/lit/ - Literature

>They moved like a lightning that bifurcates in two.

A bad allegory written in stilted, jarring prose. The literary equivalent of a burnt fast food hamburger.

>>11089670
The metaphor doesn't actually work because tigers and other seemingly asocial animals do have friends and will gift each other food. They just work at different time and space scales then humans. And really only engage in "friendship" on the scales of every few months. And enjoy vast expanses of personal territory.

I polished up and wrote this song. Sorry that it turned into maximum edge but this was just how it turned out:

The way you treat me
just a delusion
The things I've seen
a strange illusion

but yesterday night
you confirmed to me
the jokes you think
I didn't hear or see

perhaps I have
a fragile mind
but driven to madness
because you were kind?

the victim is me
singing this song
the victim is you
who cares if it's wrong?

and you can sing tonight
keening of the dead
a haunting ghost of
a fragmented head

or maybe I will kill
another yet again
a suicide of love
and end this song my friend

The Refrain:
I'm wacky, I'm funny
I'm mentally ill
I'm wacky, I'm funny
I've an urge to kill

>a suicide of love
and end this song my friend

You should have written this song in 2005, you would have been the talk of the third tier of church basement pop punk.

How do I tell my boss I never did my job
Without raising suspicions or implying she was robbed

>>11090643

Given the state of /lit/, I feel good about standing pat on this for the high water mark for the thread.

Why do these threads keep getting deleted?

He stooped down and picked the shiny coin up from the wet sidewalk.
A shiny one euro coin.
"Nice" he mumbled and slipped it into his pocket.
This was turning out to be a pretty decent morning. The sun was starting to break through, despite the severe rain overnight and the air was filled with the sounds of early Summer.
On top of all this he had a message on his phone when he woke this morning.
'Sure, I'd love to go for a drink. x' it read.
He could still hardly believe that he mustered up the gall to text Sarah and ask her out. To be fair it was mostly Mr. Jack Daniels that convinced him to text but either way he had a date so thanks Jack, ol' buddy.
He lit up a cigarette as he waited at the traffic lights.
Thoughts of Sarah flooded his mind and he felt a flutter.
He breathed deeply from his cigarette, looked up at the morning sun and smiled.
He stepped down off the curb and headed across the street.

What a lousy fucking morning. First the bus wouldnt start, then he forgot to bring his lunch and then his wife called to say that there was leaky water pipes in the house.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Not to mention the possiblility of losing his job over arguments with some commuters.
Some people on the bus could be real wind up merchants, ya know?
He pulled out his phone to check what new hell his wife would text him about but it slipped and hit the floor.
He bent over slightly and started feeling around the floor.
A split second.
Thats all it takes.
He looked up just in time to see the man stepping of the curb, cigarette pursed in his lips.
It was too late, he could not stop.

>>11091087

Dull, like the text version of a flatpack wardrobe. Also rather stilted. Try writing the exact same thing but with other words.

>>11089670
>hunted wherever his prey.
Oh, he hunted his prey? I'd have assumed he was hunting his predators. Amazing.

>>11089670
Words

Turn them around,
Take them from behind (cry, you whores),
Whip them,
Feed sugar to these rebels,
Inflate them, balloons, poke them,
Slurp their blood and marrows,
Dry them,
Castrate them,
Step on them, gallant rooster,
Twist their neck, you cook,
Pluck them,
Gut them, you bull,
Ox, drag them,
Make them, poet,
Make them swallow all their words.

>>11091340
Nice song anon.

I, lonely, met a girl too sweet,
Whose calling eyes did me entreat,
And Love struck fast with vip’rous bite,
Now venom hot confounds my sight;
Her skin, so soft, with brightest shine,
The way she slips and glides so fine,
Her endless curves, enchantress eyes,
I can’t escape this wondrous guise.
If even able would I not
Remove the prey she rightly caught,
For Love’s sweet poison courses yet,
And though my doom is all I set,
Devourment’s with pleasure fraught!

>>11091087
>He
>He
>He
>He

Approaching A Girl In A Library

Indifferent shelves, gatherings of turned
brown pages, and flat letters full of dusk
stood dumb behind him, lingering unfelt.

They followed his departure from the sea-
foam sofa pad, out towards the mused girl

Whose fingers set the yellow coffee cup
beside the sesame seed bagel slice,
and flickered through an old Junji Ito.

>>11091460
This is good and better than most of the overwritten and overambitious shite that gets posted

>>11091460
Were you trying to go for a specific meter?

>>11091504

It's in iambic pentameter. I'm pretty sure the syllables are all correct but lmk if they're off.

>>11091525
inDIFFeRENT SHELVES, GATHeRINGS of TURNED
BROWN PAGes, and FLAT LETters FULL of DUSK
STOOD DUMB beHIND him, LINGeRING unFELT.

they FOLlowed his dePARTure from the SEA-
FOAM SOfa PAD, OUT TOWARDS the MUSed GIRL

whose FINgers SET the YELLow COFfee CUP
beSIDE the SEsaME SEED BAgel SLICE,
and FLICkered through an OLD JUNJI ITo.

It's iambic, but it has an unnecessary amount, and inappropriate placement, of substitution.

>>11091568
and FLIckered THROUGH an OLD JUNJI ITo*

>>11090983
Because it's always shitty poets posting and no one offering valid criticism

>>11091568
So you failed at iambic pentameter?

>>11091460
>>11091362
>>11091340
Never touched a girl before

>>11091591
Not literary criticism, and false in my case

>>11091587
What do you mean I failed? It is mostly iambic, but there is too much substitution. For example, the first line has three accented syllables in a row, "inDIFFeRENT SHELVES, GATHeRINGS of TURNED".

>>11091584
This. We need a separate prose thread, usually its more interesting and people usually give better/more critique. Idk if its becaude they take it more seriously or if its easier

>>11091340
last line is good, I also like the idea of words being these little beasts and whores lol

>>11091637

I see what you mean you're right. Do you think it makes it read awkwardly? I don't think I'll change it in this poem but I'll keep it in mind for future ones.

>>11091647
It used to mostly be prose. But that was like 3 years ago.

>>11091591

Haha does the poem come off as some incel shit? It wasn't mean to I just made up the scenario cause I'm in the library a lot. My gf helped me edit it, ironically.

Twelve more days. Twelve more days.
Haskanov wakes up, this very thought consuming his first waking second. Hungover from what could be considered as a very fruitful yester night, he groggily climbs out of bed, feeling unjust with the solid ground beneath him. Feeling ready, almost determined in his half-lucid predicament, to call off of work, he calls his employer to warn of his absence.
In what could affectionately be labeled as a lack of perspective and focus in this state, he is unsure if any of his piss actually made it into the toilet. Alas, with a wave of nausea overcoming him, he had no time to think about cleaning up. Almost identical to reflex, Haskanov dropped to the floor, the trajectory of his mouth facing the yellow water. At a split second later, he flashed into the porcelain bowl, turning the yellow water into a chunky green soup.
After finally cleaning up what putrid mess he had made in the bathroom, he climbed back into bed, tired, yet unable to sleep. It was as if some force were enticing him to keep awake.
My days… my final days… how could I spend them like this?
A rush of shamefulness overtook him as he thought somberly about how he could bring himself to squander so much time. He only had about a week and a half left; how foolish of him to spent his final days in self inflicted sickness!
Finally falling asleep, he laid there peacefully, as if he had all the time everyone else did. Away it seemed, were the thoughts of his nonexistence, or perhaps an afterlife, twelve days from now. Of course, what happens beneath the skin can’t be seen with the eyes, and in Haskanov's dreaming state he pondered all this and more, not much to his amusement.
Haskanov, after hearing the news, made sure of himself that he would focus less on his spoiling and more on the enthralling joys that could be experienced with the time he had left. However, this was no easy task when the horrid face of death stared him down with every second of his limited existence.
At high noon that day, he once again woke up, and was once again immediately pestered with the thoughts and inquisitions of his impending perishing. Something deep inside him had already accepted his own death, making him no longer afraid of what lied beyond—yet, another part was morbidly curious, and perhaps apprehensive. Haskanov was perplexed at his own internal feelings, something he never thought was possible.
He lay there for a while longer, worrying himself with his perplexity and morbid thoughts. Alas, when he finally rose out of bed for the second time that day, he managed to push those thoughts aside momentarily and instead focus on feeding his dog and showering.

>>11091677
Yes, substituting iambic feet is effective when done appropriately. It breaks the rhythm to do it when it isn't needed. I'd recommend editing it because it is a short poem, so I think you could easily change the parts that don't work, and will give you that much more practice for the next poem.

>>11091362

That's sweet of you to write buts it's too anachronistic and cliche ridden. You don't wanna say things like "endless curves" and "enchantress eyed" because they're too obvious associations for the sentiment you're conveying. What do her curves remind you of that doesn't immediately come to mind? What is it about her eyes that are enchanting? Think outside the box man. Don't just use the first expression that comes to your head. And as for the anachronistic aspect, yeah, stop that. "Vip'rous" "entreat". I'm sure you love Wordsworth or whatever but this is the 21st century pal. You don't necessarily need to read contemporary writers but you should write for the time that you're in. Poetry is the search for new language, not rehashing of the old. "Make it new!"

>>11091340

I like the rhythm here it's fun. Reminds me of DEVO's "whip it".

>>11091686
This is very cluttered and meandering. I read it and can understand what's happening, but it feels bloated. Not to the point. Some examples:

>A rush of shamefulness overtook him
>He thought somberly
There's no need to put it an adverb about how sad he is if you just said he's been overtaken by shamefulness.

Also, you can sound unique and poetic without using language that nobody uses.
>yester night
Just say the previous night.

>>11091695

Thanks a lot man.

Two bodies face to face
are at times two waves
and the night is an ocean.

Two bodies face to face
are at times two stones
and the night is a desert.

Two bodies face to face
are at times roots
linked to the night

Two bodies face to face
are at times knives
and the night a lightning

Two bodies face to face
are two stars falling
into an empty sky.

>>11091711
I haven't read much of Wordsworth, but I see what you mean when you call out "endless curves". It's not supposed to be a serious love poem, but a fun one, though I should still strive for excellence in it, so thank you. However, I don't agree with the way you believe poets should be writing in the 21st century.

>>11091721
You're welcome, anon. I recommend reading "Poetic Meter and Poetic Form" by Paul Fussell, and good luck.

>>11091743

Why not? I think it's pointless for a poet to want to just rehash what someone before him did rather than create a new language. I can't think of a great poet who did otherwise.

>>11091729

interesting idea. lost its place (for me) about half way through, but that final stanza is some beautiful imagery there. gonna keep me thinking tonight.

>>11091362

i generally don't like poetry thats just about a girl, but you did pretty well with this one, giving it a theme other than just gushing over one. i especially like the ending.

>>11090614

started out nice, but when you get to the victim bit and the kill bit, you sound really edgy.

>>11091729

This very nice. All I have to say.

>>11091751
Wyatt rehashed Petrarch, others have influence from Wyatt, and Shakespeare, and Milton, and Keats etc. It's not "rehashing" or "copying", but taking inspiration from poets of the past and trying to equal or surpass them in technical skill and wit. I don't want to "create a new language."

I fold the page of the day,
write what it's dictated
by the moves of your eyelashes.

*
I get inside you,
veracity of the shadows.
I want evidence of the dark,
to drink the black wine:
take my eyes and burst them.

*
A drop of night
on the tip of your breasts.
mysteries of the carnation.

*
When I close my eyes
I open them inside yours.

*
In its crimson lair
your tongue is always
awaken and wet.

*
There are fountains
in the garden of your blood vessels.

*
With a mask of blood
I go through your thoughts in blank:
forgetfulness guides me
to the reverse of life.

>>11091837
"No!"

I fold the page of the day,
write what it's dictated
by the moves of your eyelashes.

*
I get inside you,
veracity of the shadows.
I want evidence of the dark,
to drink the black wine:
take my eyes and burst them.

*
A drop of night
on the tip of your breasts:
mysteries of the carnation.

*
When I close my eyes
I open them inside yours.

*
In its crimson lair
your tongue is always
awaken and wet.

*
There are fountains
in the garden of your blood vessels.

*
With a mask of blood
I go through your thoughts in blank:
forgetfulness guides me
to the reverse of life.

>>11091788

Fair enough. I suppose we're just different artists.

>>11091712
lol it's true

>>11091729

Limp celery
Turns brown over time

But no, really, you've said nothing.

>>11091847

>I get inside you
>veracity of the shadows

I hide in the abstract
*
I have very little to say
*
Sex imagery
*
Sex imagery

>>11091846
was meant for
>>11091847

>>11092196
>thinks poetry should be about "saying something"
Let me guess, you read novels for the plot, too.

>>11091591

(You)

Failed to replicate my masturbatory thoughts about gurls, their SKIN, and generally the way I think they are. You suck.

>>11091847
some cool imagery here and there but idk

>>11092238

Well I certainly don't read them for flaccid imagery that comments on nothing, presents nothing, does not even depict nothingness in its show of nothing.

They have tattoos and their attire is adorned with relic accessories.
I have a tattoo but it is hidden. My dress is plain.
They smell interesting and pleasant.
I reek of reams of copy paper.
They talk in obscure lingo that sounds intellectual and hip.
I don’t have the courage to utter a safe opinion.
But my secret is throbbing in my boot and
I can’t wait until the razors edge make you remember me

>>11092271
show us a poem that you consider good, then (and please don't share Annabel Lee)

>>11092277
sounds like a thing ginsberg would write, are you into beat poetry?

>>11091847
>There are fountains
>in the garden of your blood vessels
I liked this passage. Not bad overall.

>>11092297
not into poetry at all, really. just wrote this after seeing this thread right now. decided to pursue writing again like 20 min ago.

>>11089670
She tortures my soul,
Like a whore from Mars.
Her body smells foul,
Like the rancid bazars
But l still love her:
She is my mother.

Thoughts?

>>11089670
She tortures my soul,
Like a whore from Mars.
Her body smells foul,
Like the rancid bazars.
But l still love her:
She is my mother.

Thoughts? Am I this generation's Yeats or what?

You have to stop comparing things to the weather, she said,
and floated out of my life like a cloud

>>11089670
She tortures my soul,
Like a whore from Mars.
Her body smells foul,
For the bloody cigars.
But l still love her:
She is my mother.

Thoughts? Am I this generation's Yeats or what?

>>11092331
It's funny, but could use some work

>>11089670
She tortures my soul,
Like a whore from Mars.
Her body smells foul,
Like rancid cigars.
But l still love her:
She is my mother.

Syllable counter: 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5.
Rhyme structure: A, B, A, B, C, C.

Thoughts? Am I this generation's Yeats or what?

>>11092410
is meant for
>>11092420
it's just some stupid thing I wrote, I remember when my mother was nagging me all the time as a teenager, now she's gone :(

>>11092436
Pray for her soul, anon.

yes
YES

>>11092459
I have and I will. It's the only human I miss these days. Also, apparently "foul" and "soul" don't really rhyme, fuck English for not being my native language lol

>>11092465
They don't sound like they rhyme, but they are a visual rhyme, which can work in some cases.

>>11092420
You go from mystic stuff like the "soul" and exotic imagery like Mars to bodily smells and mundane things like cigars and then you finish it by saying you love your mum (soul-body-love). I liked it, anon.

Clock ! Going out, are we ? To me, the time you shall tell : thirteen O'clock ? Already ?... 13 : a lax number... Nonchalant, I become. Indolent, I become. Cessation, my body demand. Thus, I only desire to think, this hour. I refuse to move. Yet, standing, I am. Should I go to bed ? I'll let chance decide. If head, I go :
TINK.....................................TANK
Coin ! O bastard son of Gold, too pitched was the sound that you made while charging, like a garish goat, to the ground ! decorated with an unique square, tainted in monolithic black. In my pink ear, your voice, like a silver lyre, resonated and penetrated, like a peacock's beak, my eardrums... Speak about this subtle song to those who briefly heard it ! Let loose of who censor, for your chants are blessings ! But wait, Argh ! before telling, Ah ! the raising of my back. Pchkèich, to my hand ! clad lad—Alas ! Mute, now !—yellow fellow, to your gloomy room, you go !

Your eyes are the homeland
of the lightning and the tear,
silence that speaks,
windless storms, waveless sea,
caged birds, dormant beasts,
unholy topaz like the truth,
autumn in a clearing in the woods
where light sings on the shoulder
of a tree and all the leaves are birds,
beach that the morning
finds starry with eyes,
basket with fruits of fire,
lie that feeds,
mirrors in this world,
doors from beyond,
quiet pulse of the sea at midday,
absolute that blinks, moorland.

Your eyes are the homeland
of the lightning and the tear,
silence that speaks,
windless storms, waveless sea,
caged birds, dormant beasts,
unholy topaz like the truth,
autumn in a clearing in the woods
where light sings on the shoulder
of a tree and all the leaves are birds,
beach that the morning
finds starry with eyes,
basket with fruits of fire,
lies that feed,
mirrors in this world,
doors from beyond,
quiet pulse of the sea at midday,
absolute that blinks, moorland.

>>11092522
the only good post i've read on this hellhole of a board all day

>>11092561
scratch that, i just read >>11092420 which is also good

>>11092420
>>11092277
>>11091460
>>11091362
>>11091340
lol nice

>>11092522
to be clear, this is about calling a prisoner, right?

>>11092560
wtf is that bullshit

>>11092582
It's a guy in his room who can't decide wether he wants to go out or go back to sleep, so he basically toss a coin to let chance decide. The coin ends up falling in the ground and he likes the sound it
makes. He then picks it up and puts it in his pocket.

>>11092560
>basket with fruits of fire,
>lies that feed,
>mirrors in this world,
>doors from beyond,
i liked this bit, but the last two lines def need to be rewritten

October 2002

Jackass: The Movie had just recently come and gone at the Stephenville Cinema, and with a blink and a breath the TV show was on VHS at Wal-Mart. Now you knows, you knows when the b’ys, the seven o’dems, not much older ‘den twelve to ten took a ride up to town from the Peninsula in Mickey’s older brother’s rig to see the movie, and later held the tape in their hands on the week of Halloween, a devilish plot would unfurl before them as though the cassette’s film was spewing out of the case in the same fashion as those ghoulish tongue-talkers of devil media (friggin penny-costs, muttered Clark’s dad quietly from the sofa, having a draw while reading the Georgian that one time the group congregated in Clark’s living room to play Timesplitters 2); the lot of ‘em knew that they were going to ride down the vast slope of Gallant’s Street in a shopping cart together. They didn’t say it like that though, they said they would bomb Gallant’s, just like the Corner Brook crowd was bombing Fudge’s that very night as well (though that one was far steeper, and performed by some Grade 11s from Herdman, which ended up being a piece of local folklore, overshadowing the intermediary efforts of middle-ground middle-schoolers). Them b’ys carried reverence though—sheer reverence—for the Jackass lads. Impressionable youth making bad first impressions to the old farts around town, so to speak, especially with the talk of street-bombing and all. It makes me wonder if the “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RE-ENACT ANY STUNT PERFORMED ON THIS SHOW” warning was a direct message to those rapscallious Stephen-villians, because their sense of self-determination to get their fix of monkey-see-monkey-do knee scrapes and elbow burns and ripped shirts and bloody backs was their entire sense of juvenile testosterone. It was either what prevented or caused flatlining on the flatlands; the live or die mentality.

Mickey’s older brother’s truck smelled of even older Belvedere ash and Mary Brown’s grease from the back seat, with the stink of eight lads of varying degrees of pubescence in 20 degree weather piled into a noisy crimson F-150 rattling all deathly while wearily idling, Pepsi cans rattling likewise on the passenger side floor. Whenever questioned on the state of his rig, his older brother would rib and say that it smells better than Mickey, or a random pick at one of the gals the b’ys were interested in. They would usually sit in the bed of the truck out in the Peninsula, where the cops rarely visited. Mickey’s older brother goes “now luh, I’m not having any foolishness in here tonight, I remembers last time the lot of youse were here you was jumping in the back seat, trying to get the shocks going on the potholes, can’t be at it tonight,” he says, “I’m not havin’ it.” Martin was grinning all wide through his thick glasses, like some smug frog, bouncing on the back seat, squeaking the underbelly chassis.

>>11092669
(cont.)

The vehicle halted and near-slammed to an exclamation of "Alright, fuck outta'd'car, scoot yer arses the rest of the way," as Mickey’s older brother snapped his head back at Martin, looking him in the eyes some awful fierce, his sunken, dirty brown eyes and unshaven grandeur, in that bloody hand-me-down truck like where once his fadder sat he sits. Mickey started snickering like mad, putting his hand over his his crooked mouth.

Clark spit on the curb as he exited the truck door. Good ol’ Mick climbed up the side and started passing the Razor scooters down from the truckbed to the lot of youth piling out from all sides, stopped right in the middle of Main Street—Jake, Martin, Gary, Harry, and Todd. They cheered Mickey’s older brother off, as he stuck his middle finger out the window to the missus barmping the horn from behind the plume of black smoke from his exhaust.

The underside of Martin’s razor scooter grinded against the lattice-linked patchwork of concrete tiles on the corner of Queen and Main, dulling it if he were to ever use it as a long-handed peasant flail in roughhousing, holding the handle and shaft in his hands and spinning the base. He eventually did end up busting the ever-loving blood an’ piss out of some kid’s nose at the middle school graduation party, just in time for photos with the backdrop of a decaying mall right next-door.

>>11092669
This was interesting but was way too try hard in style and story. You should spend more time on each scene. It generally lacks depth, the voice is the literary equivalent of the plastic fruit. But there was something behind it, with some refinement it could be interesting. I would recommend rewriting in third person then having your narrator describd that so it sounds grounded.

One bitch
two bitch
dead bitch
new bitch

>>11092734
Appreciate it, friend

>>11092522
Best itt
Idk if its sustainable for much longer tho

>>11091754
Your poem has an interesting premise as I understand it, the troubles that come with being a "genius" or gifted, the personal battles and insecurities of always striving to better yourself and the isolation such a lifestyle breeds, and the perspective of someone in the shadow of a renaissance man. But otherwise its very boring. The meter isn't good, the rhyming feels trite and forced, and the metaphors and overall word choice is just boring.
Interesting idea, poor execution.

>>11092746
Is that Kanye song?

>>11092280

Here is a great poem by John Berryman

Dream Song 76 (Henry's Confession)
BY JOHN BERRYMAN
Nothin very bad happen to me lately.
How you explain that? —I explain that, Mr Bones,
terms o' your bafflin odd sobriety.
Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones,
what could happen bad to Mr Bones?
—If life is a handkerchief sandwich,

in a modesty of death I join my father
who dared so long agone leave me.
A bullet on a concrete stoop
close by a smothering southern sea
spreadeagled on an island, by my knee.
—You is from hunger, Mr Bones,

I offers you this handkerchief, now set
your left foot by my right foot,
shoulder to shoulder, all that jazz,
arm in arm, by the beautiful sea,
hum a little, Mr Bones.
—I saw nobody coming, so I went instead.

When men become dead zombies
Will they worship brains instead?

And in the pits in hell of Moloch Baal
The philosopher's debate and talk:
Of what of life when there is death?
- What is God when you are damned, damned, dead?

And by the very lake of fire
Those walking by its shore
- Of what use is life cut short
Can we find something more?

With vile ceaseless hungers
and hideous decay.
- What content's dead zombies?
To which gods can they pray?

What do dead zombies love and value?
Eternal as the second's hand:

There is the dream of more.

>>11091340
I laughed.

>>11091362
It was technically good but probably unavoidable that a love poem mostly retreads the same old ground.

>>11091729
>and the
falls particularly flat. Not only does this have a boring same old topic but it is even't really technically good. Also you'd probably want to use the metaphor of eagles falling instead of stars.

>>11092420
What the heck is a "whore from Mars?"

>>11092277
>I can’t wait until the razors edge make you remember me
Ow the edge

>>11093415
The dialect just makes the poem very awkward and hard to read out loud.

>>11093531
^contents

>>11093531
>When men become dead zombies
>Will they worship brains instead?
>And in the pits in hell of Moloch Baal
Right from the jump this seems too didactic in an amateurish sense. I know that it's very hard when you're starting out to convey complex thought without having it read like an on-the-nose lecture, but you need to find ways to work around that.

>>11093569
What would you consider a good didactic poem?

What is the impetus to write?
To verbalize some nagging notion
fighting to bubble up and escape

>>11093531
>What the heck is a "whore from Mars?"
She tortures anon's soul like no other person, how many whores from mars do you know? Exactly.

I posted this in the Bugs thread but I think it's too good for that and no one will guess the author anyway. Anyone here who speaks German who would like to critique me? I'll gladly critique back.

Lampe, kühner Springer, wülstig nun,
Schlucker orangener Speere, dem Erdreich entrissen
Halte ein, bedenke kleinlichst dein künftig Tun:
Reißt er dich hin, du ihn, er dich nieder, dein letzter Bissen?

>>11089670
This the best I've seen in a while, but you could do more to show. You keep it simple and you don't make it out to be more than it should. Very effective writing and with a couple of tweaks you could probably find a flash fiction site to accept it.

Going quid pro quo on critiques today.

>>11091340
Compared to the shitty poets here you have real potential. Anything else you got?

>>11089670
you’re fucking awful jesus fucking christ
>impetus
>ephemeral
such a pseud faggot

>>11092804
I've tried switching styles here and there so it doesn't feel monotonous, it take sometimes though to find the good combination of words.

>>11092522
Jesus cool it on the exclamations its not bad but no one reading this shit

Opposite the bathroom stall door, this shitcaked monument to human creator spirit behind which I cower, a procession of urinals protrudes from the wallpaper – Out of time, seemingly untouched by the grime that millennia of defecation left for a scrubwoman who never showed. Locks of shining black hair line the floor, dampen each step, occasionally at the cost of lower, mostly insect, lives, at times rustle and grate upon impact, at times swallow a man whole. Doomed are those who tread heedlessly in curly forest, where pubic hair pastures conceal urinary sloughs. Enter a pair of piss-willing friends who had had a few beers too many:

“Not too long now, I am afraid. The brass city is upon us. What impressions today her progenitors carve in words, in laws and ideas, voicing watchtowers and prayer niches, air castles, invisible to the less perceptive, will tomorrow be filled with matter and peeled at the touch of curious generations, revealing what could well be all curiosity’s end.”

“And yet, dearest friend, lover, spear master, god of flesh and hairs whose weight I bear nightly – excuse my drunken spiel but I want your fuckings – look at the floor of this place, we could make a little nest for ourselves and you could peck the warblings out of me – who could deny the poetic justice, the beauty, the comedy of the situation? Like sticking your dick into a knothole behind which, unbeknown to you, a raven nests – such is the fate of the curious. It’s a bloody fate – emasculating – but thoroughly satisfying from a narrative perspective. The funniest thing: All you had to do was look!”

>>11095068
“I’m not in the mood, you insatiable ham scabbard! Should I make you kiss this place’s fuzzy pudic carpet? Stinking airhead, bloated with dreams of bird love and “poetic justice”, you! What if they drowned us both? Imagine the camel cavalry bursting through the wall right now, hunting faggots as they do. A picturesque scene, this bathroom being the mythic landscape that it is, but pleasant enough to override the sensation of choking in a puddle of dung? Remember Olga Gaikovich? Beautiful happenstance, unthinkable suffering. You couldn’t take the pain of what’s to come.”

>>11089670
My dick is lovely
She is my god
MY GOD

>>11093531
>What the heck is a "whore from Mars?"
like your mother

>>11093531
>Also you'd probably want to use the metaphor of eagles falling instead of stars.
You can make your own poems, y'know.

I can't think about anything else.
She is taking over my imagination.
The breeze seems to whisper.
"Valencia."
I have never seen a woman put together so well in real life.
When you take away all of todays filters, photoshops and media trickery you quickly realise that celebrities are not beautiful.
Valencia was true beauty.
Sun kissed skin, golden and flawless.
Silk felt like cheap lycra in comparison.
Her body was perfection.
It reeked of sexuality. The definition of the fairer sex. Good child bearing hips. Long, lean legs. And tight.
She was genetically lucky.
Lucky as a motherfucker.
Her eyes were the real killer.
Deep and dark. You dared not speak lies for fear that she knew.
Piercing. Intelligent. Alive.
I picked up the phone and sent the text.
'Come over? Daddy needs sugar...'
I waited.
Nothing.
The clock over my fireplace ticked away excruciating seconds.
Nothing.
I rubbed my eyes and sighed.
The phone buzzed.
NEW PICTURE MESSAGE it read.
I opened it.
It was Valencia. Standing in front of her vanity mirror.
Towel around her waist.
Water from her freshly washed hair had dropped and rolled down her exposed breasts.
My cock started to throb.
My phone buzzed again.
'Be there soon papi. x'
My lips curled in a grin.
I got up and walked to my bedroom.
The robed men sat in a circle.
My shelves covered in candles.
A pentagram had been painted hastily in goats blood across my floor.
"She'll be here soon."
"Good." One of the robed men spoke and drew a dagger from within his cloak.

An excerpt.

>>11095041
Idk the exclamation spam seemed appropriate to me in this context.

>>11095041
He must be French, look at the space between the words and the exclamation signs, that's a French thing.

>>11095776
I'm not French, but the language I know most is indeed french so you're not off the mark.

>>11094915
Good, but not very original anon.

>>11095822
Its makes for some very visually unappealing writing. The lack of flow and purple prose doesn't help at all.

>>11096184
I don't see how it lacks flow, the exclamation abuse's purpose was to make the prose feel more "musical". The rest of the novel (atleast what I have written of it) isn't like that. The visual appeal depends I think on what you used to, for instance I find exclamations marks to be unappealing when there is no space. Thanks for giving me criticism though.

>>11095907
Cool I can accept that. My girlfriend said it was Twilight Zone-y

Didn’t wanna go way back around, you know, on the trail I came in on. It was getting dark, and the trail is you know--anyways so I cut over the hill through all that bramble and yucca up there. Over the first lip, I hadn’t gone far at all, and I see the start of a roof. Which was weird to begin with like as if you wouldn’t get cap rock in your window every week. So I go up and around, reconnoitery I guess is a good word, and it’s a whole three story house there on that lip that’s all brick and straight out of Pen--I don’t know. The mortaring, you know. I’m behind the house just looking at this thing, I mean it was perfect and fine somehow as far as I could tell, and even had those fancy windows you see in some places. I go around and try ringing the doorbell cause what the hell, and this is where I wanted to tell you about this. The door opens and my Dad, my Dad who, you know, I haven’t seen in twenty some years, he opens the door.

Muse, desist.
Would it so weary a tender wrist
To attack in self defense?

You call me cruel!
Bitter river of all beauties—
Better to blame the gorgon “school”
And a land that chance no fancy.
Delicate de-liberate thing,
Do dance never
Sweet kiss ever
Must you the awful, hateful toil
You’ve solve with love’s anointing oil?

O, let me eat a night. If not,
if all has come to choose
from is and ought,
then I, whom twist, and wroth,
and wrought have taken as their candy—
well.
Brylcreem heap the aegis on a cowluck dandy.

Hell,
come to a head! Be dead, be dead!
These limbs, which do not love their lead,
This heart, which does not love a heavy heart.
Make me dumb and end ere I depart.
You stop.
You start.

jarytropolis

me finna upon the daydone working
swains, when break day dark the
lightsome hours,
the curdling shadow glass of steel
spines shine.
Nothing should so less perfectly suit a place like mine!

I, the true cross, dream of mending
peace never begun, pain never ending.
Matter that I am, what do I matter in the greater scheme—
Beyond my aiding and abetting that sad scene?

Can stones cry out, and beg to be forgave
For making martyrs? My crime is far more grave.
Just for starters—I sent my lord and maker
To the pit, made him his own celestial undertaker.
And that's to make no mention of the pain,
Graven, God forgive me,
into the eyes that saw the stars, the skies—and I!
—ere we were made.

Not since Eden’s malum has there come to be
a plant impregnate with such misery
as I. Never to be
would’ve been much better,
than ever to have been—if, in so being,
one’s own unseeing
led to sin—
as it did with me.

Rood that I am, I do not hesitate to swear:
I’d acted with indifferent care—
I’d been polite! Many a tranquil, fragrant night
I’d whispered away under the ancient light
of cool, undying stars. Death to me now is all they are.
But when anew each night their visage on my foliage shone
I knew I knew all that was worthy to be known.
I understood—not yet full grown,
uncoiling under the weight of striving wood—
that life was a tremendous good,
sufficient to uphold the sky.
Neveranymore feel I
such dearness.

>>11092560
beautiful

YES!
YES!
The Tiger is out

>>11097856
Seems solid and does the job of grabbing the reader. But theres too much clutter from all the "you knows" and slang talk of the narrator.