/lit/ - Literature

Rate my avant-garde prose poetry
>The question, I think, that I'd like to answer is why, if something can hit me with such a warmth, weight, and presence to it, can I

>Why, when nothing has changed, will an idea make sense one day and not the next? Or more, make sense, but only *significantly* one of those days? ... [simply] there's a need for an alignment of inner things, that feels like a presence, that give weight to thoughts and ideas.

>... like harmony but with the weight of a presence, that gives weight to thoughts and ideas.

>Harmony like a hand on the shoulder // There was this sense

>There's a moment that arrives like a distant guest and it tells me that

>imagining my thoughts like a set of strings is a common-sense thing to do.

>There's a state that arrives like a distant guest and it says that to imagine my thoughts as a set of strings is a common-sense thing.

>There's a state that arrives like

>... and it says that to see my thoughts as a set of strings is a commonsense thing.

>She wore black stockings, not white. It frightened him, this, and he suggested to her that she consider his sensitivities.
"It's a door being slammed over and over."
"I see."

>She wore black stockings, not white. I told you, she said. Why are you angry. I'm angry, he said, because,

>She was a one-piece puzzle that all sought to solve.

>All you know is how it sounds.

>It was a place of golden bells and the clattering of dice.

>She asked was he jealous. He said no. // the only reason he'd ever wear a dress was to have it torn off.

>They lay in a heap accidentally. Please

>There's a potential within me to feel for free.

There's a specific poem and poet that I'm looking for.

The poem I remember was about a man in a desert approaching another man eating his own heart. I think the poet's name was Jonathan but I don't remember.

Pls help.

old one died. critique, get critiqued. here's mine. i'm new to free verse. hate all you want:

What is that girded steel of logic,
That bloodless, blue-lipped utterance which says,
“Certainly you shall die – it is so”?
What is it, as I sit here, arms encircled around my love,
Our skins swelling with blood? Could the hot trace
Of her lips destroy its tyranny? Delivering me
To cloudy sublimity - time, space, all a jumble,
Kant is defeated. Causation goes down the tubes,
I cannot order this tempest of ear-beating sound,
In arcing coronas it surges, and she, the noumeon,
A thing kept in infinite estrangement, but near,
The cause of all this sense,
Of red, red, red! Oh, red her lips!
Red, wet, breath, oh, love, love -
God, she is with me!

>>6457717

Kandinsky anyone?