/lit/ - Literature

I was seven, an age you have to spell out
Because the number loses its meaning at
That age, when numbers are just rumors
Of your father. I was gullible; I still see
The Boogy Man when in family palmings
Who sits with us in a drunken miasma of
Children and disappointment. I wasn’t a
Football player or a nascar driver in one of
Those formula one races or whatever the
Fuck he’d be on about. I was a reader of
Books and not playboy, not the real good
Things in a life of materialism and cheap
Beer. I was hopeful for art and not hunting
Not that I was scared to kill something, but
Because I found it ironic even at seven that
I was going to kill to kill myself even sooner.
I was seven when I didn’t know how to build
A car from scrap metal (sorry) and pretended
I wanted to join the military so I collected G.I.
Joes and toy soldiers which I thought were
Cool but I would have rather read about the wars
Than play with them. “He’s one of those guys
Who can read the whole gun manual and not
Know how to shoot it” says Grampa. I don’t
Blame him. I was seven. I was lacking. I’m
Still apparently seven. A paradox of Bud Light.

fool fool you have work to do o cursed of god cursed and forgotten form shapes cunningly sweated cunning to simplicity shapes out of chaos more satisfactory than bread to the belly form by a madmans dream gat on the body of chaos le garçon verge of the soul horned by utility o cuckold of derision

stars in my hair in my hair and beard I am crowned with stars christ by his own hand an autogethsemane carved darkly out of pure space but not rigid no no an unmuscled wallowing fecund and foul the placid tragic body of a woman who conceives without pleasure bears without pain

what would I say to her fool fool you have work to do you have nothing accursed intolerant and unclean too warm your damn bones then whiskey will do as well or a chisel and maul any damn squirrel keeps warm in a cage go on go on then israfel revolted surprised behind a haycock by a male relation fortitude become a match flame snuffled by a small white belly where was it I once saw a dogwood tree not white but tan tan as cream what will you say to her bitter and new as a sunburned flame butter and ew those two little silken snails somewhere under her dress horned pinkly yet reluctant o israfel ay wax you wings with the thin odourless moisture of her thighs strangle your heart with hair fool fool cursed and forgotten of god

>Set kills Horus's father: The King
>Its a big courtroom scene as to who should be the new king
>no one can decide
>??? 80 years of filler
>Set anal rapes Horus
>Horus catches Set's semen in his hand, so no homo
>Horus shows the cum to his mum
>mum cuts his hand off
>Horus regrows his hand and puts the cum in Set's salad
>mfw Set eats the cum salad
>Horus is now king because Set is gay

Please don't give me the kid's gloves, /lit/. I've got my Scribe's exam in a week and I need all the help I can get

>>10317249
i like this, but i'm not really sure how to improve it. i think it kinda deflates about halfway through, can't really explain it but there it a notable change in tone- might be intentional.

https://pastebin.com/0AGvQcie
reposting this from the old thread. there are a few mistakes that i am aware of.

suddenly I hate myself
the island of irreversibilities
and lost opportunities
in which I live
the stupidity at large
the same old troubles
nothing changes
I want to quit
I want to quit quitting
I want to quit quitting quitting
doubt sprouts and I am paralyzed
all the promises and all the mantras
accumulated
can't get me out of this feeling
everything is dust

>>10317254
nice try
I have near unstoppable power level
you cribbed that from Mosquitoes by William Faulkner if im not mistaken, Gordon's stream of consciousness

ive studied, alas, philosophy,
law and medicine, recto and verso
and how I regret it, theology also
oh, god how hard I've slaved away,
with what result? poor fool that i am,
im no whit wiser than when I began
Ive got a Master of Arts degree
On top of that a PhD,
For ten long years, around and about
Upstairs, downstairs, in and out
ive led students by the nose
To what conclusion? That nobody knows,
or can ever know, the tiniest tender
which is why I feel completely undone

>>10317372
really good until you started bragging about your academic accolades.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Za3w8TvFsW6Zo_xJ53laAPu1cwjSij22aVJqnFBO218/edit?usp=sharing

There lays adrift in sadness yet to be
Potential pains of greater savagery
For I cling to notions found in reviere
That we can dance until the morn I die
Nightmarish depictions of you and I;
Assail me as lay there weak of mind
For every night e’er further do I stray
From ethereal beauty come my way
My brightest light casts shadows deep
And doubts plague my soul during fitful sleep
The things I dread come swiftly haunting me
At night my mind succumbs to mortal sleep
Like spectral riders they thunder towards
A weakened aspect of my failing will
Yet there she is my waning lumine moon
Shedding upon my beaten soul of yore
Silver’d droplets from Selene’s teary shores

(Structure needs working on.)

Let an old man walk and make his way
And modestly follow for a day
As he goes to the factories (the one where the horses die)
And sniffs some glue
And turns to you
And says, would you like some too?
The adhesive that chemically separates
The mind from the body, and negates
The clarity of day for the fuzz of twilight
For a moment or two

Would it be impolite? You stretch your mind and think,
Linking consequence to action, and note the passion
In the eyes of the old man.
Tears in the corners of his eyes
He sighs, says, you simply must try.
I implore.

A horse looks at you, and sneezes.

You gnash your teeth and clench your fists
I shan’t!
You declare. Things have been hard enough as it is
Without a hazy miasma fogging your eyes.
What a shame it would be to live
Knowing you were huffing glue
The decision vivid, the memories thick like clotted cream.

The horses give their bones to you, the old man cries.
The meal boiled to perfect consistency
For the glue’s tacky resiliency.
He spreads and smears the glue on his fingers
And brings it to his nose. Deeply, he inhales.
A smile stretches across his lips.
Deeply, he inhales.

You turn to leave, and upon your back
You feel the old man’s stare.
You do not yield, nor turn around
A short laugh pierces the air
And a soft squelch as the old man
Returns his fingers to the glue.
Simple boy, playing saint!
I used to be like you!

>>10317372
is this some cribbing of Faust

I haven't actually written anything but will you guys critique the premise of my story?

>>10317440
Let's see then

>>10317448
First one (and the one with the most fleshed out story being the /k/ommando that I am) is an Alt-History story. In this timeline Germany wins the war in Europe, pretty much everything that could go right for Germany goes right, meanwhile the US stays out of the war and the Pacific War never happens. The remnants of the English and French government goes into exile in Canada and plan their next move, Germany realizes that they can crush what remains of British and French and its possible with all the resources that has been freed up. Anticipating this, the Canadians beef up their coastal and AA defenses, effectively turning the Eastern Coast of Canada into an impenetrable wall.

Germany knows that a head on invasion of Canada will not work in its favor, so it weighs its options and decides that invading the US, who is still recovering from the Great Depression, will yield greater results. They'll invade the American Northeast and use it as a staging area for the invasion of Canada, the truth is that the invasion of the US is also vital in keeping the German economy from crashing since no plans were made for a peacetime economy. Thats basically whats going on before the events of what I'm writing happens, the initial invasion is a huge success, the US Army and Nat. Guard units are steamrolled and massive swaths of New England and South are occupied. And thats where things get sour for the Germans, US militias led by the remnants of the Branches of the US Military in the areas start a brutal guerrilla war that effectively halts the German War Machine in key strategic points in the US. The German Command now realizes that they must push out west as rumors of a US Base called Los Alamos is developing some sort of superweapon that could turn the tide against the Germans. Pretty much, the invasion of the US turns into Germany's Vietnam, there's a lot more detail into the different fronts and factions I'm going to write about but thats the gist of my Autism. Here's a map of how things are at the moment of the story

>>10317559
no thank you

>>10317559
Sounds like the wet dream of every backwoods fake country-thunder kid I went to high school with.

It's certainly not bad, though.

>>10317559
Alt history is always interesting. I'd say flesh it out even more and go for it.

>>10312663
Was it not even worth a shitpost?

>>10317584
>>10317586
It gets even more convoluted, I'd write it out over series of novels concentrating on the different factions and regions, I did a ton of historical research, mostly the history behind the different regions of the US to see how an insurgency would rise and here's what I've come up with.

>The SS fight a brutal insurgency in the Deep South against the KKK and Neo-Confederates trying to establish Old Dixie in the midst of all the instability (Louisiana Tigers will make an appearance)
>Wehrmacht is stopped in Northeastern New England by the Old Yankees (supplied and supported by the Brits and Canadians) during the coldest winter Maine has ever seen
>Texas Rangers, Militia and the National Guard hold off a massive German Offensive to buy the Federal Army enough time to get their shit together
>Utah and parts of Nevada and Idaho secede, still send Mercenaries and equipment to help the Texans fight of the Texan Offensive
>Appalachian Mountain Men dancing with snakes and talking in tongues before going innawoods and fucking with German Fallschirmjager attempts of breaking through
>What remains of the Military in the Southwest fight off Mexican Nationalists pouring in with the help of German advisors

So far the Texas Offensive and The Deep South arc are the only ones with an actual story to them.

>>10317616
Mechanically, you've got some word choices that really stand out as odd.

>Rich soil caked his fluttering trousers.
Maybe I'm being pedantic, but if something is caked with soil, how is it fluttering? I get how it's possible, I just had to reread it a couple times.

>His satchel, bulging with books, flew behind him and never got a chance to slacken so long as he kept his blistering pace.
The grammar on this is just weird.

>monotonic teacher
Monotonous? Had to look this up. Looks like monotonic functions in the same way, it just caught me off guard.

>quickened his already quick pace
What's quicker than being quick?

These are just a few things that stood out most to me. There's a lot of weird sentences in this thing.

Stylistically, what is this, your DnD campaign? Do you watch a lot of anime? All this was missing was some toast hanging out of Ray's mouth and this could have been the intro to any slice of life ever. Whiteleaf? Blacktree? I sincerely hope you don't procreate. What would you name your kid?

Jokes aside, I like the big-picture flow. Having Ray run through the setting to describe it was a great way to get an exposition dump. The level of detail was right in regards to capturing the environment, for me at least. The word choice is often awkward. If this was more polished, I would read it.

>>10318002
Thanks for reading the whole thing. I really appreciate the praise as well, such as it is.
Like I said, I've never really gotten an outside perspective on anything I've written, so my apparently weird sentences are probably a result of my own incestuous critique.

Sorry if the setting is insipid. It's just some pablum I'm writing for myself. You'd probably judge me even harsher if I told you the whole things was basically just fantasy school romance. I have some ideas for other stories that are a bit less trite, but I don't really have the confidence to tackle them yet.

Is there anything specific you think I'm doing wrong? Like my word choice, sentences being too long or too short, clauses being shuffled incorrectly, ect.

>>10317559
Solid concept but execution is everything. My concern of these kind of epic pieces is that the 'human factor' typically gets left behind in favour of grand armies sweeping across the land. Keep Joe Everyman involved and you could have a winner.

>>10318127
No judgement. Write what you want to read.

As for "wrong" things, I'm not the right person to ask. I just know how it comes off to me as a reader, so take this all with a brick of salt. At times it sounds like you're parroting things may have read or heard somewhere.

>Verdant vines
>Cows chewing cud contentedly

It sounds like you're really forcing some alliteration here.

>telluric thump of untilled soil

sounds much better to me. It sounds like you came up with this yourself.

People can smell bullshit a mile away. Like the anon below you said, execution is everything. If it's consistent, it'll be good. If it reads like what you think a story like this is supposed to read like, then it'll be bad. I would keep writing this, especially if you like it. It seems as if you do.

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Here I lay surrounded by these fresh and crisp greens.
Shredded carrots slip between my fingers -
sliding through, an orange stain still lingers.

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Cranberries and soy cheese crumbles haunting my dreams?
I tilt my head back, and seek his blessing,
and I am baptized in a vinaigrette dressing

Is it what it is or is it not what it seems?
Slivered almonds, walnuts, edamame, black beans?
My eyes roll back and I bite my lip
His finger glides down to my hip

My vegan daddy, with a kale kiss
Gentle, soft, secures my bliss.

>>10317425
this sounds a lot like a rip off of j alfred

>>10317626
i've seen red dawn. the whole glorification of guerilla warfare is so trite at this point, beside being implausible. it honestly reads like kommando fanfic

beside all that, i find military fiction incredibly tedious, like all tom clancy shit. unironically the best military scene i've read was El Sordo's hilltop stand, and not for the guns but the dialogue.

"Those flutters of femininity which flashed past her face."

Is this line, with no context, decent? I don't think I have any real intuition nor talent for this stuff.

Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, als N.M. klingelte. Sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig: Die Augen unseres Helden, D.F., bewegten sich rapide hinter seinen zugezogenen Lidern, Wasser mag doch jeder, das Klingeln dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong vermochte ihn erst beim dritten - aber nicht letzten - Läuten zu wecken, dummer Hurensohn, dummer Bastard, und er verließ das Bett (lechzte, lechzte, lechzte), noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erlosch, mit einer Bewegung, einer Rührung, die die allerletzte dieser Art bleiben sollte. Ein Mann wächst nur bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Ein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, sieben Uhr sechsunddreißig, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum - er wollte ihn ermorden - wusste nur er, allein, einsam, keiner sonst, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül. Er trat auf eine Plastikflasche, er war schon angezogen. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, mehrmals, immer wieder. Heute Morgen: Nicht einmal Vögel hört man, dingdong dingdong dingdong. Er ging die Treppe runter, wie jeden Tag. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Die Tür ging auf. Er hat wunderschön gekotzt, gestern noch, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, ja, jetzt ist alles dumm, jetzt ist alles blöd, kein Vogelgeschwitzer vernahm er. N.M. stand vor ihm, wie ein Baum, hinter ihm war der Rest, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, unverändert. Der Rest: Sein Auto, die Straße, die Zahnarztpraxis, weiter rechts das Tanzstudio. Er, N.M., versuchte sein Grinsen - er grinste wie ein Schwertfisch -, wie immer zu unterdrücken, meistens gelang es nicht, --Sag auch, warum du lachst, D.F. fragend, selber lachend, er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, sein Rücken tat weh, seit Jahren schon tat er weh, trotzdem hob er seinen Kopf, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, entwürdigend war das, sieben Uhr achtunddreißig war es. Das wusste er nicht, konnte es nicht wissen.
--Hat seine Gründe, immer noch wie ein Schwertfisch.
--Seit wann bist du in V.?
--Seit ... Er schloss seinen Mund, musterte das Vorzimmer, als wäre D.F. nicht anwesend

Conan readied his stance, and then struck with the force and ferocity of a wild mountain lion. The leader fell to the floor like a ragdoll. The rest of his posse stopped behind him, and seemed to start walking back slowly. But Conan gave them no quarter, and charged in headfirst. Little could be seen in the mass of limbs and bodies that surrounded Conan as he fought. The martial arts of the dojos of the civilised men couldn't stand a chance against the raw, barbaric power than Conan fought with. He took a man to the ground, elbowing him in the face, and then swept a man's legs from underneath him. He punched two more men, and then kicked another in the ribs with a horrible cracking noise. Despite the gang drawing short knives and clubs in desperation, Conan fought on without stopping. More and more men fell to the ground, either knocked unconscious or grasping their broken limbs or their bruised bodies. After a brutal few minutes, the Barbarian stood victorious.

>>10318594
>the whole glorification of guerilla warfare is so trite at this point

I agree wholeheartedly, like >>10318130 said, the human factor gets left out too much and we're stuck with too much armchair general bullshit. While the reader will have an idea of whats going on in the big picture, the characters (most of whom will be insurgents on the ground) will only know as much as someone fighting in the wilderness would know, with the exception of the SS Officer I intend on making the main character of the Southern Plot. For all intents and purpose, the insurgents are losing or making a fighting retreat with only the Appalachian insurgency being able to truly hold their own without outside support. I'll be drawing a lot from how guerrillas fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and Partisans in Europe during WWII when it comes to the technical stuff.

I'm writing this right now
in my current state
of lacking symbolism
on purpose
to create the effect of blank slate
to see from one side
to the other
to speak to to
to finally sit down and eat my food
without wondering
why my food tastes
the way it does
and how it relates
to POSTMODERN DECONSTRUCTION
TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

the time
the dime
the rhyme

the school
the fuel
the jew

the night
the light
the fight

the me
the she
the D

>>10318828
Did you type this with one hand and masturbate with the other?

>>10318913

I masturbated with one hand and typed with the other

Tom was one of those people who was very sad in corners. He sat in corners and was sad. Robins were his favorite bird. He had this theory that Robins were like the kind aunt of the bird world. That birds singing were what let the tree know to grow. That a really nice green maze in the square of a house was a very nice idea. That the idea of flying over a maze was very beautiful and metaphorical. That comedy was essentially just making very crazy metaphors. That artists and comedians were on the same line, a line that started with face value and ended with absolute truth. That both were somewhere in the middle, and if he had to be honest, he was biased towards comedians, because in the system that he had set up, the fact that comedians made really crazy connections. That any true definition of the universe would connect things that have no business being connected.

He also thought thought a lot about what the most beautiful fruit was. Then he told himself that was a very gay thing to think about. Then, he reminded himself that gay was not derogatory, then he went through a loop of thinking that it was derogatory because there is always a hint of it in the phrase and correcting himself until he finally just got to the point where he gave up and moved onto something else. Then he chided himself for having a short attention span. All this happened while he was in the corner and was very sad.

Then something else happened and he actually changed what he was thinking about.

The hopping toad and the frog who swims;
The one dives low to darker depths,
The other striving to reach the sun,
Goodness, but don't they both eat bugs?

I’m at the library, at the bottom of the library. It’s dark and cool. I wore a sweater because I know that it is sweater cold down here. The books they are happy to sit on the shelves, so they make the air smell sweet. There are the old marbled cover books from the century before last century. There are the inconspicuous books with gold etched shapes. There are conspicuous books made of gold and marble etched.

Click click click my shoes go on the grey stone. I apologize to everybody for making so much clicking and clocking. Time time. I shake my left arm in a weird way, my freedom down here. I shake my leg too, one of the books I walk past has a title that lets me know I am only a visitor, and to not push too many boundaries.

I walk walk click click click clik. I like this place because you are not trying to impress anybody, at least in that moment. But later you will use it to write about and impress people. It is an investment.

Blue blue birds sitting on the vine outside my window. I assume they are blue but I have never seen them because they grow on a column that is just out of view. The ivy has blue flowers so I assume the birds are blue too. Little flowers have feathers. My room is blue with blue light from what I assume is the blue sun that is smaller than the yellow sun. I can’t think of any other reason why the light would be blue. Outside my room is another room where my sister sleeps, and down a hallway is my parents bedroom, where I get excitedly dressed when I’m about to nearly catch the easter bunny, but other than that I don’t spend much time there. Down the stairs is and to the left is the most important room, the sunroom. This is the best room for sleeping in the late afternoon, while my room is the best for sleeping in the morning and early afternoon. The water and sand time of the afternoon. Going to the lake with striped things part of the afternoon The late afternoon is the golden sunlight and waxy leaves part of the afternoon. The dust breathing part of the afternoon.

>>10318337
I like this, some of the lines might be a little cringey like rhyming seems and dreams. The idea is very funny

We walked for hours over the mountains looking for the lost cows. They can move quickly over that marshy ground. They have wide hooves and can go where horse, quad bike or jeep cannot. Only man on foot can lay chase. And that we did throughout the day.

The sky was a total grey washout but a humid wind from the sea made the walk a little more bearable.

I was repeating Zen koans to myself. Trying to cut to the heartwood or see the obvious truth that's right in front of your nose or closer than your breathe. I did not find it. Perhaps that is the problem. Trying to find something separate from the "I". It is the meeting of the void and form, but not both and not either. The non Zen.

It seems that it was a cure for Buddhism, for obsessing over Buddhas, and angels and complicated paths to enlightenment. Some purists speak poorly of Zazen even, saying that it is not a path as there is nowhere to go but here, in the present moment ?

Fucking Knausgaard. His writing only causes pangs of envy and revulsion. We cant just pick and choose, we must... Who fucking must? And do what to who where ?

Come on, now. He gets paid to publish his diary and embarrass his friends and family on the process.

Anyway, I kept labeling all sensations; the footsteps, the sounds, the changing emotions, the thoughts, the watching, the fading of perception of the perception.
It kept returning, but from nowhere. There is no place to retreat from. We can focus on a few sensations. Not to the elimination of the rest but for their temporary pacification.

But that is not Zen. That is the quietening of the mind. Dhyana, meditation.

They teach the simple truth. When cold cold, when hot hot. Its stupidly brilliant and still, I love it.

Diary of a reformed madman. He did what he wanted to do. And now it flows a little better, I think.

Maybe I will leave and still it will all continue, unabated. Forever. In what context ?

Is the struggle for meaning a real meaning ? Does there have to be a real meaning ?

The lack of English talk is forcing me to write. Perhaps that's how Knausy felt, in Sweden. Ugh, what a clever little observation, what a little shit, a little poof you are.

Blessed, cursed need to flow and be at one. Blooger-tough. Answer-nonchalant. Here comes more jib jib. If that faggot Joyce could do it, then why not me ?

Absolute madman he was. He liked a big arse and a regular poke. I'm not too keen on either. I'll take it when needed. But all the time. Isn't it ?

We wait for the next installment from the masters. The ones that seem to offer something new. They seem to revel in the obscene, in the totally ordinary, in the normal greed, the painfully adhered to Order, the rule book that guides and restricts and directs like the barrel of a gun, a burning ember of eternity.

Guilt and remorse over unfinished business. Sad, really. What is there to say and do. I live at home but really is it even possible to move.

Sleep time and i think i will sleep.

>>10318920
Would've replied sooner, but I was masturbating with all ten fingers. Your original post was goddamn awful, but you knew that already. See >>10318906 for a true 10/10 postmodern masterpiece.

>>10318982

If you weren't you you would have realized that it wasn't postmodernist. Try being someone else for a while.

wrote this on a whim

Again it is autumn.
Little brown-yellow leaves,
Leave their homes and fall,
To the top of brown-yellow
Mounts at the bottom.

>>10318992
I would, but every time I do, I'm already me.

>>10319042

A man looked at others like he was one
(numerical one, not one belonging)
and told himself
I finally carry responsibility
and with that
he picked up his bucket of water
fed his cats
and stoked the master's fire

>>10318939
The way the meter in the first and third line mirror is pretty impressive. I wish the second and fourth did as well.
>>10318828
a bit too lolrandum for me, but I am clearly engaging with similar ideas.

>>10319072
This one is interesting, but I worry the lack of punctuation and absolute lack of music work against it (although the second definitely seems purposeful)

>>10318713
Gar nicht schlecht
Wirkt auf mich aber wie viel Effekt und wenig Substanz

>>10319083

lolrandum? what are you on about? I'd expect you to see past whatever filter you're putting up with that comment given the nature of your writing. or is your symbolism just the result of an unstructured mind connecting dots that pop up w-hilly n-hilly.

>With the ghostly light of lightning bugs and the near bloodlessness of thunder flies, here lies the entire storm crucified.

this is a nice line, but your writing isn't enjoyable. it's beautifully written, but it's disgusting. hoping this is the equivalent of a totem you hide away in a furniture-esque subconscious so that it bleeds into your every day. and at the same time. I hope it's not. This is far too esoteric. Come back to us my dear.

>>10319096

I allow you to worry for the both of us

>>10319072
He who thinks his words are of
Marble to a sculptor
Wears a boastful bramble crown
Scavenged like a vulture

Deconstructs that which he has
No chance to understand
In his right a pen is clutched
But where’s the other hand?

well i'm back with my meter-less Italian sonnet for a qt in my department. Feeling pretty set on the first two stanzas, but i have no idea how to wrap it up with the last six lines. I was thinking of saying that cliches do not do her justice, but i may be shooting myself in the foot there and it's been very difficult coming up with lines that follow that train of thought.

Understanding i am not a poet, any criticism is appreciated.

Spartan Features set in Graceful Mystique.
A face befitting Marble, not mere clay.
I speak for all in our troupe when I say
It’s only fitting that our Muse be Greek.

Ecstasy radiates from umber eyes,
And mirth reflects in alabaster smiles.
A nubile allure inhabits your styles,
Betraying the drive behind your stark guise.

banal allusions do not come to mind,
for every cliché that exists fails you.

>>10319136
Sorry, I mean that the Caps definitely didn't add to the poem imo, and the meta-self address of the lack of symbols (while immediatelly using slate as a symbol).

>to speak to to
this looks like you're trying to hide a stutter, but I'm not sure why

>it's beautifully written, but it's disgusting
thanks, that's a bit of the aim! I hope the resolutions I'm trying to do work!

>>10319136
Perhaps another in short story format?


Seeing the different ways her body squirmed upon being poked and pronged with the stick was deeply intriguing for me. Her ghostly appearance and cold eyes whisked me into one of those dark places of the mind, the sort of place where one sees it acceptable to fantasize about morbid act of an amorous nature.

I had it in my mind, and let the ideas develop perhaps because of my current semblance with her appearance to insert the stick inside of her. My first oberservation was how little resistance there was upon penetration, followed by the fleshy sound emitted to which I anticipated giddily. Satisfactory feelings indeed.

I worried someone would walk in on us so. Locking the aging door I then turned to see her lying there with the large spruces arm still inside, with the hoary light pouring onto her from the dusty window. For me, it was surreal and I still don't understand what came over me from the dark recesses of my mind; I first must make it clear, this for me or at least up until now- was strictly a exercise of my queer curiosities for anatomy, there was no venereal motive.

Regardless of how I think of it now , it doesn't change the regretful actions that followed soot. I gently pulled up her snow white dress, remarkably still in prepped fashion from her funeral. I tried to gracefully remove her undergarments aside, however they seemed now to tight. The state of decay on her bottom half already begun, which caused swelling to a minor degree, the smell was likely not bearable for common folk but alas, I was not what one could consider "NORMIE REEE!" (Top kek I added this just to fuck with your emersion)

1/2

>>10319181
Frustrated, I decided to do the deed with her bloomers still on. I yanked the musky panties aside, naturally I was already fully aroused so penetration was simply a matter of undressing myself. Entering inside of her lifeless body I felt a cold shiver crawl through my spine, regret soon followed. Penetration was not as easy as I expected, when I begin to use more pressure I caused a pocket of gas to erupt from both her bottom orifices. I paused to catch my breath then continued on, thrusting myself with much friction, occasional exhaust of heavy smelling gas exited her, eventually the room reeked of the odor. I next grabbed her head and did unspeakable things of a grizzly nature when I got too carried away, " Damn it all!" I had cut myself lightly on one of her canines. I poured some cold-well water over it and for a moment I considered retiring for the night, regretfully I objected. No longer concerned with my cut I had the idea to try myself at her derrière area, from here I am with much shame, so I will not go into detail, but it did bring me to a satisfactory climax, which was almost ruined by my assistant who was delivering a cage to our office. I had heard the front doors iconic creek just as I was finishing, "Just One Moment!!"
I yelled in desperation, exiting her taboo hole with my fluid seeping out behind. My pants were up as quick as my assistant swung the old door open entering our office where he then laid the cage down and upon viewing the corpse I made sure to rearrange orderly, said "You know doc, people who dress their dog up for a funeral make me sick" Satisfied with his lack of conjecture, I retorted "Yeah I know what you mean"
I knew I had dodged a bullet that day, never again will I perform such acts with canines. Felines are sufficient as their size makes it possible to sneak in my apartment in providence.

>>10319161

The other hand, he asks about
a telling questionnaire
reveals more about the one
who thinks he sees the other bare

The deconstruction critic tries his hand at deconstructing
"I'm always me", he says as ginger
To the raw, no glance, sashimi
The difference is a life lived underground
vs.
being caught, sold, and eaten. With pleasure

>>10319173

>to speak to to
I used to three times in the past three lines, so I used it three times in one line to even things out

>meta-self address of the lack of symbols (while immediately using slate as a symbol)

it's almost like I'm trying to say something here.

>the caps definitely didn't add to the poem

who says every line needs to be an addition

>I hope the resolutions I'm trying to do work

it's becoming apparent why you don't write in everyday language

>>10319237
Dawg, it's a critique thread. I was showing my issues with the work. It's easy to explain away why your poem is perfect, but I obviously wasn't interested in your 'evening out of to' or the ALL CAPS of the last two lines for no reason.

>it's becoming apparent why you don't write in everyday language
why?

>>10319275

why are you getting defensive of a critique while you're defending criticism?

>why?

the grace with which you think you write with in your symbolic persona is completely detached from your social persona. the ideal you're trying to embody is only available to you in your detachment. I get the sense that when you speak normally, you wish you could be speaking otherwise. Try and bring the two together so you can begin painting beautiful pictures for the receptive.

CHAPTER 1

If Anton needed a reason to leave Alguazas, the angry mob gave him one.
The rioters rushed up the street loud enough to make his floorboards tremble. By the time they reached his door downstairs, he had to force his hands from trembling too.
Anton nearly hit the rafters when a torch shattered his bedroom window. Nighttime wind blew through the hole and chilled the sweat on his cheeks. Then came that timeless phrase:
“Burn the witch!”
Ice-cold fear rimed Anton’s spine. He needed to act before things got out of hand – or at least before things went through any more of his windows. With his back against the wall, he bunched up his robes and stomped out the torch. As he knelt to grab it, he glimpsed shard-sized reflections of his narrow face and pitch-black hair. He averted his eyes as quickly as he could. This was hardly the time for vanity. His knees wobbled as he peeked over the windowsill.
Around thirty townsfolk and half as many guardsmen swamped his doorstep. They fit the portrait of your run-of-the-mill rabble: pitchforks, clubs, tha sort of thing. What set them apart was their pack of wolfhounds. Surely few towns in the realm could boast a fiercer breed than Alguazas. Their fangs glowed by the torchlight with blood-red lethality.
Anton rallied his courage. He’d survived the last three mobs and intended to continue that streak. Springing to full height, he hurled the torch back from whence it came.
The rioters released a volley of gasps and trampled one another to get out of its way.
“If you want to burn me alive, that’s one thing,” Anton shouted. “But if you set this house ablaze, then every one of us goes up with it!”
“What’s that mean?” called Rodrigo, the local blacksmith.
“He’s fixing to bespell us!” hollered Camila, Anton’s next-door neighbor. The mob jeered at that.
“Like how he bee-spelled the Bishop!” shouted the town drunk.
The mob jeered even louder.
“That’s not what I meant!” Anton knew better than to explain the flammability of brimstone to these buffoons. Any reference to his reagents would be lost on them. He shouted at the top of his voice, “My point is that I casted no witchcraft! Not unto my home and most certainly not unto the Bishop!”
“How about enchantments!” shouted Camila. “What happened to Anton the Extraordinaire!” “Yeah!” agreed Rodrigo. “Enchantments! You sold me that elixir of hair growth just three weeks past!”
“Quack or wizard!” boomed the drunk. “Either way he says it, the Bishop’s dead and it’s ‘cus of him! Let’s killim!”
The mob’s cheer gave Anton goosebumps. In a choked voice he cried, “Sheriff! Get me the sheriff!”

>>10319291
>try and bring the two together
believe me, I am. I'm obsessed with modernists, but I live in NW Georgia. It's a weird clash and I'm trying to figure it out. I've got it to work a couple of times. Barring spamming the word aint and dropping g's on every -ing, I feel like my accent is hard to write out for me.

>>10319307

>hard to write out

I think this might be your problem. Instead of taking the modernist approach of trying to eliminate. Try instead to incorporate. It's much easier, and eventually more fruitful, if you take what you have and apply what you've learned to it. Not erase what you have and replace it with what you've learned. Otherwise you become the product of others who have done what I've just suggested you do.

And being a product of that sort is the first step to a life of needing validation and suffering from neurosis. Don't fall victim to the trap my southern brother.

I'm from Southern California. So I understand the problem of the "accent and lingo that detracts from commonly accepted ideas of intelligence and aesthetic". Just because we talk like them, doesn't mean we are them. Embrace your sense of belonging and add to it a degree of separation.

I believe in you. Heavily.

The Day I Saw a Man Eat a Handful of Beetles.

In his hand he holds out a pile of beetles: very Kafkaesquelikeish. I ask him what he's doing and he says to me, uh, not much really, just gonna eat these beetles. I wasn't sure why he'd shown them to me. He poured them all into his mouth, shoveling with his hand, and I was like man, you sure ate those beetles, and he was like, yeah, that I did. We went our separate ways. To this day, I still think about the day I saw a man eat a handful of beetles.

>>10319220
Formless, thoughtless, tinfoil prose,
Spineless, boneless, on-the-nose,
Would I have known,
I would have left it alone.
I wouldn’t have tried.

I’m sure you’re wonderful
And charming in real life
And surely you don’t see the world
To be so black and white
Why, I’m sure we could be friends, you and I.

If you were to die today,
I still would be your friend.
I would put your kids to sleep,
And put your wife to bed.
I’m sure we could be friends, you and I.

>>10319114
Du hast tatsächlich Recht. Das ist eine weitestgehend ziellose Stilübung und das erste Stück fiction, das ich aus eigenem Antrieb geschrieben habe. Magst du näher drauf eingehen, was dir gefallen hat und was nicht?

Sore roast ain't just one pot ina' rubberized hose, all pulled appart like Jerrard's pink tubes.

(Ain't no thing, ain't no damn thing.)

We says we, but we means NO.
Then--Witha' deeper billow of rawing lungs:

(A harsh cough from a trout's jaw.)

Just fuckin' launch me on to that white n' red oilcloth picnic with Philip's trebuchet

>>10319359

At last, the change
From thorn to petal

Our dance, a maze
If tall, it settles

From start, we pirates play
stabbing for the blood that spray
The treasure that is mopping up

You and I
We've lived a life
In front of all

To most, segmented action
Without the next incorporated
Into that before

Now four.
From two, to three
Tinfoil covers as reflection
The underbelly hardly seen

The crosséd leg
to mask the beast with total self-control
My friend, if you touch my wife
From one we must begin once more

>>10317249
Half of the line-breaks don't have any purpose other than making prose seem like poetry. Either use enjambment to create duality of meaning, or use it to complete an image.

>>10318962
Thanks! I wrote it just for you :3

What makes a rhyme not cringey to you? Is it because it is too obvious of a rhyme?

>>10319482

If he's still using the word cringey to describe something in his criticisms you shouldn't pay much attention to what he's saying. Let alone dedicate a work to him.

Your rhymes are stilted and have the quality of elementary school. They're definitely the weakest part of the work, but this doesn't mean they're cringey. Cringey is something someone says who worries about that quality in him or herself. Disregard cringe. Disregard the neurotic.

>>10319345
Brutally honest and raw. Possibly the best thing in the thread.

>>10317249
This reads like really shitty spoken word poetry.

>>10317249
Some other anon said to use enjambment to make split meaning, but some of the clever-twists you try to throw in are actually more off putting that the more pointless line breaks.

Generally just stop ending on articles etc. It sounds like I'm watching a tape reel that wasn't properly stitched together.

>>10318724
As opposed to...a gentlemanly and refined Mountain Lion?

This is for all of you: enough with the weather, and the clothes and facial expressions and fucking ADVERBS!

>>10318926
John Green?

>>10319083
You guys have to get over the idea that your 'ponderings' are unique or interesting. Fiction is characters and plot; stop blathering about your feelings. You all think and write like teenage girls.

>>10319773

wachu got sluggo

>>10319773
The subtext here is that you are subtlety implying that you too have nothing interesting or unique to write about beyond plot or characters, which is sorta sad and emotional, like a lonely teenage boy with self-esteem issues. Maybe you should try believing in others and yourself more.

>>10319172
Find the second stanza much harder to understand compared to the first, which to me feels jarring when read as a whole. I like the first stanza though, I actually remembered your original posting of it back when you wrote "face" instead of "features" because I liked the first line a lot. I don't quite think you need to capitalize all those things in the first stanza, especially when you don't to anything in the second. Overall, it's a very sweet thing you've done for this girl and you should give it to her regardless of what you perceive its overall quality to be - if she is worth knowing further, she will be grateful for the simple fact that you've put so much effort into making something like this for her, and so you needn't feel self-conscious at the final product.

>>10319322
thanks bud, you too, but I think you misunderstood me. I'm not trying to get rid of the accent, i'm trying to find good ways to write it out on paper. I def don't want to be anything other than myself when writing. I just have a love of Eliot and was raised on southern-fried KJV idioms.

>>10319773
I didn't write fiction you dumby. It's a poem.

If your buds unwrap to swan’s sweetly song,
And your gown floats so gently with the wren,
Have thee crown bow to verdant tree’s sarong.
And curtsy the clouds of the burnished green;
In forests these off’rings of you polite,
May tip the trees in majestic hindsight.
Hath the bushes been burned for skies to night
Or laughter flown high in and out of sight?
Lend me thy hand so soft to human touch,
And dip thy legs in the yule of a stream,
Beauty is a princess, laughter of dreams
But duty to a forest the sun gleams

>>10318906

>>10319764
>know
what makes you say that?

>>10318337
does he lick your vegan vagina?

>>10319515
fuck off,

>>10320003

have I struck a cord sweetie

>>10319773
I liked the idea in the first line. It's just the blathering that's bad.

>>10319083
>This is a terrible thing, to see petals creased, as if plants were shapeless before being folded into some paper bird
Why start with that word and not "it"? The comma after creased is confusing. I get why it's there but it and the rest of the structure makes the middle part seem removable, as though it were something in parentheses, which causes the sentence as a whole to sound strange.

Then you blather into "Pluck away at the whorls like eyes as I have plucked away the world. Thou pluckest me up, lord- oh, pluck me harder lord! pluck me in the ass! Oh pluck, I'm gonna pluck! Pluck me daddy! Pluck me!" etc while attempting to rely on your word processor's formatting options when you don't have to.

In the "I cannot imagine" line, consider changing "but" to "and yet", then killing the comma after "trunks" and putting the word "in" in there.

>And the thorns, who could forget the thorns?
Yes, who could forget what is perhaps the single most obnoxious literary meme of all time next to "poetry in motion"?

The next line is neat. Would be neat if it was from the perspective of whatever's being pressed into the book. I defaulted to a butterfly since we were on the subject of pedals before the thorns poked in.

Then you have "Here lie", and then "here lies". Also, "thunder flies" is a real letdown combo. Thunder! -and then, flies; the whole line makes me imagine lightning bugs going between book pages, and then a going splat as the book snaps shut, which works against the otherwise delicate tone you want to strike. Although, reading it a second time with the image blocked out, I can say I at least like the sound.

>The rosehead, [which was] sitting, and was curling and beckoning."
The rosehead what? Complete the sentence. "The rosehead sitting on the shelf." would not be a complete sentence.

>How
end with a question mark

>much more like a harp on fire, whose sonorous twanging crashes up against the crackling fire, which also seems to somehow be on fire, because I can't stop ending on the word fire, and
etc

I would have liked it if the last no was it's own thing. You could get away with an exclamation point somewhere. You also could have had a colon after "over".

The next line feels like you want to tell me you just watched Saw without leaving your subject matter.

I don't hear the word "calyx" much, but I guess the confusion made me appreciate the next line more where you directly tell me what some other thing is called.

The word "shit" really stuck out like a sore thumb.

It would have been reassuring if you'd wrote "one last time" after saying you were going to start again.

The comma after "grapevines" should be a semicolon or a period unless you're really okay with comma splicing, and there should be a comma after "taller".

Colon after "loudly".

At I wanted another "and again," and an "again" before the last "begins".

>>10319915
I liked this.

Warm things I like:

Sunrise hitting me. The hope that comes along with the realization that another day is coming, that I can make anything of myself. That life is what you make of it.

Warm pee hitting my face

Raindrops patter onto water. He stands transfixed, unaware of the slow saturation of his clothes. Three magpie siblings huddle, invisibly, on a nearby treetop as alien climate unfolds around them. They call out for maternal comfort, assurance of safety, as fractured reflection falls through the surrounding still air. He inhales, a thousand scents announce the presence of a world dappled by light spread below. A company of ants traverse a puddle rocked to and fro, gripping to a ship granted by the bounteous decay of an ancient nearby oak. A small stream meanders once more, etching, serpentine through the crevices of a rocky outcrop. The tick of a clock. He presses his cigarette into an ashtray. His boots sound against concrete.

>>10320013
don't call me sweety, sweaty

>>10320012
don't call me sweety, sweaty

>>10320013
>At [a certain point] I wanted another "and again," and an "again" before the last "begins".
I ran out of space and cut something out of this sentance that fucked it up. Just remove the "At".

>>10320029

I actually don't have glands

>>10320032
you misspelled father

>>10320041

you misspelled im a failed suicide attempt

>>10320044
>been gotten

>>10320050

i keep a bunch of band-aids in the back of my throat for moments just like this one

Chalk sounds against blackboard busily amongst a chorus of hushed voices diffusing through heated silence. Pavlovian circuitry straining to quell simmering classroom rebellion as shimmering sunlight shines in through an open window. Leaders and loves are lost and found, enemies befriended and friends forgotten by a subtle economy of notes written in messy adolescent hand, signed by smirks and giggles. Didactic dictation demands attention from the front of the room, some listen. Fingers drum on a desk to an unheard melody, the hand of a clock harshly hits a high-hat, the bell rings.


Dark sleepy dome gives rise to sepia tones as the sun stretches across the sky. A long, hushed sigh floats over fields of lemongrass speckled by morning dew. From waking hamlet streets to a disparate world of green rolling hills I walk, soil underfoot. A steady, melodious hum of bustling life beneath the waving shoreline of wheat gives hint of interwoven cities in soil where lives, unknown, are lived, loved and lost, as generations past. On a rock, nestled in dirt of sprouting nettles moves a snail, feeling the weight of things wrapped in cloth under my grip, in a shared moment of hauled possession, I walk. At a fork in the path stands a weathered wooden sign, eroded by the elements, it stands, a monument to a life long since passed. Here the ancient carver now resides as a guiding spectre to many a traveler, here his memory remains. From a distant tree line the rush of a stream calls to an empty container wrapped in cloth, a path is chosen, breathing trees brush the sky as I walk.

Two random excerpts

>>10320052
>i keep a bunch of band-aids in the back of my throat for moments just like this one
glad I made a friend today

She took the train to see the blur. She got off the train and the blur followed her home. Little blurr, she said, and pickled it and put it on her shelf, right by her aborted sister and her bed, which was not actually pickled because, then, where would she sleep? The girl wasn’t stupid. She was a math major.

She swims only in water.

It was a nice day.

Can’t complain about the weather.

>>10320058

There is snow under my fingers.
Not cold snow that sureness of grip,
But the white noise static television snow,
That keeps me awake at night pressing my finger nails into bone.

Under my heart there is steam.
The hot breath that keeps me from the linen I lay on at night.

Under my eyes there is sap.
Sticky sweet syrup locking my lids.

Under my head there are bricks.
Stacked to keep the top to the sky
They teeter totter.
Mnemnosyne, daydream gorgon.
Remember every day to drink your Ovaltine.

There is snow under my skin.
Sometimes if I hold my hand up to the light I can see it.
When there is a cold breeze I can feel it.

>>10317372
Thats Faust faggot

>>10320013
Thanks! Its def a rough draft, I won't claim to agree with all of the criticism, but there is a lot for me to work with.

>>10319172
>mystique
>ecstasy
>mirth
>allure
>styles
>drive
>guise
>allusions

You're too new to realize this, but piling up the abstract nouns really kills a poem. There's nothing to hold onto. No images, no wordplay, no creativity. I guess, since i've seen this poem a few times now, you're gonna stick with it, so you're probably not gonna rewrite. But just know that it doesn't say anything. It's okay though, kids gotta kid.

>>10320116
You should never really take more than half my criticisms. I should also note that the solutions I present are really just ways to more clearly highlight where I had trouble, and not completely genuine suggestions.

>>10320126
Haha, I gotcha. I've been writing for a while and a lot of the time when I offer critique it winds up the same way. The fact that I had to check and see if I said 'pluck me daddy' def pointed out a problem.

Still, I need to figure this piece out so I can build on it.

A collection of short stories (varying length) focused on the people living in a shitty apartment building in a massive, slightly futuristic megalopolis. all sorts of different characters, all with different stories and backgrounds, going through their daily life. its implied that the city is actually some version of hell or purgatory (characters mention the center of the ciry/downtown 'being too bright' and its always really humid and warm). one story i'm finishing now involves an old, lonely man describing his final morning before dying, before the perspective switching to a young man working for the coroners who removes his body. he goes into the old mans room and digs through the man's photos and junk, getting high off the smell of the body and the intrusion into another life. the final section is the man describing his body being cleaned and his view at the funeral

>>10317372
Lol

i cannot finish my essay
as i have no clue what im talking about
i attempt to write it as a mountain guide
i end up writing as a homeless man who eats people's faces under a bridge
retarded

>>10318242
Actually good advice for a shit post, why are you trying so hard?

Smut:

https://pastebin.com/JHE4iuY7


Read the work before reading my questions because I don't want to preemptively bend criticism

Was it okay that I didn't describe their appearances too much? Did any of the details feel revisionary when they popped up? As in, did you ever see anything pop up and then have to go back and add the detail at some earlier point? Not that this is my only worry.

>>10320322
It's pretty generic.

>>10319345
lel, i like this one

>>10320337
I don't disagree

>>10320282
They clearly put in time and effort and wanted an honest critique. I can meet that halfway. Nearly everything else in this thread is drunk undergrads screaming into the mirror with a tape recorder, or edgy vegan smut.

I wrote the vegan smut.

>>10320056
Too many adjectives, some of the sentences fall into the thesaurus meme

>>10320585
Thanks for the feedback, I like descriptive prose but I'll try toning it down

>>10318660
Unironically? one too many f's

>>10319083
Interesting

>>10319158
hehe

>>10319172
ladies like it when you talk about who they are on the inside, that is more intimate and takes more love to see

>>10320792

how u doin

>>10319915
nice

>>10320807
I'm a man, I said hehe because kek was overused and my revision to my second reply lost the first tone and lapsed into something feminine. Sorry to mislead you.

>>10320825

I knew this

>>10318713
any other Germans here? please take a look, feedback would be much appreciated

Circuit spike and senses expire
We are all but black boxes in sunken planes
A gear set to notch and ticking away
What can we be but sleepwalkers
Trying to keep warm in the bleak December
One time looking into mother's eyes I remember
Is there something else on the other side?
A receiving node like I, Myself
Just as warped as father
Who extinguished his inner flame on a spring day
in a field of wheat; shot himself in the chest and expired
retired to the blackness of death
I wonder if he feels as sublime as he did before

>tfw your writing is as ignored on /lit/ as anywhere else

The Song of the Heart
Is an ethereal roar,
Like a geyser bursting,
From under Our feet,
Reaching endlessly towards the sky,
And proudly existing beneath all sound.

It was poured like wine,
Into a sick longing cup,
Streaming through the cracks of,
My just broken shell.
The song took me near and I flew
Like a wand pulled through a lake by a string.

Impregnated with love,
It is the song of my home,
I was lead to the band
And there I sat down.
Beholding the voices soft and
So humble, but louder than the rancour

Of that bold city --
Twirling and laughing we played
I said "I thought I knew
You all this time but
I had not known that you always knew me"

This dual knowing has
Broughton us so much closer.
Now I lay in her lap
As a shrub that is
Gleefully adorned by the veils
Of an eternal and forgiving love.

>>10319826
>>10320117
>>10320807
thanks, i still got time so i can go back over the second stanza and iron it out a bit. I'm pretty set on the first stanza, but i'm open to changing up what i've got in the second. maybe change out some of those nouns for something a little more forward that talks about her as a person, not just a beautiful body.

>>10321462
which one is yours anon, i'll give you some feedback.

>>10321462
>tfw my shitposts are given more attention and praise than my others
Given my proportionally greater experience with the prior, I guess you could say I really deserve this.

Does anyone have the Foam/Chortled on the moon post? There was another one from that thread I liked too, but can't remember it. I just remember that there were two.

>>10321603

looked down at the floor. It was foam. I chortled on the Moon.

"This foam... You know, I had sex on foam once." Then, quieter, just to myself, "With a beautiful Japanese wife."

My mind suddenly flashed back to the sex I had on foam once with a beautiful Japanese wife.Her skin was like origami paper. Her lips were like Japanese fish you see in old paintings and woodcuts, etc. Her breasts were like two moons.

"I was just sixteen, but it was cool instead of creepy, because I'm a boy." I lit a Moon Light, the moon cigarette, with a flick of my runes. "A boy named hilary."

"That's what this foam reminds me of," I finished, pulling myself back to the conversation at hand. I couldn't spend all of my time lost in my head, imagining something far from reality. Not when there was moon treasure to find.

>>10321627
simply ebin anon, thanks

Sitting in the Library:

I took a sip of my vanilla coke, because I didn’t have any eggnog. When I get home, I’ll have some eggnog, I think. I was sitting in the library. Someone came up to me and said hey, don’t you think wooman should be spelled with two O’s? Wooo-maan; and I said no, I don’t. I took another sip of my vanilla coke. It was sublime.

>>10311796
>>10311834
Thanks for the response, i'll take your critique to heart. It's hard to get actual replies on a spanish crit.

>>10307142
Thanks. What do you think about this version?

Moondog, that crazy loon
he'd rather sing than bark at the moon!
he is the voice of the waves and the New York street
he is the voice of the Rhine and the old god’s beat
his spear and his beard and his viking busby
hold the voice of the solemn indian's plea
so, when you hear those skin drums ring,
listen to that old loon sing:
oo, hüs, trimba!

Grief bites like a hound with its teeth sinking deeper as I wander further
In my chest is a hollow howling that rings as I cry out.
A swirling pool like thick smog collecting in the back of my head, stained grey with the winter grief.

>>10321627
Somebody said, foam?
https://youtu.be/CC3MocYmCNw?t=2m17s

>>10321603
Eat pizza and play videogames, that's the one I'm forgetting.

>>10322189

https://soundgasm.net/u/s1rpanda/grief

>>10323429
That's an annoying voice

Hey, I'm new to /lit/, is this a general creative thread?
I come from /ic/ and I wanna try my hand at writing (in my own language, ESL here).
Thing is, I don't know what are writing's fundamentals, where to start. Like, in drawing, you got perspective, anatomy, composition, etc.
What are the different things you juggle with when writing a novel?

>>10317559
Cringe af

>>10323827
what the characters see and hear, what the setting sees and does, how that changes over the novel. That's your prospective.

Anatomy is how your story is structured, beginning, middle, and end kind of things. But also the structure of scenes you build, and down to your prose, this is where you get the juice.

The composition is that it just has to work in the language and overall presentation. I would read some major or obscure but "good" novels in whatever language you are going to write, or at least read a lot of pulp that you could speak to.

>>10323827
>Thing is, I don't know what are writing's fundamentals, where to start. Like, in drawing, you got perspective, anatomy, composition, etc.

It's not as easy to say for writing because the amount of talent people start out with before deciding to practice has more variance due to language being more of an everyday skill people have a partial grasp on either way, unlike drawing which is learned more for its own sake. It's harder to make general advice. If you at least have a good grip on your own language:

>read your work out loud (yourself; don't just have it read to you)
>cover up the ends of sentences as you read them to see if they present the details in a proper order (think about the order you look at things in paintings), or if they come off as misleading (like "He flipped out... a birthday present for his daughter.")

>>10323827
Write something substantial.
Maybe 10k words.
Read it back to yourself.
Realize it makes you vomit.
Read acclaimed literature.
Need to cleanse your mind of your abomination.
Understand why yours sounds like shit.
Go back.
Make it sound less shit.
Repeat until you give up or die.
If you ever think you're starting to get good, you are wrong.

>>10323974
Pretty much sounds like the process for any other art form I guess.
I was asking about specific basic techniques and rules before starting but I guess this way of doing things will do.
I've already fell in the trap of waiting and learning instead of doing, I should probably JUST DO IT this time, and learn how to fix things afterwards, yes.

Thanks.

>>10323974
the golden rule

>>10320056
Cringe af, desu

>>10324085
>Using the word cringe

>>10324095
>greentext

>>10324042
What you want to learn is how to proofread. "Just do" is probably 90% of it, but you can write a million pages of fanfiction and never get any better if you aren't critical.

>>10324042
/ic/ strongly reinforces the idea that you need to "grind fundies". There is a logical curriculum, and standards that you can empirically meet. There really isn't much of an equivalent of that over here. You can start by reading the Greeks, but you can't write the Greeks. The simplest advice is:

Read something.
Do you like it?
Why?
Or, do you dislike it?
Why? What would make it better to you?

Write something.
Are you proud of it?
Why?
Or, are you disappointed in it?
Why? What could fix it?

Then apply your analysis, and repeat. Also, shitposting in the crit thread may help, but likely not.

i wrote my first poem while i as tired just now so here it is please tear me apart be brutal, what can i read to improve?

clumped up in blankets
comfy and neat
ready again for a good night of sleep
the sun is bereft, the moon appears cleft
but arisen to write this poem in his sheets

>>10324606

10/10

>>10324606

1/10

This probably isn't the right thread for this, but after perusing the catalog I couldn't find anything better. How do I get started writing? I have a couple ideas knocking around in my head and I read more than your average Joe, but I wouldn't say I'm a bookworm or anything. Do I just bang out some pages, edit and revise them a few times, then get someone competent to shit all over it and learn through experience, or are there some things I should read or know before starting?

>>10324761
refer to the replies to >>10323827

A goat stood out my bedroom window, open to accommodate the breeze. I asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Goat?” He regarded me disdainfully, locking his square pupil to my round. Our engagement seeming to turn for the worse, I bunched my eyebrows, and made to close the window. “Manners these days,” the Goat said. “Ask a question with no intention of hearing the answer? I’m doing quite alright, very self-actualized, don’t need your help at all.” With that he bent low, and took a bite of my grass.

“But whose grass are you eating?” I asked the Goat, anger steaming my forehead. “If you are so self-actualized, why don’t you eat your own grass?”

“This is my grass,” he said, and bent for another bite. I felt myself beginning to perspire. I stood, facing him. He continued to chew. We stood like this for what felt like a long time.

The Goat finished chewing. “It’s rude to watch people eat,” he said.

Unable to contain myself, I pulled myself through my bedroom window. I took a few quick steps to the Goat, and kicked him in the ribs. The Goat bleated and began to curse me. Undaunted, and knowing that I must maintain control of the situation, I grabbed the Goat’s horns and began to drag him off my lawn. The Goat wrenched his head back and forth, and I took distinct pleasure in maintaining my grip on his horns.

Slowly, I was able to drag the Goat from the lawn and to the street. His hooves found little purchase on the asphalt, and though I was at this point sweating and had spit running down my chin from exertion, I could feel triumph on the horizon.

“Fine, fine!” said the Goat. “If this grass means that much to you, then fine! Just tell me one thing! What do you use this grass for?”

“I mow it,” I said, releasing the Goat’s horns as I hurled him away from me. “Sometimes, I lay in it.”

“Mowing? Laying?” He said.

“Yes.” I replied.

“And where shall I find my next meal?” He asked.

“What does it matter to me?” I said.

“And what if I lay in your dinner,” asked the Goat, “and cut it to pieces?”

I kicked the Goat in the ribs again. “Jesus FUCK!” he yelled, and hobbled down the street. I returned home satisfied.

The next morning, as I left to go to work, I found a pile of green shit on the hood of my car.

>>10324783
Thank you friend

Trees as thick as barrels and taller than most houses surround every corner of the visible landscape, except the uphill path ahead. These ancient oaks and wise pines had stood before we were born, and they will be there long after we pass on. Their gnarled roots spread through the hardened clay and soil like veins, turning any which way they seem to please. Their grand limbs holding the month’s work quickly to deposit the brown floor below. Eventually, these seeds and cones make a light ‘thunk,’ when the inevitable impact finally occurs. All this is done when a strong gust comes to dislodge them from their attachments. Along with what could be the tree’s offspring also falls flat, paper thin, leather-like leaves in all shapes, sizes, and colors varying from robust brown to a soft light orange. Their descent to the earth using gravity seems to be the work of some whimsical spirit or nymph delighting in the unity of nature, slowly moving the twirling things towards the ground with the greatest ease.

>>10325002

>>10325010
Once on the ground, the leaves create a grand and marvelous carpet that even the swiftest, most nimble footed of forest dwellers (or at least those who lack wings) could not avoid, but to overturn or disrupt its perfection. Besides the silent leaves hitting leaves plus the rare but welcomed “thunk” of seeds or cones, the only other audible noise you could hear is the majestic sound of the slow-moving, lethargic wind. While rustling the leaves and pine needles with ample amount of grace. It would appear to sound like a smooth day sailing in a vast ocean. The blessed, chill winds from the north whistled and brought forth a much-welcomed respite, which seems to make life itself move slowly and with ever more tranquility. The harsh heat from the merciless blistering southern Devils had receded. In this battle of back-and-forth, the winds flew like the birds and their great migration. The southern winds retreat deeper into their natural territory where it stays hot all year around and waits for the cool of fall and winter to subside, so heat can once again reclaim it's rightful, temporary hold ruling over the Woodlands. With these wonderful things to see, hear, and feel, the noises also take some pleasure for those lucky few who find this haven; it’s a sense that’s full of life. You can feel it in every inhale you take. It’s the scents of warmth and comfort, of friends and family, of general happiness at having each other’s company. No real words describe such a potency and none should, for there is more feeling in what was smelled than there was to understand in the first place.

>shit forgot to copy the rest

>>10324812
I don't know why but this is hilarious to me. Thank you for posting this anon.

>>10323931
That's great, thanks.

Lasagna cross-section

Cheese
Sauce
Noodle
Sauce
Cheese
Sauce
Noodle
Sauce
Pyrex

>>10325031

the reason is because it's funny

>>10319515

You can dress it up in nicer words if you'd like to but "cringey" was adequate.

>>10325177
This is good.

"Here we are, the power of stone and the grace of fire.
You know this is, and was, and will be
But of course we speak much higher than these shallows about us, we their betters and they our lessers
So some time ago(quite some time ago) a cold lot of them came before your equally exceptional forefathers and began to speak stupid
' Ya we bash!.?'
Their stupidity confused even them
More appropriately angered
Your wise(tall, strong, handsome) ancestors responded wisely and did not respond.
They were quite the brutes, the runts, as they'd soon show, they though to lay us low
'So come now, die!'
And the low ones slosh approached our great laughing fathers, who I imagine quite cleverly replied
'Hahaha! Look at their shallow heads! Come, let's make their heads even shallower, with, rocks!'
quite merry

Those about us can no longer even speak stupid, they wander the forest and only seem to make spittle."

Please shit on so I can cry and then go to bed

>>10320056
Were you that fuck who everyone told to stop writing purple prose? Either way stop writing purple prose.

>>10317586
No alt his is usually boring as fuck

ITT: List words that immediately out a pseud
I'll start
>miasma

>>10325552
>said

There he stands, my mind aghast. To whatever reason, he boot too big fo he gotdang feet

>>10325552

pseud

>>10325543
Nah just started writing looking for criticism but fair enough... So fewer adjectives?

cold lies
warm thighs
a life of pills or a mask of helium

crack's so passé these days
overplayed like Hollaback Girl in '05
overplayed like Atari in the 80's
overplayed like redcoats and reds in film
overplayed like that black and red lace luring in 'n' out
overplayed like repetition in songs
so get over it and play the hits
play what people want to here
the people that allow you to be here
the people who cheer
without them, us, her and him you're nothing
I say to myself to tell myself something
meaningful—meaningless
count seconds like blessings like collectors count coins
and tell yourself something
because something's better than nothing
or we'd have you believe
the slingers of toast and Tuesdays on teh calendar
those who ask others to define the
like articles can stand on anything other than oars
paddling pupils along Charon's broke ass sludge stream
not students but black holes
anyway, the deliveryman's here
to deliver goods
I have ordered with my nails
too-da-loo
id est
a tout a l'heure
aka
gtg

my asthmatic miasmatic addict
of a son
croaked yesterday
like a frog
I said don't make noises like that
in public
privately
and he yelled
you're not even my father
so I stopped speaking to this strange brat
I got off
nonsexually
at the next stop
forgetting it indecorous to talk to random children
assuming they slam dope like daddy
daddy loves his dope
(anagram pedo)

bitches love muh dick
women adore my penis
ladies adulate the phallic endowment with which I have been blessed
is how the yin yang twins evolved
in the vacuum of javascript
an AI run analog anyway
until finally
like the office space full of typewriting chumps
(I mean chimps)
they reconstructed
typographically
(tÿpogrâphįçåł|Y(
the entire Shakespearean oeuvre
but in Etruscan slang.

Shit was sick,
which is to laconically say chronically bubonic firmly infirm deleterious like damaged delete buttons does not respond to DNR's

air constantly slips between the fingers
and rays miss the face blithely
as if to say, I've got somewhere else to go
but they don't, because things don't speak
even electromagnetic phenomena
unless made to do so

how hard it is to do
and even harder to make
regrets are our greatest children
lol

Wrote this poem a few months ago, maybe I can get some feedback

How often have I carried our family word
for the hot water bottle
to a strange bed,
as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick
in an old sock
to his childhood settle.
I have taken it into so many lovely heads
or laid it between us like a sword.

An hotel room in New York City
with a girl who spoke hardly any English,
my hand on her breast
like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti
or some other shy beast
that has yet to enter the language.

>>10320056
this is so embarrassingly underage it's unreal

From the prose-or-poetry thread, prompt being to write about someone named "Wilbert B. Zeltser" in about ten minutes:

The pumped-up collar, the pumped-up shoes; he’s groovin’, he walks one way and moves another, he’s whipping his pompadour at you now; he is Funkmaster Wilbert B. Zeltser. He grabs the microphone like it's his honey, leans in real close to the audience, and says: "Hey how's it going?"

It was then that the ninjas burst through the ceiling. The patrons ran and screamed, but Zeltser knew what they were after: the Funk Portal. He fought the fiends off one by one as they leapt onto the stage. He was able to disable them all, save for one, who struck his side with a devastating blow. In a ninja-like voice, the ninja laughed and told him it was too late.

"No!" shouted Zeltser, but it was too late. The ninja stepped into the portal and was shot back out as a smoothie of blood in the process. The Funkmaster cried in his new red suit, devastated that he had let an innocent ninja perish.

>>10317219

Iridescent, intertwined,
Verdant bodies lie enshrined,
In wreathes of leaves beset with rain,
Rise again to fill the day,
Lark and laughter giving way,
To moonbeams lighting languished pain,
Until the dawn breaks bread with these,
Sheltered sons of fallen snow,
Who walk betwixt these ancient trees,
To seek again their ancient foe,
In knowing knolls of brothers lost,
Come to seek lives last riposte,
The void of certain passing soul,
To claim their cairn and pay their toll.

>>10327234
why do poeople write like it's the early 19th century? Have you not read any modern poetry? This is embarrassing

>>10320056
Dear Diary,
>Dark sleepy dome
Got some morning head from my mulatto girl.
>gives rise to sepia tones as the sun stretches across the sky
Took a sunrise selfie and posted that shit to my IG while she did it.
>A long, hushed sigh floats over fields of lemongrass speckled by morning dew
I nutted right on her landing strip.
>everything else
It was nice out, so I took the long way to the bus stop, through the park.

>>10327251

Because modern poetry is slam trash. Excuse me while I break my prose into random half syllables and repeat the same word 5 times with lines breaks in between because I'm so edgy and modern.

>>10327281
You're actually retarded. You do realize you don't have to larp as the harpist playing Greensleeves to write in meter, right?

my dog began puberty yesterday
domestic bitch
gosh she's so cute
haughty in heat
though I think it's time to spay
else she again spray
(gross)
so that'll be that
though theres a problem
I don't have enough moolah
for a veterinarian
so I need read DIY instructions
perhaps an infographic
it might even be a bonding moment

anyway camps really great mom and dad
hope to see you soon
love
your daughter
cardinal pap smear

>>10327281
oh dear, were you born in le wrong generation? if you made the slightest effort you would realize there is some fantastic poetry that has come out in the last thirty, forty years. I'd love to know which modern poets you've read for you to arrive at such a conclusion

my dog began puberty yesterday
domestic bitch
gosh she's so cute
all haughty in heat
though I think it's time to spay
else she spray
or require any aborshes
so that'll be that
though theres a problem
I don't have enough moolah
for a veterinarian
so I need to read DIY instructions
on the online
perhaps an infographic
it might even be a bonding moment
fingers crossed

anyway camps really great mom and dad
hope to see you soon
love
your daughter
cardinal cash money $excellence

>>10327292

>the generation of poetry I like is better than the generation of poetry you like

Maybe I like 18th-19th century language better m8. Each to their own.

>>10327300
Allen Ginsberg, Rupi Kapur, Louis Simpson, Claudia Raukin, Simon Hauser: all shit, flotsam and jetsam, trashy trailer trash

my dog began puberty yesterday
domestic bitch
gosh she's so cute
all haughty in heat
though I think it's time to spay
else she spray
(gross)
or require any aborshes
so that'll be that
though theres a problem
I don't have enough moolah
for a veterinarian
so I need to read DIY instructions
on the online
perhaps an infographic
it might even be a bonding moment
fingers crossed

anyway camps really great mom and dad
hope to see you soon
love
your daughter
cardinal cash money $excellence

>>10327312
it's not about the poetry, its about an embarrassing stilting of vocabulary. it reads like something a symphonic metal band would put in their liner notes. you can use ALL of the Romantic's techniques while still sounding like a human being

>>10327331

ok. That at least sounded like fair criticism. But don't knock a poem just because it uses older language. I know I'm not the best at it but consider this by someone else:

His husky quaver filled the flute, and wells,
adorned with twiddling kindlecrowned kinglets,
rising through liplicked cant, rapraddled bells
and echoed out in fugacious ringlets.
Swill-plodding bootbeats of dewdamp brogues fouled
the air; spitspiced the lucent melody,
as one deep-bellied belch of thundercloud
discharged, cleaving the sky in revelry.

A leaden rain careened through the lunettes,
riling moultgrains of free and frescoed lime
that filled the rimose grout of auld rosettes
and pooled, bestirred with each cathedral chime.
The stormpeeled doors collapsed inwards, welled scorn
flowed forth, engulfing hearth and rood-rolled thorn.

>>10327320
Don't call Ginsberg trash if you haven't read Wales Visitation.

Got one here. Waiting for some help. Be honest.

>>10327234
The shift at "Sheltered sons of fallen snow," sounded like a record skip. You already pulled "these" out of nowhere the line before; pulling even more stuff out of the blue like that is jarring. It would be great if "sons" could be replaced with something that rhymed with "these", and it would follow into "trees" and "seek". That might not be the best idea, but either way those two lines definitely bothered me more than anything else. Although, it also feels like you're trying to make me read the word "riposte" with a consonant O's sound later on, which was almost as upsetting.

>>10327251
this post is embarrassing

>>10327320
Yeah? I mean if you're reading Rupi Kaur and judging the state of modern poetry based on that, than you're really not making the required effort that poetry deserves. You can read poets like MIchael Longley, Thom Gunn, Thomas Kinsella, Derek Mahon, those should make you change your mind.
The poem I put in the image came out in 1986, would you call that "edgy" and "random"?

>>10327362

Thanks for the feedback, I agree it needs some work.

>>10327362
why is my post embarrassing?

Giggles come round the corner
echoing softly in the night
like leaves rustling beyond the roofs
or moaning from daytime ghosts.
They laugh at mediocrity,
that saturated solvent we call normal—
calling bad golfers BogeyMen
and good strippers adult candy.
Oh how Paracelsus turns a screw
in his gravy jacuzzi atop the cumulonimbae
(it's -nimbuses, you nincompoop).
Why? For the tired, poor, and infirm—
this is not an oblate spheroid for the meek,
our genealogy is rooted in indelible bedrock:
blood, bile, sweat, spit, tears and totems!
The list goes on if we allow it, a crumbling grandmother.
Time's the anagram of ages coiled in space,
collapses on its own vacuity like creaky submarines.
No pressure? No diamonds!
the cheerleaders quoth unremittingly
at Antoinette's Pep Rally, a slideshow for the blind.
Please, they proffer at the soup kitchens
asking not for forgiveness but security,
forgetting the despondent truth:
The Wire is never coming back,
nor is your mother's mother, and the rest of her ilk
given enough, what-ever-you-call-it,
delusional dilettante
(that one's for me).

>>10327367
Not who you're replying to, but I am a little sick of sublime and the sublime.

>>10327377
for reasons that have already been stated

>>10327359
I have. It belongs at the bottom of a landfill with the rest of the mafia's collateral damage.

When will you wake up? Modern poetry is as dead as Fidel Castro at sunset.

>>10327367
Did you not register the other poets I listed? Simon Hauser? Heralded as a genius. Utter rigmarole. Anyway, he doesn't even exist in the classical sense. As for Mahon, he's my fucking dad. I'm tired of his work. The self-absorbed bastard narrates new pieces at dinner for christ's sake and every time I die a little inside like some piece of cancer in my marrow has just metastasized a little further, pulling the shawl of death slowly but surely closer over my head.

Nonsense, the lot.

>>10327397
Writing and reading poetry is meant to be challenging. To stop at the 19th century because you've found your delicious little comfort zone and have some unfounded nostalgic longing for Shelley and Keats is, quite frankly, pathetic. The other guy's knowledge of modern poetry was such a cliche of tumblr knowledge, Ginseberg and Kaur and co., that it was absolutely laughable. I just can't take him seriously. I don;t want to pass of as some cuntish elitist, but come on, don't dismiss modern poetry if you haven't got poets who get media coverage. That's like saying music in our day is bad if you only listen to the radio.

>>10327415
Great metaphors! What a smart guy!

Giggles come round the corner
echoing softly in the night
like leaves rustling beyond the roofs
or moaning from daytime ghosts.
They laugh at mediocrity,
that saturated solvent we call normal—
calling bad golfers BogeyMen
and good strippers adult candy.
Oh how Paracelsus turns a screw
in his gravy jacuzzi atop the cumulonimbae
(it's -nimbuses, you nincompoop).
Why? For the tired, poor, and infirm—
this is not an oblate spheroid for the meek,
our genealogy is rooted in indelible bedrock:
blood, bile, sweat, spit, tears and totems!
The list goes on if we allow it, a crumbling grandmother.
Time's the anagram of ages coiled in space,
collapses on its own vacuity like creaky submarines.
No pressure? No diamonds!
the cheerleaders quoth unremittingly
at Antoinette's Pep Rally, a slideshow for the blind.
Please, they proffer at the soup kitchens
asking not for forgiveness but scarcity,
forgetting the despondent truth:
The Wire is never coming back,
nor is your mother's mother, and the rest of her ilk
given enough, what-ever-you-call-it,
you delusional dilettante
(that one's for me).

>>10321482
>>10320090
>>10319929
>>10318337

You might still be saved. Get the hell out of here. Leave the rest to drown.

http://www.cosmoetica.com/TOP.htm

>>10327423
what are you talking about they dont even make sense

>>10327436
Great comment! Smart guy!

>>10327433

Do you believe it when you tell yourself you have good taste?

>>10327449
It's not a matter of taste.

>>10327436
falling back to shitposting when you've been caught in your stupidity is low

>>10327415
why do you have a hard time understand contemporary poetry? Is it a learning disability?

>>10327442
oh i get it now you're being sarcastic

>>10327463
autism

>>10327456
Then are you implying there's a quantifiable, objective quality to poetry that you can point to and say, yes, that's good, incontrovertibly good—here's the proof.

Because if not, I must call balderdash.

>>10327457
dude i'm not even that guy, i'm the guy pretending to be that guy to fuck with you lol, I mean christ that guy would never be as clever as me haha

>>10327462
Yeah, it's called not being retarded. To those suffering from full-blown cognitive complications (such as your muon brained self) it looks like a disability. Sanity's insanity to the insane. Leave the cave, brother. For your own good.

>>10327488
And this is why you won't be saved.

>>10327474

>being this blind to subtlety

Add ad hominems homie, it's what I eat

>>10327497

>being this evangelical about something unexplained

For the record: you are not privy to nuclear insights about the art of poetry, you are not hypersensitive to the subtleties of the craft, you are not atmospheres above explaining yourself to the "meek and meagre" scattered about here. You have cultivated, by way of borrowed opinions and conclusions, a certain sense of style and taste and doctrine that you have dogmatically chosen to proclaim as the ultimate standard for literary merit. Yet, your idea of prose is prosaic—especially if you think the three poems you have cherrypicked lazily from this thread are the critic's choice. You slam your gavel and provide no justification for your ersatz justice. Unless you have the common decency combined with the unlikely ability of actually delineating your reasons for your claims, you're an utter charlatan draped in comfy yet eternally unsupported ideas, sure to gather as much dust as your clearly empty mind.

lol

>>10327540

Philosophy is the self-correction by consciousness of its own initial ex-
cess of subjectivity. Each actual occasion contributes to the circumstances
of its origin additional formative elements deepening its own peculiar
individuality. Consciousness is only the last and greatest of such elements
by which the selective character of the individual obscures the external
totality from which it originates and which it embodies. An actual in-
dividual, of such higher grade, has truck with the totality of things by
reason of its sheer actuality; but it has attained its individual depth of being
by a selective emphasis limited to its own purposes. The task of philosophy
is to recover the totality obscured by the selection. It replaces in rational
experience what has been submerged in the higher sensitive experience
and has been sunk yet deeper by the initial operations of consciousness
itself. The selectiveness of individual experience is moral so far as it con-
[23] forms to the balance of importance disclosed in the rational vision; and
conversely the conversion of the intellectual insight into an emotional force
corrects the sensitive experience in the direction of morality. The correc-
tion is in proportion to the rationality of the insight.

Morality of outlook is inseparably conjoined with generality of outlook.
The antithesis between the general good and the individual interest can be
abolished only when the individual is such that its interest is the general
good, thus exemplifying the loss of the minor intensities in order to find
them again with finer composition in a wider sweep of interest.

Philosophy frees itself from the taint of ineffectiveness by its close rela-
tions with religion and with science, natural and sociological. It attains its
chief importance by fusing the two, namely, religion and science, into one
rational scheme of thought. Religion should connect the rational gen-
erality of philosophy with the emotions and purposes springing out of
existence in a particular society, in a particular epoch, and conditioned by
particular antecedents. Religion is the translation of general ideas into
particular thoughts, particular emotions, and particular purposes; it is di-
rected to the end of stretching individual interest beyond its self-defeating
particularity. Philosophy finds religion, and modifies it; and conversely
religion is among the data of experience which philosophy must weave into
its own scheme. Religion is an ultimate craving to infuse into the insistent
particularity of emotion that non-temporal generality which primarily be-
longs to conceptual thought alone. In the higher organisms the differences
of tempo between the mere emotions and the conceptual experiences pro-
duce a life-tedium, unless this supreme fusion has been effected.

>>10327327
delightfully demented

>>10327551

>by way of borrowed opinions and conclusions
>posts Whitehead quote

I rest my case:

Balderdash.

Carry on, my forsaken fellow

>>10327578
Ok

>>10327590
ZNF

You see so many people smoking in Tokyo
but so rarely a butt on the street.
Where do they all meet
once cremated? Surely not the street
as cadavers did during the plague.
Rubbish bins, the obvious answer.
But then where are the fires,
flames borne from smoke, reversing roles?
Can all negligent people be so diligent?
It's true, each filter tossed has a story,
from then till now,
but how long is now?
Snapchat says a minute, historians an age,
others an epoch, depends on the day.
But that's a lie, the lot of it—
they go where everything goes:
where they belong:
in the trash.
Call it what you want.

You see so many people smoking in Tokyo
but so rarely a butt on the street.
Where do they all meet
once cremated? Surely not the street
as cadavers did during the plague.
Rubbish bins, the obvious answer.
But then where are the fires,
flames borne from smoke, reversing roles?
Can all negligent people be so diligent?
It's true, each filter tossed has a story,
from then till now,
but how long is now?
Snapchat says a minute, historians an age,
others an epoch, depends on the day.
But that's a lie, the lot of it—
they go where everything goes:
where they belong:
not the great 404 in the sky
but the trash, the dump,
mausoleums and holes we call black,
the end.

Call it what you want.

>>10327685
Preferred the first

>>10323974
I am interested in this 10k block of shit goal that I'll go over a few times and improve, or drop.

Do you guys personally write with the plot already in your head, or do you just write and come up with the plot as it goes? I understand you probably deviate a bit, but you probably write towards specific points, right? I have a concept, some characters and relationships, some moments, but not a complete plot or an end point. I'm interested in writing something "whole", so I have to think about this, and any of your advice or perspectives would be appreciated!

>>10327704
do you mean the original draft, or the first poem I posted in the thread

i feel like this is a dumb question

>>10327360
Write around the word "it" as much as possible. Same to a lesser degree for "he" and "she." Those words aren't verboten but packing a sentence with pronouns leads to passivity and a lack of clarity.
Also, your compound sentences all have a very samey kind of rhythm, especially if you count all the ones where you split off the second half into it's own sentence and start it with a conjunction, you rascal.
Consider these two sentences
>The Princess and the Necromancer were making great headway into familiar ground.
Perfectly fine.
>It had been a long trek up and down the mountains but it was finally here that they would separate.
Two passive clauses, and "it," "it," "here," "that," and "they" are essentially all stand-ins for meaning.
Just a suggestion:
>The Princess and The Necromancer were making great headway. The trek up and down the mountains had been long, but on familiar ground the two would finally separate.
The pronouns are generally gone and the "here" is unnecessary - separating is the very next thing that happens in the story.

Also consider
>There was an awkward silence hanging in the air as the duo was about to make it up the Applestand Hill, the chill morning presence forcing them to huddle together.
vs
>An awkward silence hung in the air as the duo made their way up the Applestand Hill, the chill morning air forcing them to huddle together.
Active instead of passive, and I swapped "their way" for "it" as I assumed that's what "it" really was, and "air" for "presence" as the chill morning is presumably present if it's doing things to our couple.
Just some suggestions.

>>10327704
>>10327729

i really just wanted to insert the phrase "the great 404 in the sky"

campy but melikes

>>10327717
I always have holes to fill but think things out in advance. Even if you don't have a complete point, you should at least have a complete problem. Maybe you'll learn how to answer it as you go.

>>10327729
>>10327740
The first of those two comments that were next to eachother.

I'm a bully in fora—
which I say instead of forums—
and I reply to my own comments
to try to incite further interaction
as well as influence opinion.
Integrity in storm, I guess.

Anyway, I can't figure out something
(many things really).
Is transparent narcissism still narcissism?
Myopia and delusion and distortion stripped away:
a docile strain of megalomania, rustled in quiet.
Not sure—sweet movie reference.

As for ten cent blueboard poetry:
you get a certain sense, something barely effable
of what is *good*
(asterisks equal italics,
italics is more expensive to print to paper,
hence it's important—emphasis!)
I suppose originality without vague novelty is key,
something new but unadvertised as being so,
a softly humble gift to audience members
(of whom I hope to be one of my own)
that says: yes, yes this is good, simply good.
And that's that.

Ideally, this would illicit that reaction,
but I know, beyond all vignettes of doubt,
that it won't, but that's okay.
Decency is as rare as atrocity.
So do something decent
and tell your girl to get herself checked out
because I blocked her number.

>>10317335
Great lyrics for that next Linkin Park album. Wait, he dead tho,

>>10327811
>tfw Linkin Park killed himself
>tfw my one true idol is dead
>tfw you point the finger at me again
I WANNA RUN A WAAAAY

>>10318660
When using alliteration, go all in or nothing.
"Forthcoming flutters of femininity hath flashed from her face."
or
"Those dissolving scars of femininity scratched past her face."

>>10327785
hey this is really good!

>>10327929
>samefagging this hard

>>10320792
so, all pink?

Spoiled proper in facial pomp,
but not lost in a better way.
I spaken for all my romp,
with what I soon say.

Jewels glow from your eyes,
but that isn't all your wiles.
Jewels gravitate towards your thighs,
but that thought makes me Giles.

White on the outside as a rind,
but pink on the inside too.

>>10321850
Needs more mention of eggnog to complete the framing device. More fitting would be, imo:

I took a sip of my vanilla coke, because I didn't have any eggnog. When I get home, I'll have some eggnog, I think. I was sitting besides some eggnog, in my library, when someone, carrying eggnog, said, say, shouldn't woman be spelled with'n two o's? Much in similar to eggnog, I slabbeled and sromped my way to a cohesive answer, by which I meant and spake out of disagreement in a pleasant manner. I don't. I took another sip of vanilla coke. Lolita. Eggnog. Eggnog.

>>10322189
I wonder what this would sound like if read in an upbeat manner, as opposed to this dreary reading: >>10323429

>>10327917
please, god no. this is bad advice

>>10323827
>is this a creative post?

>>10325552
>gobbled
eaten
>creatine
growth-food
>sand
liquid rock
>poorly
russian
>fetishized
overexposed
>grand
expensive
>bigly
largely
>phantom
ghost
>rainy
semiphore
>surly
strong
>god
God
>Gods
gods
>poorly
finished
>juxtaposition
made-ya-think-ion
>elevator
uppy-downy
>surmise
get

>>10325581
2/10
only because of the word thighs

>>10327992
hey fuck you

>>10325552
no words are off limits

>>10328050
I agree with him. It's bad advice as a solution to a problem 100% of the time.

>>10317249
>>10317320

>i think it kinda deflates about halfway through

Exactly what I thought when reading it. I think it gets weaker starting with "I was seven when I didn’t know how to build'.
Otherwise I like it.

>>10328062
yes but if you are going to fuck up by making the sentence difficult to say, either make it intentionally difficult or not difficult. The phrase should roll off the tongue, or cause it to writhe, not this dipshit wishy-washy middle ground.

>>10317372
>ive

Dropped.

>>10327367
is this supposed to be good?

>>10327737
Thanks for the critique man!
I hope it was at least fun, or worth more investing in as a book or story.

>>10327981
He rhymes "think" with "coke" and shifts to "library" and "me". I feel like you missed the joke.

>>10328142
I did.

i like to juggle poop
it's very fun, you should give it a try
sometimes, i slurp a bit of the goop
i think i'll do this till the day that i die

rate me please

>>10328166
lim f(x) --> c
c is undefined

>>10321850
>I was sitting in the library.
"I chortled on the moon" much?

The line where you leave your tense probably looks confusing to most. I'd also make the semicolon a question mark without capitalizing the word after. Right now I'm half-tempted to read it like "Woo, maan."

Daddy was not a handsome man by anyone's guess. He was stout, awkward, bumbling, and his eyes stuck way back in his head so we didn't know if he was sleeping, watching, or staring off to the wall. His neck was bulbous and perhaps swollen and his nose had been broken more than once, I'd say. What he lacked in aesthetic beauty, Daddy, he made up in style and attention to detail - at least that's how I justify him. On this particular day, I had my fingers gently massaging his neck folds to shave all around his creased neck. The front was easy; I'd lean his head back and lay a swath of perfumed shaving cream on his expansive throat fat and slide the razor across this splendid plain; he'd moan almost imperceptibly, in pleasure I think, with my gentle blade gliding across. It made me feel powerful, important, and this sort of stark power relationship defined us and all in that house.

Three little knocks rang true on the door. Daddy responded in his patented garbled mumblings but they wasn't of the strained sort. Milna had prepared breakfast, and not without my hunger noticing the delicious smell of syrup. pancakes, and sausage wafting through the house, let alone that perfect sizzling that catches your ear on a Saturday morning. "A couple of minutes," I replied, and silence came back. I never knew if she stayed for an answer or if she already knew these sort of things. She was so quiet and graceful, I sometimes question whether she was around at all until I'd catch a glimpse of her kimonos slipping around a corner, winking in the moonlight.

Daddy grew impatient what with the breakfast noises reaching his nubby little ears (his sense of smell, as you will learn, was severely dulled, but like all Daddy-related issues this was to be accepted without serious inquiry of its origin, as this line of thinking would drive you mad in our house), and he began to rustle a bit and I coaxed him to relax his girth shifting under his neck rolls. Daddy's back neck was more challenging to shave. I was always afraid I'd nick him, and earlier on I would sometimes and he'd throw down his paper in a huff and grumble around and then Milna would come and apply a topical. They looked like delicious biscuits, the neck rolls, and between the two of us I had to be disciplined enough for both despite being about hungry enough to eat a log.

Fresh and clean, Daddy sat with a subtle grin that most couldn't notice. He sipped and smacked at his cheap black coffee and pretended to read the paper, as he always did. His stubbly burnt-orange hair, balding in the middle but impeccably manicured by me (and I suspected Milna when I wasn't around and Daddy napped [she is far too polite to ever suggest even indirectly that I do less than a perfect job tailoring Daddy, but nonetheless she must maintain some power]) caught some sunlight and revealed bits of dark gray around the sides. Daddy ate his toast and eggs slowly and Milna patted him when he coughed from their dryness.

>>10328347

He'd sip on his little coffee cup and grumble and relax and pretend to read the paper because he was damn near blind but somehow knew the place for everything. A tiny smile formed inside his jowls and I relaxed a bit myself. Milna smoked a long cigarette in her beautiful way. Her breasts looked out of place but nonetheless perfect squeezed together under her tie. Weekend days were usually good days.

--

Milna stroked my hair and applied moisturizer to my face. She would whisper encouraging things to me, how she thinks that everything is coming along nicely, and would even say something especially encouraging right in my ear about Daddy liking me or the way I looked or did something but really how could she know? He only spoke coherently about trivial routine things like his shave or cigar or TV programs, mumbling nonsense until a string of two or three words made sense together and you'd have to guess at what he wants and then he'd grunt in favor or decline. I was getting better at guessing right, and when all was in order watch Daddy in his chair in front of the TV and make sure his undisturbed scotch glass wouldn't tip while he snored and enrage him upon waking up.

Now Milna was whispering advice and damn did it feel good, her strong but gentle fingers on my neck, face, head. She did me the courtesy of resting her weighty breasts on my shoulder which sent me into a tizz. They were all the more marvelous because of their mysteriousness, as I'd never seen them naked and never would, but as far as I could tell they were natural and impossibly so on this bird of a woman. She worked her hands down my shoulders with lotion and I knew what was coming.

She opened my gown to reveal my ugly, distorted breasts, pointing askew under the fluorescent bulb.She took out the special cream and lathered up. I always dreaded it, but really it wasn't so bad. In great sweeps she pulled my flesh down and then up and then in smaller rubs and then all over again. She said more encouraging things about my breasts and I stared up uncomfortably, not wanting to believe her sweet lies but feeling relief somewhere deep inside me, and then it was over as soon as it began and she helped me with my makeup.

I loved my eyes but hated my nose. Its aquiline proportions offended me and the bump of bone on the bridge all the more so. But, my eyes looked good that day, I remember, black and stark under my bob and finally we sat around a game of checkers while Daddy sipped a scotch and listened to the blaring radio and drifted off.

No one said a word, only the same old ads as always and the yokels calling in their opinions on the Colts and the clinking of the checkers between Milna and me. She laid her legs so gracefully on the floor and I tried to mimic her, but there was no mimicking her delicate fingers, her bird's lips or flowing curls, the sweet sinews of her back through her kimono, the sway of her breasts, always sans that revealing nipple. Red-brown, I'd bet.

>>10328446

Milna got up to check some tea and I listened to the radio and tried to follow the lines of dialogue between the callers and the host and his assistant. The man's voice was deep and rich like mine, but more practiced and punctual. The other man was nasally and whiny like some slapstick foil and only chimed in once in a while to say a couple sarcastic words. Three knocks came on the door. By now I knew to rush to Daddy's chair, leaned back and locked in position. I clasped his scotch with both hands and wiped his drool with a kerchief. The knocks came again and Daddy opened his eye folds and looked around confused. His neck fat swung viciously and he cried for help down from his chair, which Milna performed, and we stood off to the side behind the dressing corner wall. The knocks came again and Daddy spoke annoyed gibberish and stomped over to the door and undid all the latches. He opened slowly.

Outside stood a languid teen with a sports jacket and combed haircut. His eyes were black like he was tired and his blue lips pegged him as a smoker, and he probably had one just a minute ago but I couldn't tell for sure on account of Daddy's dominant smell. "Whaya want, kid?" was what Daddy blurted out.

"Sell some chocolates."

Daddy stood with stoic glare, his eyes poking out and gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

"Humia guh mern well ah wha ah what the hell for?"

The kid started a spiel about his baseball team and Daddy didn't make any sounds and at one point in the kid's canned speech he called over Milna who walked over quietly and he grumbled something to her about the damn kid and his chocolates and get me a box.

Milna smiled gently at the boy who ceased all speech upon gazing upon her and hung his mouth stupidly a bit. Her subtly caked eyes and tight mouth worked wonders on men of all ages in their subtle twitches and frankly I envied the kid in his view of her cleavage and legs in the natural light. She politely asked how much and he gave a number that seemed low and she held her arms together while she counted single dollar bills and her back twitched and I could imagine her breasts rustling on the other side.

We got two boxes and the kid sauntered off slowly while doubtlessly sporting a rager that would take him through a week's worth of sessions and fuel his fantasies for far longer. Daddy had plopped in his chair and she brought the chocolates over. Daddy wasn't a big eater on the whole but maintained his impressive girth with these binges. He leaned forward and grabbed a box like an alligator jumping its prey and tore through the contents with no less vigor.

Milna and I shared a few pieces from the next box and she chewed delicately, nibbling a corner at a time and then popping in the middle, as if it was a difficult thing for her to just eat it. I ate a piece at a time, careful not to smear my makeup.

When Daddy finished, he dropped the box and Milna and I resumed our game. He snored intensely and Milna smiled.

>>10328072

>should

>>10328072
alliteration is super easily garish, going all v-for-vendetta is bad

When Milna and I finished our checkers game, she packed up with her usual effortless grace and lazed on the couch for a bit. She turned down the radio, leaving just enough for background noise, and we had our quiet time. I rolled up snug in my blanket all cozy and admired Daddy and Milna and me all in our places. Daddy in his gruffness and Milna in her petite splendor. God, if I'd had the disposition, I'd have taken her by the hand into the bedroom and done her up good and then. Doubtless she wanted it, and double so on account of that jock kid slobbing all over her, and I bet she'd have gone for it too, because she was one of those lifelong teases who exuded premier sexuality but always held it at an arm's length, but she had to have her cracks if she was at all human, staying in this house ostensibly to avoid any real raw sex or motherly responsibilities and living in a perpetual innocent dream.

All was fine except my private fantasies with Milna. I wished I hadn't had them, but I had them all the same. I pondered this will slipping into an unconscious rest. The snoring and the drone of the radio soothed me, abated the chaos within. Just before my sleep began in earnest, a loud noise punctured the peaceful rhythms and I woke with a start. Milna sprang up, her curls swept over her face and her breasts jiggling just a bit. Daddy's snoring had stopped abruptly.

He unleashed another hellacious fart and my little pecker flinched. I could feel it coming on. He looked around wildly with his beady eyes all the way open and his neck rippling with sweat under the dim lamps. He let another loose:

BRAAAAAAAPPP

A wet, dirty one. Daddy's farts were forceful things, often imposing, spectacular at times, but these were a new realm. It all welled up inside me and I finally couldn't help it.

I tooted.

Daddy brought his head up and a look of blank terror overcame him. His face made no movements, only shock. Milna gasped and covered her mouth with her limp hand. I looked down and I could tell her eyes were just searing me. I had committed an act of indecency, the ultimate faux pas as a lady in the house. I had, of course, never tooted around them, not audibly, and the smell of awful farts sat in the still air.

It was a power move, ultimately; I wanted what Milna had, wanted Daddy's unadulterated admiration, and I sneakily bridged the gap to Daddy's heart through the one place she could not. By that I mean farts, of course. I blithely tooted again, this one more honest, more confident. Daddy started to breathe heavily, then gargled, then flailing wildly he began to choke. Milna rushed over and heroically she circumvented big old Daddy with her tiny arms and cushiony breasts and tried the Heimlich maneuver. I froze and watched in awe as this woman heaved her breasts up and down and Daddy looked like a big plum, a shade of blue I couldn't have found at the paint store.

Finally, with a sobbing heave, Daddy expelled a piece of melted nougat chocolate.

Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, als N.M. klingelte. Sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig: Die Augen unseres Helden, D.F., bewegten sich rapide hinter seinen zugezogenen Lidern, Wasser mag doch jeder, das Klingeln dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong vermochte ihn erst beim dritten - aber nicht letzten - Läuten zu wecken, dummer Hurensohn, dummer Bastard, und er verließ das Bett (lechzte, lechzte, lechzte), noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erlosch, mit einer Bewegung, einer Rührung, die die allerletzte dieser Art bleiben sollte. Ein Mann wächst nur bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Ein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, sieben Uhr sechsunddreißig, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum - er wollte ihn ermorden - wusste nur er, allein, einsam, keiner sonst, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül. Er trat auf eine Plastikflasche, er war schon angezogen. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, mehrmals, immer wieder. Heute Morgen: Nicht einmal Vögel hört man, dingdong dingdong dingdong. Er ging die Treppe runter, wie jeden Tag. Sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig. Die Tür ging auf. Er hat wunderschön gekotzt, gestern noch, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, ja, jetzt ist alles dumm, jetzt ist alles blöd, kein Vogelgeschwitzer vernahm er. N.M. stand vor ihm, wie ein Baum, hinter ihm war der Rest, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, unverändert. Der Rest: Sein Auto, die Straße, die Zahnarztpraxis, weiter rechts das Tanzstudio. Er, N.M., versuchte sein Grinsen - er grinste wie ein Schwertfisch -, wie immer zu unterdrücken, meistens gelang es nicht, --Sag auch, warum du lachst, D.F. fragend, selber lachend, er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, sein Rücken tat weh, seit Jahren schon tat er weh, trotzdem hob er seinen Kopf, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, entwürdigend war das, sieben Uhr achtunddreißig war es. Das wusste er nicht, konnte es nicht wissen.
--Hat seine Gründe, immer noch wie ein Schwertfisch.
--Seit wann bist du in V.?
--Seit ... Er schloss seinen Mund, musterte das Vorzimmer, als wäre D.F. nicht anwesend

>>10328827

Heaving, on the verge of death it seemed, Daddy regained his color. Milna had her hands in her face. I tooted again. Daddy looked up and angrily, ripped a fart I've never heard before or since. It was paleolithic, that fart, and I swear to God Milna's hair was blown back a bit as she was tending to him. Daddy chuckled, then laughed, and Milna looked utterly confused with her mascara running down her face from tears of stress. I tried my best to offer a rebuttal, but it ended up almost as a question rather than a statement, upturned in its cadence like a valley girl's banter. Now Daddy was roaring with laughter, kicking his stubby legs in the air and pounding the arm rest with his pink ham fists and turned bright red like a cherry and Milna backed to the wall in terror. This went on and finally our laughter poisoned her character as she, too, joined in the giggling and fun. I was fully aroused by now and did little to hide it, eager to see where this new territory would lead us. But as soon as she tried to throw her hat in the ring, an arid, precious little poot, Daddy's face turned to immediate rage. He stomped up and cornered her, then started shouting epithets at her and picked her up on his shoulder in a highly provocative and athletic move I didn't know him capable of doing.

She kicked and screamed and beat on his back and he roared and stomped to the bedroom, leaving it open just enough to see what was going on.

I peeked in and witnessed the most dynamic scene. She was on her back and Daddy had her pinned with her head hanging over the bed, His gray corduroys were attached to his suspenders and his fists are clenched out in front of him. His great round ass opened up a barrage of angry farts and she screamed delicious screams and kicked and flailed. She moaned prehistorically and I finally understood. My tiny pecker raged forth and I turned my back and rubbed my taint, then ran to the bathroom and finished as I heard the torture continue.

I'll never forget that day with Daddy and Milna. Sometimes, I'll wonder whether they still live together, pretending to lead a life of dissonance but gleaning joy in the small moments. Or, if she finally moved out, maybe got an apartment in the city. But after I moved out, I saw her one time with her hair wrapped up, a smart black jacket around her buxom torso and sunglasses covering her face. She was buying Daddy's favorite cigars, the ones he would nosh on while pretending to read the paper. That was a long time ago, but my heart warms and pecker flinches while I thought of her sucking down those intoxicating farts that day.

The pendulum swings in Grand-father's clock,
and turkey burns to a dry mass of flesh meat and bone in an oven stuck on 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 5 hours.
Today is my nannies birthday and I remember her.
A single mother in a poor run down blue collar town with opalescent foam floating in the bay.
Ebbs, flows & waxes and wanes through tug boats and the memory of my father swimming across sometime 40 years ago. Iridescent hues bombard a break-water out to partridge island, the place to exile and quarantine the desperate and indenial, as the looming spectre of a celtic cross casts a shadow on the now defunct school and navy battlements.
That was a time before a semblance of peaceful and rightful human decency. So was now and tomorrow for the dregs and floating timber down an old ox-bowed river on the Pacific-Northwest or Cascadia.

Tinned peaches and powdered milk line the shelves of a by-gone era of hopeful exuberance and ultimately designed to fail,
but not rot away as nature would intend, but only to become less and less palatable.
The dust is settling on timeless memories as the years slip and slide into a compressed and abridged version of history.
Ear-marked for quick and clear retrieval,
Or hastily filed under un-fit for human senses.

I was born into this curse,
you stop laughing little slave,
or we will share my shallow grave,
smelling the flowers
from above our heads.

A little thing I came up with today, I never wrote anything but seems to be fun.

>>10329074
I can dig it.

>>10327219

What makes a piece of writing underage, anything specific that can be worked on?


>>10327258

Shit lads thanks for the constructive feedback on an attempt at a creative endeavour. I know it's shit, but I've just started and I enjoy doing it so I'd like it to at least not be shit

>>10329074
keep at it!

>>10325528
Of course my shitpost gets replies, yet my literary MASTERPIECE does not

>>10325579
I guess just less flowery words in general, practice making interesting writing with simple words. That said i'm not a great writer, just parroting pretty much what the last guy said to other guy who isn't you.

Uh oh...
Did I?
Yes!
I shit my pants,

i bet twenty dollars that I wont lose 20 dollars
i bet howler monkeys shout to keep off the collars
i bet phone callers would rather have another modus operandi
i bet brandy likes mr whiskers more than she lets on
i bet people who shy away from nostalgia are repressing the fun
i bet dimes look at quarters two and a half times
before they feel like the one

i bet betting is like jumping of a plane
i bet planing is a lot of empty space
i bet space is reserved for creation
i bet creating is a worthless waste
i bet waste is the product of useful things
i bet things have a multitude of tastes
i bet taste is shared by buds
i bet buds fight for fun
they bet fun would drift away
but that's because
they never had it in them
no cinnamon waves

I sat focused, eyes intent
thoughts through to the tip
until they slipped
and vision blurred
and then return

a glass edge
and nubile dirt
both within
the poet stirs

I feel melancholy
In December
Midnight of the year
A leaf clings to a frozen branch

I feel lost
The compass needle whirls indecisively
And rain erases all footprints

I feel confused
The traviler crashes to earth
And is granted flesh of man
But cannot understand these people

I feel trapped
Dance monkey dance

I feel confused
The song is quickening in his heart
But I do not know the words
And the muses forsake him

I feel alone
The ghost ship treads
Across the whispering seas

I feel bored
The robin takes flight
And holds the whole earth in contempt

I feel conflicted
a skull
split by a fissure
buried in the wasteland

>>10317416
reviere -> reverie? You mentioned the structure needs working on, and I have no suggestions for that, as in I wouldn't know where to begin. I'm just really confused as to the imagery you've chosen. You stray from ethereal beauty that is coming your way? How is it your beaten soul of yore if it is happening right now, but it is also hasn't happened yet because it is a potential? What is the comparison between mortal sleep and fitful sleep? Maybe my unwrinkled Neanderthal brain couldn't understand what was going on, but I found this really inconsistent, or at the very least, too opaque to try to figure out. For all its flaws, you did do a good job of setting a consistent tone.

>>10318926
Gotta be honest, this was rough. It reads like properly punctuated, uninteresting free-association.
>Then something else happened and he actually changed what he was thinking about.
Consider me hooked.

>>10318943
Are you... a cat?

>>10319181
>followed soot
my sides

>>10319304
Starts strong in the first few sentences, then gets choppy feels rushed. Also, the vernacular feels inconsistent.
>"My point is that I casted no witchcraft!"
Sounds like something that would be said on the street today. Then your character turns around and says "unto" in the very next sentence. Also, going out of your way to tweak current phrases to match your setting:
>"They fit the portrait of your run-of-the-mill rabble: pitchforks, clubs, tha sort of thing."
It comes across as non-immersive, rather than clever.

>>10319915
I have nothing critical to say about this. I really enjoyed it. Thanks for classing up the place.

>>10320056
Let's play the important noun game.
>blackboard voices silence. rebellion sunlight window. Leaders loves enemies friends note hand smirks giggles. dictation attention room. fingers desk melody clock bell.
Like the others said, I feel like I'm being waterboarded with adjectives.

>>10321330
I overlooked this one the first time around. This has good bones. The themes are strong, but the execution needs work.

>>10321482
Why did you capitalize Our? I enjoyed the third and fourth stanzas. The others didn't resonate with me as much. I think this is because the imagery was pushed a little bit harder in the other stanzas, and with a little less focus and direction.

>>10325015
Not sure what you're going for here, but I'm getting BBC nature documentary. Strong parts: the first post, minus the bit about using gravity. Weak parts: seems to fall apart and lose focus towards the end.

be nice

When Hazard was the Empress of the World,
the godless men of barren Earth, distraught
and batt'ling with their surging blood beswirled,
resolved to suffocate their loins to naught

The same were doglike advocates of Time
The Harvest Lord, the leaden child devourer
and therefore never comprehended rhyme
or reasoned of the Artifex's power

The potency of living Christ reviled
though fraud'lent phantoms chant and sing His name
a crimson devil stole this herd beguiled
and coaxed them most deceptively to flame.

No, morbid church, foundation sunken in,
The thrice-built Temple, Christian, find within !

>>10324761
everyone has ideas, since you're a newfag i recommend reading as much as possible. only then will you know how hard it is to set down those "ideas" of yours, and how elusive they actually are

>>10325177
NOW I"M WET IN THE MOUTH

Oh no I don't belong here.
Masks aren't really my thing,
they haunt me
Masks are disgusting, like sin.

Why am I here? Just wanted revelation.
Or is it that 'wanting' that should be blamed?
Should? I'm not the one to talk about morals,
Nor is anyone else.
Lilith shines here ,and I was born without shadow.
Wonder if I'm in Hell.

>>10330048

don't listen to this, just write. show it to all kinds of different people, get their input but rely less on what they say and more on how they respond (tone of their voice while responding etc.)

person I responded to isn't wrong though, ideas can be difficult to communicate, but we've got enough ideas running around. try something new and be honest.

>>10319915

i know this was posted a few days ago, but on the off chance you're still monitoring this thread, anon, i love this piece. i'd be interested to know where i could read more of your work / keep up with your writing.

>>10327320
>Rupi Kaur
lol. just lol. you took the memes seriously. lol, this board may be a few levels of irony above your level, and you should leave

>>10330089

you may be a few levels of elevator below the stairs ifuknowwhatimean, but stay. you're good for comparison

>>10330080
I post here all the time
and on r/OCpoetry

I'm glad you enjoyed it, but I won't claim most of my pieces are like that one.

>>10330161

damn, dude. really good. i will be looking out for your stuff in both places. i'm a fan, for real.

>>10330194
thanks!

“If, in the end, it is like what it was in the beginning, would there have been any point at all? Would we look back and say, we’ve come full circle? Or say, things have finally come to a close?”

“I don’t know, Dan.” said a man lighting a cigarette. He flicked the match back and forth to extinguish it, then brushed his fingers on his grey jumpsuit. The name Ryan was displayed in cursive on a sewn white name tag. “What do you think?”

Dan’s eyes unfocused. He stood like this for a while. “I don’t think we’ll know until we get there.” he said.

“Great,” said Ryan. He allowed himself to think for the briefest moment what it might feel like to beat Dan to death. Returning his focus to the matter at hand, he looked down at the dead ostrich at his feet.

“I don’t like the way their eyes look,” he confessed. The ostrich’s neck was twisted in a loop, its black eyes staring up at Ryan. It had taken two hands each from both Ryan and Dan to strangle the bird. Ryan gently nudged the bird’s chest with his toe.

“These eyes don’t look anymore, Ryan.” said Dan.

Ryan wedged his toe under the bird and attempted to roll it over. The bird gave little under his attempt, and rolled back to its previous position. Ryan grabbed the bird by the neck with two hands and began to drag it to the van they had parked nearby. After a few feet of grunting and sliding, Dan grabbed the ostrich by the leg, and the two men pulled the bird the rest of the way to the van. They slid open the side panel.

“How are we going to get this in here?” asked Dan.

Ryan threw his cigarette to the ground, and looked at the truck. He paused for a moment. “Grab the legs,” he said, “Go stand over there.”

“Everything has a price, Ryan.” said Dan.

Ryan grabbed the bird by the neck, and stepped back so that the body was suspended a few inches off the ground. “On three,” he said. He began to rock the body back and forth. “One, two, three.”

The men released the bird. The body flew clear into the passenger area of the van, while the legs and head bounced off the sides of the van and folded in on each other in a tangle. Dan tucked the limbs and head into the van and slid the door closed.

“What did you say?” said Ryan.

“I didn’t say anything.” said Dan.

The men entered the van, with Ryan in the driver’s seat. He turned the key in the ignition. The engine rolled for a few seconds, then turned on. He turned the van around, and took the road he and Dan had used to enter the enclosure.

After a few moments of driving, a pair of slender legs appeared in the roadway. Ryan slammed on the brakes. An ostrich stood in the middle of the road, blocking their exit.

>>10330341
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” said Ryan.

“I don’t think he is, Ryan.” said Dan.

Ryan reached forward and pressed on the horn. He let his foot off the brake and slowly moved towards the ostrich. The ostrich did not move. Ryan stopped the bumper of the van inches from the bird and took his hand off the horn. The ostrich grunted loudly twice, then threw up on the hood of the van.

Ryan gently massaged the bags under his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Well, let’s take care of this, then,” said Dan. He exited the van, and died instantly as a kick connected with his temple. Ryan watched his body crumple to the ground. An ostrich pranced over and ejected a thin, white stream of shit on Dan’s body.

Ryan heard a sharp rap on the driver’s side window, and whipped his head around. Mouth open, he stared at the ostrich that was standing there. The ostrich blinked twice, then pecked the glass again.

“Are you fucking -” Ryan began, when he heard a flurry of feathers enter Dan’s still-open door.

“GUUUURK!” announced the fourth ostrich. It leaned back, and whipped its head at Ryan like a morningstar. Ryan was not sure how, but he knew that this could only be the dead ostrich’s mate. Outside the van, the shrieks and grunts of countless ostriches filled the air.

Ryan felt his vision shrink and fill with sparks as the bird’s head collided with his own. The van rocked as the other ostriches kicked the sides, each kick echoing loudly in the interior of the van. Again and again the dead ostrich’s mate flailed its head into Ryan’s body. Ryan began to slip into and out of consciousness.

The beating stopped. He could not tell how long the beating had lasted. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. Ryan felt his heart falter as it struggled to pump blood to his bruised and beaten body. Each pump, weaker than the last, brought a fresh wave of pain.

Then, the pain stopped. He felt a bony finger underneath his chin, and a voice whispered in his ear:

“I work the graveyard shift alone, always with a smile.
I welcome any customer, man or beast or child.
My services are varied, my services are free.
But it’s a lonely life, you see. It’s lonely to be me.”

Ryan was dead before the stranger finished.

Outside the van, the rest of the ostriches bowed their heads low, as the dead ostrich’s mate took a tentative step out of the van. Another step followed. The ostrich stood alone, surrounded by the others, then collapsed. One by one, the ostriches rose, and receded into the night.

>>10317219
Anons, what do you do when you're stuck?
I often have a problem when I know that a certain event must happen in the story but I can't come up with a good reason for it.

>>10318713
Gefällt mir, die Geschichte ist zäh, herausgezögert und kryptisch was eine gute Spannung erzeugt

>>10331310
Danke. Kannst Du evtl. näher auf die Sprache eingehen und mir ggf. Verbesserungsvorschläge anbringen?

>>10331248
deus ex machina

>>10328036
>creatine: growth food
growth food's a pretty general term, anon-kun

Felt like a split second and there it was, a timeless feeling , the feeling of warm relaxation, a shower after a cold though day but I knew that tomorrow It'll be colder. The feeling of having fulfilled your duty but at the same time I wished I did more.

The night was young, so was she and I, every time I tried to move forward the white snow blinded me, above me the white moon glared at me, looking timeless as ever. I too strive for the feeling of timelessness, naturally every living being would strive for it and at least right now, I wanted to feel timeless again which I did soon enough.

Time slipped away, she had faded away from my life and I never saw her again, the sun came glaring around the horizon bringing another cycle of life and death. A vision so black still carried a beautiful song of melancholy. It made me rediscover a familiar feeling, the feeling which reminded me of all those rainy nights I've spent alone looking at the timeless starry sky, for the last time I felt it.
I’ve always felt betrayed, but maybe I had just betrayed myself all this time. The new day sets foot in everyone life and they continue like yesterday was without problem, slowly and sometimes beautifully, sometimes tragically realizing the mistakes made.

Kind rough draft, other anons said I need to change MC's name to something different. Suggestions? Also rate pls

Come around darling,
we’ll stay for a day.
I’ll try to be charming,
if not, I’ll like you anyway.

I’ll try to avoid a trite cliche,
such as going to a cafe.
Instead I want you for myself,
but stay away from by bookshelf.

>>10331627
Fantasy novel with a zombie MC, sounds kind of interesting but I worry it would sort of go nowhere.

>>10330089
>rupi kapur
>rupi kaur

you're missing something here pal

>>10321850
It's totally unnecessary to reiterate that you're in a library. Maybe your point is the repetition of several actions, but the second sip comes across as different because you follow with a sentence describing (presumably) the coke as "sublime." The "I was sitting in the library" part was just annoying to me. I appreciate how the title provides setting; it's efficient. If you removed the library sentence, I wouldn't have anything to offer you other than quibbles and line edits best left up to you.

>>10332080
>warm pillowy bosoms
No. Try again. People will laugh at this.
>the list of foods
Maybe try toning this down. It seems like something people would skip over. If this list were more concise, I think it would set the scene without being an annoying slog through words.

Also try to cut as many adjectives and adverbs as you can. They aren't too bad or prolific, but they didn't add much to the narrative for me. Other than that, I liked it. You have some really good sentences in there.

>>10331627
>centered prose
Jesus.

>>10332290
Good advice. Thanks blood.

>>10329750
Witchposter here, thanks a bunch anon. I'll change the unto's and the "that sort of thing", which was supposed to be an homage to Pratchet but doesn't really fit here

Posted this before countless times, though I hope the improvements are sharper this time.

In an introspection, in a calm inspection of his own many negatives, Mercurius found his taste for jests to be the one that stood out the most. Next came his needless verbosity. With his nature being that of an inconsiderate man, he was severely unequipped to speak the necessary words at the necessary time in the necessary amounts. He acknowledged that fact.
In fact, he was doing it right now. The meaning of the deluge of letters he had just spouted out forth could easily be boiled down to the simple and meager four word sentence of "I talk too much." He was a wordsmith that refined the complicated and reforged the straightforward into the complex. That is how he preferred to percieve and present his thoughts. It was small wonder those environing him would consider him vexing.

>>10333019
It's not purple enough. Add more unnecessary words. Make the sentences needlessly long. Misuse words. Avoid plot. There's too much characterization.

>>10333333

bump

>>10333559
So it goes.

>>10333520