Critique thread?

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

>(0) Bloom

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

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

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

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

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

>(0) Bloom

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

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

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

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

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

this is actually good

this is good, vocaroo it though

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

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

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

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

And so on. Hope any of that helps.

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

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

id have to hear both

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

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

...

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

Oh Rachel

Pretty good. Freewrite or part of a project?

What's the best font?

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

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

Because roads that are biked can be above the biker?

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

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

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

>Forever were the days lost in the music.

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

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

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

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

1/2

...

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

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

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

Just a freewrite.

Not using proper English has been done already.

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

...

1/2

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

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

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

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

2/2

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

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

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

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

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

"Shrothald Cloompf…" he whispered back.

1/2

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

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

2/2

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

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

Title: The Cigarette Smoker
Genre: Short Fiction / Contemporary

imgur.com/a/SxcHY

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

y

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who do I believe?

...

Please rate the first two paragraphs of my short story.

:)

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

I select my first piece for critique...

.

...

Can someone critique mine, please?

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

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

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

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

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

What is a "disguising cloak"?

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

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

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

"in [the] light again."

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

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

Awkward phrasing.

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

This needs to be better evoked.

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

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

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

Lots of unnecessary words.

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

Laboured.

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

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

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

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

Here's how i would write it:

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

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

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

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

In short, offer critique. Not your meme reworking.

:)

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

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

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

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

pastebin.com/P2zKvdw3

pastebin.com/X5LsuxYz

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

I think we need separate threads for poetry and prose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

thanks, that was very helpful

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

See -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

don't write

>it's about drugs

Don't.

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

Neon (#1):

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

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

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

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

Pynch, is that you?

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

Yes please.

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

Right on, thanks bud.

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

this is funny

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

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

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

cool, will do then

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was getting caught part of your plan?

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

“Iced tea, two lemons coming up”

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

Brendan!!

It is non fiction

>And your prose are horrible.