose, but I suppose that's the point.

A little cheesy, but nice altogether. Obviously not polished but I'd say keep at it.

Poetry from another time. Imaginative, if a little rough around the edges. "Mans too red" should be "Men too red" for example.

I sense a running theme. Good again, but I think you should tighten up the meter.

5/10

I'm always interested in DFW's basically conservative concerns, so I found this interesting. I'd be wary about simply placing the blame at the feet of "Vanity". Of course that's true to a extent, but we should be just as interested in the conditions which arose to create that vanity and what exactly it is we're getting away from when we lose touch with our humanity. Overall I enjoyed it though - good job.

I'm not too much a fan of the Tao Lin hipster detached-from-life literature, but by that token you're doing alright.

Is Skins back on the telly?

Enjoyable, I like your GRITTY style. Not enough here for me to say more.

This made me despise the narrator. If that was the intention, well done. If not, pull the reigns in.

Hope y'all like it.

Aposematism:

Twisting Hellenistically
in sheets that look like a storm-cloud
to me bathed in your stark-glow,
you could strike me dead with one hand.

You exhale and flatten the reeds,
with deep rumble like a lioness.
You leave crop circles, like a hurricane on the earth,
and are the golden apple of the eye.

Dripping from head to toe skin with a potent drug:
the hormone to blame for the sense of the holy.

Maybe like your mothers had all been so narcotic,
to inspire that kind of blind gasping at sin.

The prizefighter and the heiress
Both talented in their way
Both fighting for inheritance
Both entitled to their day
Said the fella 'I've thrown my gloves
And loosed my shoes
Come join me in the ring my friend
Quit these lonesome blues

The lady thought the longest while
And bathed the time in light
She came to the conclusion
That he hadn't won the fight
'Put your gloves back on,' she says
'And steady with your pride
You've dealt the eldest hand my love
But that part of me has died'

I'm a fortune telling concubine
I'm a troubleshot saloon
You're a welterweight companion
And you're light as a balloon
I'd rather chase my options now
And place you in the past
The future's not yet written
Though the die behind me is cast

>5/10

Why? ):

Cons:

I dislike the opening sentence personally. You should show us that Leniford is lovely rather than tell us.

I also think you slightly overuse adjectives. We are told very little by the sky being "colossal"; it is the sky.

The sentence "I would've liked to have been part of such interactions" strikes me as overly formal and clunky.

Pros:

I like the scenario. Of being involved in a lively, joyful town from afar. Very comfy.

I like the rich language of the breakfast, of the air smelling of spices and teas and of the artisans.

I also like the closing sentence. It sets the tone well

So on balance 5, or possibly 6 out of 10. You are capable of making it an 8

...

Thanks, user! That really helped.

There is a house. Cavernous easter egg house, somehow small and familiar. At the far western wing of this place - A structure. A stained-glass tent, made of metal, 20 feet tall, distorted as if seen through a melted mirror. A sheet of Rainbow glass draped over a rod at its apex, pulled taught. No doors or flaps, a lazily winding triangular tunnel that twists around the corner of unfinished space. You stand at the entrance, multi colored biblical shadows diffusing the light on the floor ahead of your feet. Take a step, don’t fear this new place, this place where you can’t see more than a few paces ahead of you for the curve, but where what you can see holds in its rays the pastel echo of the adventure that you were promised all that long time ago, before the pattern formed, before you were resigned. Your pulse is getting faster. You remember, don’t you?

I like it! Only things are:

"In their thoughts that are trivial" sounds awkward. Rephrase.

"To make good impact" is also awkward.

The last line could be changed so the poem has a more impactful end.

Thanks

agree with most of that but I actually thought the last line was impactful

what would make it more impactful?

I saw your thread a few days ago. I really love this piece. You excel at sentence structure and length in creating a paced tone. Honestly, I wouldn't change anything.

Get rid of "in fact" and then adjust to make the line fit the rhythm. "It wouldn't matter" is impactful, but it will be more so as the last words.

Wow, that really means a lot man.
Yeah, I have posted this once before.
I had dream about the scenario I described and I tried to evoke not just the images but the feeling too.

You definitely succeed with the feeling. Fantastic job.

2nd person narrator is usually hard to pull off but you did this really well.

...

why do I always notice misspelled words, moments after posting?

I wrote most of this out in my head in the shower.
Inspired by Pokey LaFarge:
pastebin.com/eVCASFd7

I think its just dandy, but I don't really get the ending, is it some sort of lit joke?

I bought a book to write in to distract from my considerable amount of unfinished work. This is the first poem I've written of my own volition in six years, I don't think I like it:

Look upon this fire I've made
Piled high with wastrel days
Charred skeletons of my lazy lusts
And now my bones are ash and dust
Burnt so too I found my heart
Turned to charcoal in the dark

A little purple, but the imagery is there.
Try to word it a tad more "conversationally".
Mostly the second to last line sticks out as awkward.

Hi, I don't know eritca, especially this vulgar, is allowed here, if its not I do apologieze, just let me know and I'll delete it. Long story short, I've ran out of money to buy wine and tobbaco I need to live the literary lifestyle and need to make $40/week quickly so I knocked up this. This is half of book one, do you think I can make a quick quid of amazon?

"As Ascii leant over the bathroom sink looking into the mirror, he knew he could not turn back even if he wanted to. He felt the cold ceramic touch his smooth flat tummy as he pulled the pink lipstick down from his face and pouted. He had being doing this long enough now that he could tell when he had pulled off a seductive female demeanour. His eyes met his own and he observed his feminine face, cautious for any hints of masculinity, but there were none outside of the margin of error he set himself. Following his golden pigtails that hung down to his shoulders, his eyes came upon his blue tube top. His body responded to his reflection in the only way it could; he felt himself swelling down below, until the tip of his 7 inches met the cold ceramic of the sink. He bit his lower lip as he slowly pushed his hips to let his head rub against it, giving it the stimulation it craved. He couldn’t help but giggle at his body’s naïve assumption that it could procreate with itself. Ascii knew he could play for a bit, but that he couldn’t get too exited. The main course was yet to come, but he could have an appetizer."

"Ascii reached down and wrapped a hand around his needy member, letting out a sigh as set his index finger at the tip, massaging his pre into it for lubrication. Then he pushed his wide hips out and brought his entire groin to the stem of the sink, his thigh high covered legs parallel to it. His fair-sized balls parted slightly as they squashed against the cold cistern, and Ascii began thrusting, rubbing and grinding his entire reproductive area. Ascii didn’t know why, but rubbing his cock on things was his favourite way to masturbate. He usually finished off with his fingers, but he could spend up to half-an-hour in this state of bliss. He enjoyed the thought that his pre and the scent of his cock would remain on the object, there was something simple and animalistic about it. But at the same time, he thought of his glans as more of a giant clit than a male instrument, a ball of sensitivity craving sensation. He looked own at his body: he had done a very good job emulating a female; it was hairless save for some light, fine arm hair and a blonde patch of pubic hair above his dick shaved into a love heart. Keeping pubic is fine, he thought, as it gave some personality to his gentiles. His year-long schedule of an hour’s cardio and squatting with weights had paid off, endowing him with a slim silhouette and an illusion of wide hips, caused by his ample ass. He wasn’t too strict with his diet; after all he needed a bit of fat to pull off a female look. He certainly didn’t want skinny thighs and was willing to sacrifice a little tummy fat for it. But now, as his cock grinded against the cold sink, he was getting close, and not wanting to waste his load, he gave two more slow thrusts and withdrew his cock back beneath his pink skirt.

Ascii wandered over to his bed and slumped down on it. Lying down on his side, he tucked his cock and balls between his legs so it was facing backwards and lifted his legs so his tight asshole was exposed to the air. He liked to lie like this so he could fantasize about someone walking in on him, although it would never happen and if it did he would surely be ashamed."

I know its debasing but desperate times and all that. Do you think people will pay 99p for it?

...

Should I bother trying to get my poetry published in a magazine or should I just make a fucking blog?

These Canadian mags publish the worst free verse and prose poems I've ever seen.

Nothing happens. His wife doesnt want a divorce, he's just worried about nothing.
It may have been a bit unclear, sorry.

>Canadian
Are you black or gay?

Don't judge me, I know its not purple prose, but Max Stirner had his wife I have this. This is only half, if I give it a punchy title and put it on Amazon I can buy tobacco and enough alcohol to get me wasted by Tuesday? Tobacco is £10 and 2 bottle of 3 litre Frosty Jacks is £3.49 (that adds up to $16.70 for Americans)? Please don't judge I just money quick, like right now.

No, but my the fictitious person I submit them as can be.

Not sure about the title, especially because I took it from IASIP kind of jokingly.

Good man.

>A little purple
>Poetry

user, what?

?

...

I enjoyed reading this one quite a bit.

Stanza 7 is fantastic, the conversation works, and the last line got me in the gut. Stanza 8 I might take out "husk" because the reader knows what "the word crept up/ again" means and Stanza 9 opens with "Husk".

I don't know if the protagonist needs a name, the poem might work without it and it came off as kind of cheesy to me.

In stanza 10 the first line could be removed without lessening impact of anything or hindering comprehension.

Last stanza and especially last line is very good. I'd read more of your stuff

Idi makes eye
contact with the
rats through the wall.

I'm laying on the
floor and she walks
up next to m head
Jumps onto my bed
and finds a better
vantage point from
the back of our
futon

I have a big playlist
of everything I liked
enough to put into a
playlist from 9th grade
12th grade
and onward.

On the floor,
with cat,
a box of wheat thins
seltzer
and that sad thing
as my soundtrack

In the crushed grass,
The expunged clovers,
And the beaten leaves,
Our red velvet lies.

Your locks caress my stomach,
Your tongue my loins.
On my hot breath
The forest hears my cries.

i'm not a huge fan of the tiny/sprawling comparison, the image is really aromantic. framing it as people who fill the space but somehow find room apart on the bed is more interesting imo.

"in the middle" feels completely unnecessary to me. i really love the imagery of churning fabric though.

the entire second verse confuses me, the implication is that their coldness is a result of destroying the declaration of war? that seems inverted, that the declaration would be the person rolling, not that the rolling would be a response to the other tearing up a declaration of war.

title definitely sucks for this poem, "nightcrawler" already has several specific meanings and none of them are the sorts of things you want to be bringing to this poem.

Here's two poems:

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

Earth was empty, without color or hue,
Without wondrous views, without things to do.

You painted the sky a gorgeous berry blue,
I rolled out carpets of green grass wet with dew.
You planted heaventrees where pearl-white stars grew,
I tied hammocks to the branches to hold us two.

Children may cry, lovers may lie,
All I know for sure is that one day we die.

But now it’s just you and me and the sky,
So we kick back and watch shapeless clouds roll on by.

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

Before the world’s whole shit got this dire,
Before the oceans got drier,
Before elected liars,
Before cigar-smoking folk in formal attire,
Before cities got denser and buildings got higher,
Before dictators found broken people to inspire,
Before we found all the land we could acquire,
Before Napoleon’s best-laid plans went haywire,
Before Gregorian choirs,
Before fiefs, serfs, nobles, sires,
Before Jesus, the Roman Empire,

Nude chimps huddled near campfires,
Storytelling.

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

last line made me chuckle. the "then you're good for nothing" line comes off a little too incisive. why make value judgments? are poets supposed to preach?

Second verse is a lot stronger than the second. "and shed this tedious spell" is a really obscure way of saying what you mean which makes me think you're restricted by having to rhyme with line 2's "well." So you can switch up the language of line 2, which right now imo is too plainsong to match the language of the rest of the poem.

I second what and said

thanks for the input. I meant 'in the middle' as contrast to corners in the earlier line, but agree that it is unnecessary.

I think you're also right about the tiny/sprawling thing, but to explain myself it came from this image in my head of like a whole room sized bed where the sleeping lovers would find themselves in distant corners from eachother or laying at odd angles due to the sheer size of the place, but that image is not at the core of the poem I guess.

Second verse is about one waking to find the other far away in the same bed, mostly what I wanted to get at was two people that love eachother being scared shitless in the night thinking that they've ruined their relationship or lost love somehow by something they did or said in sleep but don't remember. I think I can fix it having typed this out.

Lastly, I know the title is shit.

Thanks again

Also I would like the reader to understand that this is two people that are in love, but insecure about the other's love for them. Rolling over in your sleep is seeking physical comfort rather than giving your SO the cold shoulder in this case. The conflict is only in both of their heads. Does it do that? What else could I do?

Here's slightly edited version

Two tiny lovers
(they toss and turn at night)
Receding to ball up in cold cotton corners
like gathering armies
Or to crash together like great waves
in churning whirlpools of warm fabric

Spaces above sleep
and in half woke dreams where
Cold conflicts are invented feverishly—
Her curling away
or his rolling over
Abandoned for things said
accidentally aloud, or
only in dreams?

Only for her to break softly
on his shores
His ships to find warm waters
in her harbors
Cold sheets turned
to sleepless reunions
Never quite remembered
in the morning

In faith of you, my image remains true
Despite the idolatry that sways man,
And when heaven does break, the sky of blue
Shows the fairest of faces you began
While the climb of your eye sits aside twelve
And the clouds sit based, at your feet of gold,
You provide the steps; the heart does dare delve
To hope, yet memory reminds of old:
And tender hearts are scarred by lovely lips
And time’s stain cut deep into memory;
Do starry nights share hope or fall amiss
At the thought of sweet love’s truest beauty?
And if the pious do fall from graces,
Let verse free him, to gaze at heaven’s faces.

Thoughts on this?

Best ITT

same guy as before, i think if you want to sell the image of the expansive, room sized bed, you should lead with that. before, it read as though the bed were sprawling when compared to the tiny lovers, rather than the other way around.

the updated 2nd verse is definitely clearer about the intended meaning, but it's really on the nose now. i think working in the war theme, to tie it to "gathering armies" is probably a good decision, it was just overcomplicated in the original execution imo.

also, "gathering navies" might work better for the oceanic analogy that runs through the poem.

Beautifully written user, a poem about staying true to the ones you love. The lines that stand out to me are:
>and tender hearts are scarred by lovely lips
>While the climb of your eye sits aside twelve

I think you could make graces and faces singular on the last two lines. I'd encourage you play around with plurality in the poem.

This is me.

Seppuku For Spiders

My headache swirls to find
Adult games to play with,
And I play Seppuku for spiders.

Batteries turn to beatles, bones
Make the heart a moon of skin.
And I play Seppuku for spiders.

Friends scheme acid trips,
Snake oil for a cold,
without help that bridge burns
like red wax.

Haunted by grey eminences
Disguised as wraiths in dust.
Like a bodies edge, my sense of humor,
crawls out the door.

Centipedes converge in centripetal motion.
Their feet duty bound to task,
In the warm dripping caves,
And over cold dead bodies.
They play Seppuku for spiders.

yeah I kinda liked how verse 2 read before, but it didn't really say what I wanted I guess. I'll see what I can do, gonna let it sit for a few days. Thanks for the time

Write a bit more like you're from this age, you're producing nothing by hiding in an older form. I understand you're using the sonnet format, but, with the language you use you might as well be titling it "Cliche."

Maybe lose the capitalized first words on every line, at least until you get into a better, more natural flow. Then, add them again, see if you like it more or less.

"sweet love's truest beauty" is cliche as well, I've read that line a hundred times before. "To gaze," "let verse free him" (try to avoid explicit references to your medium, it's a bit too on the nose) "do starry nights share hope or fall amiss" is trite, and there is no good concrete imagery here to stimulate what you are trying to say. "tender hearts" as well is cliche, and "lovely lips" is a tacky use of alliteration.

Honestly, this is the kind of poem you could break apart for hours, but cliche is the major opponent here. Try to avoid it, because despite it being a bit crap, it's still written very well, and your control of meter isn't something to shake a stick at, whether that was intentional or not.

>in faith of you
Ew. Either in faith to you or With faith or
>In faith, my image remains true, to you.

I would either omit the second line or make it the first line, in which case I wouks change it to "Toward man's idolatry, I stumble. For in faith..."

>does
Was there any ever doubt about heaven breaking? when heaven breaks

>you began
Awkward

Not too fond of the eyes line. Purple.

The rest is fine except for the last two lines. Stay plural or make grace and face singular.

Lesbian lovers along the shores,
Their supple calves catching the tides.
All their fluids intermingle, women, sea, wine.
The moonlight shines against their sides.

In the cities the churches rumble
With harsh shouting deep, loud, and low.
Glass, and metal, and concrete crumble.
The caverns start screaming below.

And along the roads of dirt and sand
The flowers all turn black and wilt.
And the planets in the pitch black sky up above
All burst and their innards are spilt.

I would say give it more time to develop. Feels like a cop out, which is a shame because it's good.

no problem, hope it was helpful, also take my advice with a grain of salt because i'm fairly poorly versed with poetry

Thank you for the feedback guys! This one was difficult for me to write desu; I've been reading a little bit of greek mythologies recently hence the allusions to them. To address some of the things (I am taking them on, I just wanted them explained a little): firstly, cliche was meant to be prominent. I tried to use phrases that spoke of love as this ultimate thing while the foreboding of my understanding flowed through
In faith of you, my image remains true
Despite the idolatry that sways man,

The beginning two sentences create a kinda of paradox, first and foremost, because my faith is in someone (effectively an idol in my eyes) and I'm elevating her to god status, much like other men.

I dont actually mean to use the capitals haha, I write them and it autocorrects, but I enjoy them due to their natural emphasis on a changing of sentence or thought - deffo will have a look into just changing it up a bit.
Sorry if my writing style seems forced or olden desu, I really write like that (I write short stories as if i'm from the 19th century)
Yeah, the "let verse free him..." part wasn't great, i've changed that part now to make it more in keeping with the how the poem begins!
Control of meter is what, sorry? Could you rephrase haha
I chose the words specifically but I can see now how they are forced so thank you! I'll see about the first line, perhaps using something similar to yours or rearranging the poem entirely
That's a really good idea thank you! I was trying to make it (as said before) feel awkward (also with the whole 12 thing being an allusion to hercules 12 challenges, 12 main gods of athens, 12 steps of sobriety - it was meant to show the challenge of staying true)
the heaven breaking was further to go towards the unsureness haha but i see the point
yeah plural may have been a mistake

THANK YOU FOR THE HONESTY

you're fairly close to having a 9-8-9-8 structure to each verse, why do you break it on lines 3 and 11 to have 12 syllables each? if theres no good thematic reason to do that (which it doesnt seem like there is) it seems like a mistake. all you'd have to do is "Their fluids mingle" instead of "All their fluids intermingle" and cut the "up above", both of which would be positive changes from a redundancy standpoint anyway.