/lit/ - Literature

>>11723472
I was expecting this to be trash, cause OP on crit threads always are the worst... but I found this charming. "hushing shade" is pwetty.

>>11723990
am I nuts or is this erotic as fuck?

Page A Million
https://pastebin.com/raw/a5yYyAVE

>>11723472
>amongst

Never use this word unless you're also using thou, thy, canst regularly in your work. 'Among' is almost always preferable.

>>11724284

Douly noted

http://expatpress.com/ink-ryan-bry/

inky

matisse btw

>>11724195
Either erotic or completely innocent. Was actually waiting for a lolita reference desu

When disillusion runs amok the court
And true intentions are hidden in verse,
The fairer seen frail, no reason or thought;
Yet guilt prevails in the mind for the worse;
As twilight haze and honour descend fast,
Hurt maidens sink under love songs withdrawn;
With envy enraged, a cut to the past
Will leave spring bloody and finally gone
Less fair by fair lie maidens by rivers:
As fledgling morning wanes, an endless ring;
Chaste nymphs unspoiled, their joie de vivre;
Will blossom's branding tarnish future spring?
And through times of faith, this verse will stand true,
Time’s hand stays aside as the fair drown blue.

>>11725100
This sounds like

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuObGsB0No

>>11725124
Idk if that’s a good thing or not

A wall with thick wood trim grew up out of the trees into its peak piece of sky. It stuck up out of the forest, pine needles brushing off in some wind. The wallpaper was ugly. What worried the men around there was if the wind would fell it, one way it'd just pierce itself on some trees, but the other way and you'd have one hell of a mess. The thing had a wide bout to it, and they wagered, his kid and him, the Boss and kiddo, that it was at least half a stadium. So what the hell and gets to work, Boss man. Travel over states and mountains, and you'd be doing the same thing to take your axe to the growing.

>>11724284
it's almost as common as "among" here in uk

A slow light,
The street lamps flow,
With some well dressed singing.
Fucking Creep.
With his mother-bound eyes,
The rough palms flow,
A slow night.

You who I have never known
Lurker, reader, other anon
You who know some other life
And sift within it, so uncertain

Who are you that reads this writing?
May it seek, or does it find
Some far different sort of being
Listless in a fixing bind?

Other - would you mar, provoke me?
Would you spend a gnawing day
Sitting in your soul's abandon?
Would you writhe, or would you play?

Are you formed of failed endeavours?
Are you suffering, and torn?
Is there more to life within us?
Or are we outcasts both, forsworn?

Sinking down these words I give you
May they slip into your mind
Sitting there so I can touch you
I can feel you, kindred kind.

>>11725100

Good diction, you've potential, but lose the 19th century English romance poet voice. No need to waste your talent on sounding anachronistic when you could be helping to push forward the current spirit of our times.

>>11725474

I like the first three lines, they're pretty and usefully terse. The change in tone with the remaining four felt abrupt to me though. Especially "Fucking Creep", considering the prior language was so light and even the following remains so in spite of the attempted harshness. I can kind of see what you were going for if you intended on making that transition from soft to harsh a pertinent thing, but I just don't know if it's working here.

>>11726021
Good point. I had wanted the tone- among other things- to appear symmetrical between the first and last three lines. Dreamy lull- sudden indignation- resigned acceptance. The line tying the begining and end together probably needs be more subtle

wake to you:
water in one hand,
sun on my bed.

>>11725100
>>11725484
Stop writing about the fact that you're writing and just write. Also, like another anon said, 19th century romantic voice is not really necessary.

>>11726189
>>11725484
I'm not the other guy - I only posted this. Opinion?

>>11726228
I meant for it to apply to both posts. Your poem reads nicely though, It sounds like you were really convicted about the message. It reminds me of old Christian hymns. It might be a matter of taste, but I always find straight meter with simple rhyme kind of unnecessary. It really only works for me when it's extremely rythmic and dense, otherwise I prefer poems that progress established conventions. However, I think what you meant to do, you did very well. My only other gripe is that it's kinda long. Had I written this poem I probably would have grinded it down to less than two stanzas. The voice is pretty antique. I see that a lot in these threads. I guess I just want to suggest that you try not to be strict to a form, and try not to sound a certain way, but just say exactly what you mean, and how it feels.

https://dancefighterredux.wordpress.com/2018/09/02/a-dragon-confronts-the-terasem-movement/

https://cultification.wordpress.com/2018/07/10/interview-with-robots/

Should I keep going(Also, I got an editor)?

Each chapter is a different robot with a different topic.

>>11725100
There's some kind of prevailing meter that I really enjoy, but I think it needs to be more stable. Lots of substitution where you don't want it, like
>As twilight haze and honour descend fast,
If you're line is about something moving fast, something light, etc. it gives that sentiment more impact when you substitute spondees, that is, have more light stresses. Enjoyed it a bit. What were you going for and how much did you plan it all out?

>>11725484
I like it a lot. Anon and certain is a bit weird to pronounce, but some cool language I haven't heard before, like in stanzas 3 and 5.

>>11726490
>>11726228
I disagree with shortening it even more. Perhaps by one stanza if that. I also enjoy metered rhyming poetry so I say write what you want and what you like. I do the same.

>>11727116
First draft and unedited. What would you recommend to change about the line?/any other part

>>11724284
Not in British English

>>11723472


>It is often said, the toastier the roast, the bigger the beef. Something mysterious happens while a splayed roastie has her feminine parts bored open. Her once delicate, peach of an innie blooms like a meaty tulip, a creation that holds only gaping darkness as its pollen. Diving deeper into her labyrinthine labia, we peer into stunning microscopic worlds teeming beneath the beef and bologna, one commanded by Darwin but perpetually under the pressures of nightly batches of invasive new microbiota. Those Papilloman particles and Chlamydian crusts are pummeled and pulverized into her flesh, the same as the sticky spores of Gonorrhea exudate, the motley films and fluids of adenoviruses, amoebas and anaerobic fauna, many from vastly far away places. Driven through her epithelial layers and deep into her beef, they burrow and seek out nutrition, infection, and begin to terraform the vaginal tissues into a land suitable for the apocalyptic droves deposited fresh every sunset. Her immune system has long since grown into an abiding symbiosis with the invasive menagerie of bacteria, fungie and flagelating mystery monsters, even incorporating genes delivered by the various retroviruses and postules of microRNA sent throughout her blood stream at the behest of her vagina’s new tenants. Designed by nature to be a fertile pasture for reproduction, now her semen-soddened womb whistles hollow like a ghostly edifice remaining from a war. But in a trade-off, her sexually microbiome augments her biology. HPV hacks her dopamine and serotonin circuitry, making her bolder and more brazen, more risk-seeking and even more sexually insatiable. Neurosyphilis empowers Roasties to draw attention to themselves and to resist the mainstream tyrannies of society.

>>11724284
>>11725081
as others have pointed out, "amongst" is fine in British English. If you are a British or don't mind that using that word implies you are, then it doesn't really need any changing.

>>11727209
eh, this is tedious to read. In smaller doses within a passage it could work, possibly, but not like this.

>>11727209
Syphilis is the one that makes women act like hostesses. HPV's mostly cancer and warts or maybe a case of the sniffles.

>>11727209
Also: fungi is the plural of fungus if you meant that

Today when I sat down to take a shit I looked the newly-cleaned tap. I could see one reflection of myself from each handle. A moment later I noticed a third reflection, from the centre. I waved my hands about and noticed more reflections from the bends in the metal. Four reflections, eight reflections, eleven reflections. I realised I was a reflection reflecting upon reflections. It was starting to become overwhelming. I hurriedly squeezed myself out and vacated the bathroom.

>>11723472
Harry Dean was thinking about Diane Kruger again. Diane was an energetic angel with coat arms and beard feet.
Harry walked over to the window and reflected on his Green surroundings. He had always loved Idyllic Grand Park with its thoughtful, tense Trees, rivers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel lonely.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an energetic figure of Diane Kruger.
Harry gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a happy, eventful, hard liquor drinker with slick arms and hammered feet. His friends saw him as a shredded, snotty sinner. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved an uptight toddler.
But not even a happy person who had once jumped into a river and saved an uptight toddler, was prepared for what Diane had in store today.
The sun shone like writing widows, making Harry delighted. Harry grabbed a solid apple that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Harry stepped outside and Diane came closer, he could see the itchy glint in her eye.
Diane gazed with the affection of 9632 creative tones. She said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want Inspiration."
Harry looked back, even more delighted and still fingering the solid apple. "Diane, I like you," he replied.
They looked at each other with irritable feelings, like two green, blushing kids at a very smiling park, which had piano music playing in the background and two adorable uncles watching to the beat.
Harry studied Diane's coat arms and beard feet. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Harry in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you Diane."
Diane looked worried, her emotions raw like a watery, witty writer block.
Harry could actually hear Diane's emotions shatter into 7966 pieces. Then the energetic angel hurried away into the distance.
Not even a drink of hard liquor would calm Harry's nerves tonight.

>>11725484
Preface: I'm no poet. I only read prose.

There is something here though. It makes me think I shouldn't have shirked so easily an interest in poetry. I can't give you adept criticism for which I apologise, but I enjoyed your work, honestly I did. Stanza three is my favorite bit.

>>11727511
The premise of this could be somewhat interesting if elaborated on (the reflection part, of course. Unfortunately, you choose to try to satirise people who want advice on their writing and this is reflected in the work that you have created i.e. it’s shit

>>11727569
Me think'stve that mine scribblitives werenots'd'nt formalican 'nuf for m'lordukearl

>>11727511
kek

A dour knight, marred in armor and soul,
Was lead to the shade of a date-tree
By a tweeting Hoopoe. Three days passed
Prior this time, in which he'd wandered
Through barren pastures, sulking like a stray calf.

He leaned on the trunk, remembering the violence
And how the air had grown bleak,
Blooming with the aroma of slain men;
Bitter wafts whirred from an ice matted garden.
He contemplated his virtues and swatted the memory.

"Is honor alone a sufficient pulse
To inspire my welted heart
In this void of misery
And from war’s blight, grant amnesty?"
He spoke, and again the Hoopoe chirped distantly.

His eyes traced the sound and observed
Rain falling afar, silver and heavy,
Drenching a single plot of the great woods.
He was drawn to the mark as if by instinct;
A supernal lure tugged at his chest.

He dreamily approached the sight, and there!
Over the shrubberies! Abundant stalks
And orchards swelled with ebullient fruit,
A majestic lustre, golden, sovereign;
A lance of light solidly struck his heart.

Flat on the dirt, the knight now lay
At the hearth of the Most Gracious—
Without contemplation, without lament,
He giggles like a child.
He remembers the Truth.

A dour knight, marred in armor and soul,
Was lead to the shade of a date-tree
By a tweeting Hoopoe. Three days passed
Prior this time, in which he'd wandered
Through barren pastures, sulking like a stray calf.

He leaned on the trunk, remembering the violence
And how the air had grown bleak,
Blooming with the aroma of slain men;
Bitter wafts whirred from an ice matted garden.
He contemplated his virtues and swatted the memory.

"Is honor alone a sufficient pulse
To inspire my welted heart
In this void of misery
And from war’s blight, grant amnesty?"
He spoke, and again the Hoopoe chirped distantly.

His eyes traced the sound and observed
Rain falling afar, silver and heavy,
Drenching a single plot of the great woods.
He was drawn to the mark as if by instinct;
A supernal lure tugged at his chest.

He dreamily approached the sight, and there!
Over the shrubberies! Abundant stalks
And orchards swelled with ebullient fruit,
A majestic lustre, golden, sovereign;
A lance of light solidly struck his heart

Flat on the dirt, the knight now lay
At the hearth of the Eternal—
Without contemplation, without lament,
He giggles like a child.
He remembers the Truth.

The entity was here. For some reason it hid itself, unlike most of them. It didn't come off as anger, fear or anyone else like that. No, this entity pretended that it was I and us. It gave us the tools and the commands. We obeyed - after all, it was us issuing commands to our arms and legs, head and toes, eyes and ears.
But, it was actually us who obeyed. Like a mirage, we reflected those entities. Like the people of old and the artists, we paint our share of the world. Not like us, not anymore. These beings, however, take shape. Weird hair colors, toxic blood, uglier tones in our voices, bleak architecture, detached symbols in a sea of them, each and every one demanding its share of your attention, or that of your subconscious. Demanding, and we gave. Though some of them were envious of others, some of them wedged themselves in through their disdain for others. Advertisements, gods, desires, emotions. Psychological structures, linguistical viruses, reactions, thought patterns, manipulation, "buzzwords" and their repulsive and lucrative sides. Replications, heritage, and selection. Like us, the entities thrived. I myself used one of them to get rid of most of the others. "To make sense of the world. To conserve energy." - I fell for the ads. But that, too, is a failed attempt. No, it's not even an attempt. I defined a goal and took the first passable option. The goal was to explain the situation. The relationship. But, who do I want to explain it to? Myself - but I should already know. Now, I do know that I do not want to, so I call upon the noise and the confusion. Why is there this denial? I can go through the logic, maybe. I'm supposedly smart, "a genius". I hear, even a monster. But, this is what I drew of myself when I was a child! A dragon in all but name. I grew, detested and despicable.

The 'others', the distinct noise and shame of them. Look how clumsy they are! See how banal they are? Social signals and cues, this one rigged game is all they know. There's more life and humanity among chickens! The others, they are less than animals, it said. There is no distinction between them and the Universal structure - no matter how it is defined. They do not escape the net, there is nothing to them that is outside of it. So the others said, and eventually I echoed the same. Yet I limited it to them. Genius, I the survivor.

Sloth was a lucrative option, whenever, wherever. I got rid of duty with its help. Duty wasn't well defined, it said. It wasn't justified, I said. Look mom, I failed again! But it was laziness that was to be my mother. My biological mother, can't remember all that much. She studied and went to work. Nagged about her beloved chores.
I... have been rused. Longer than I've had memories. Hah.
Irony - just one of the entities, but so very true to itself. It demands that I say to it; "IRONIC", and smirk like Sheev Palpatine.

>>11727184
Ah, I forgot to mention lines 3 and 4 have 11 stresses while the rest have 10. I don't see a need for the longer lines, since a longer line is meant to highlight weight/meaning in a line or change the tone/rhetoric of the poem. Again, make the meter a bit more stable, but as for which should be the prevailing meter is up to you. Iambic implies seriousness and formality while anapest has a lighter feel, as it has two unstressed followed by a stressed as it's foot, but then you'd have to change the line lengths, and there's plenty of other meters to work with, but which have very specific contexts in which they shine. Iambic is the safest option here from what I read. It doesn't have to be strict iambic; like I said, substitution works great to break up the monotony of perfect meters. For example, let's take your one line I quoted.
>As twilight haze and honour descend fast,
"u" is unstressed while "s" means stressed.
>u ss s u su us s
This line uses "descend fast" while containing more stressed syllables, which slows down the reader and denotes heaviness/slowness. I don't mean to tell you how you should write all the time, like a rigid overseer, but these things do have effects on the reader that all poets should know about, I think. I'm still learning about these metrical nuances myself. I also don't mean to take your poem into my own hands, but I'll rewrite the line and you can see if you like it
>As twilit haze and honor descend fast
Iambic with a spondee then pyrrhic subsitution at the end for balance.
Thoughts? Questions?

>>11728119
Wow, thank you for this firstly. I admit, I did not give this enough to actually be shown freely, I’m still trying to figure out if I am good at writing/what I enjoy/what works etc.
I’ve actually never written in any specific meter before despite having to study it so thank you for pointing that out. I guess perception I really need to work on foremost.
No, no, honesty do whatever to it. I just want to become better and learn in whatever way!
The unstressing of the second syllable in twilight to twilit does actually work better and I’m noticing that stress is something I’ve actually put throughout quite a few lines in that poem. Would changing the poem’s meter cause the overall tone of each stanza to change? And if yes, what would you recommend to do in regards to making the poem stay similar to its subject matter while making it, for want of a better word, poetic?

>>11728119
>>11728207
I should mention that the tone of my post doesn't match what I wanted to convey in the end since I noticed the line was actually good for the most part while I was looking it over more closely and didn't change much. I think a lot of what I said can still be applied to other lines though. Excuse the pretension, it comes without my trying. As for the meter, I do believe it to be of the utmost importance to the poem. If you want to learn more about meter (and consequently form/structure) I suggest Paul Fussells pretty short book "Poetic Meter and Poetic Form". Link if you don't mind reading from a screen for long periods. https://www.scribd.com/document/332511050/Fussell-Poetic-Meter-pdf
To your question,
>Would changing the poem’s meter cause the overall tone of each stanza to change?
Yes. If you change to anapestic meter
>As if twilit-like haze and the honor descend,
This line reads much lighter and quicker than
>As twilit haze and honor descend fast
I suggested keeping it in iambic since I think that fits it most and is the safest option. But if you want it to be a satire or a lighter, less serious poem you can very well try anapest. There's plenty others though that I'm not completely sure about, like trochee (stressed then unstressed) but it's more suited to subsitution during rhetorical changes or similar things to give them more impact, but could be used in a lighter poem. It's suited for those because (if a poem is iambic) the trochee will reverse the meter and can show reversal in thinking, mood, etc. and if a whole poem is in trochaic, it will often end in an unstressed syllable, which leaves a lighter impression than ending on a stressed syllable.
>And if yes, what would you recommend to do in regards to making the poem stay similar to its subject matter while making it, for want of a better word, poetic?
I think it's fine regarding it's "poetic-ness", but if you make it a bit more clear what you're trying to convey that helps. Although I enjoy your poem, I don't understand the message. Some anon mentioned it's about writing poetry, which I don't think is bad, since I focus on technique and enjoyment of reading it, and although I can see parts that imply that, I'm still not completely sure what message to take away from it. This can be bad or good depending on what you wanted to do. I'll again say work on the meter. There's definitely more to worry about like phonetic qualities of words themselves, unique imagery, assonance and alliteration, allusion, rhetorical organization, etc. that I certainly haven't learned enough about to suggest anything, but if you have a good meter that's the strongest base, I think. Good luck.

>>11728207
>>11728415
Would appreciate any feedback in return. Here's a section of a longer narrative work I've started. It's meant to be unsettling. Thoughts?

That massive orb, so hung there far in space,
Of flames white and red and gold fire mixed,
Like humors balanced, yet not surely fixed,
As it blood red did sit, with sickly face,
And grim it cast a burning light upon
All that it saw; alike God’s eye, its gaze
Forth shone, and flames out summoned were, which raze
The very earth and I. So too all yon
Below me the hard ground was cooked and cracked,
Alike a mirror back it hotness beat.
No water left to bear that searing heat,
Anon delusions swiftly on me racked,
Of sun's illusions bleak I thought they were,
I thought, but realised them truth of past
And present, of the coming days and last
Of days to be, the blackest e’er t’occur;

one two three four
i am knocking at your door
two four six eight
with a shovel and a spade
one two three six
and many big big dicks

>>11727568
>>11727124
Thank you. I first wrote it for /r9k/ in 2014 for a thread that lasted 8 replies - this is the first repost. First post on /lit/, actually.

I've lurked here since 2007, and I wanted to evoke our strange, unyielding bond. This is my gift to you all.

Six months. Six months had passed since the end of the Beyblade world championships. Six months since the Bladebreakers had last seen each other, and now Tyson Granger, Max Tate and Ray Kon found themselves on separate planes, each heading for the same location: Moscow, Russia.

Moscow, the home of Whitney prep; a prestigious boarding school attended by wealthy, famous and highly academic individuals from across the globe. Yet only one pupil happened to fit all of the above criteria: Kai Hiwatari. Said pupil was currently sitting at the back of a classroom ignoring the mindless chatter of his classmates, whose voices were filled with excitement at the prospect of summer. Instead Kai's crimson eyes darted across the back of his report card, as he made use of the blank space with a sketch of his father being eaten by hungry sharks. Kai smirked at the finished work, just as his teacher dismissed the class for summer break.

A voice carried itself across from the front of the room to reach Kai's ears. The voice; strong and confident like its owner, caused Kai to turn round and his eyes fell upon a light haired boy, tall and well-poised, everything about the boy showed just how much care and love he had received growing up. The boy was surrounded by a herd of other classmates, all looking up at him as his soft green eyes now scanned the room, taking in every minor detail that the classroom shared, before locking themselves onto Kai's crimson orbs. Kai quickly turned away, a faint blush painting his cheeks.

At Moscow Airport, Stanley Dickenson had been joined by Tyson and Ray; the three were now waiting on the arrival of Max's plane. Tyson had made a big show of conveying exactly how much he'd missed his older teammate; with a great bear hug that had almost knocked the Chinese blader flat. Both bladers had been just as surprised to see each other. A second later a voice called out from the loudspeaker above, indicating that the American plane had successfully reached its destination.

Tyson immediately began scanning the crowds ahead, "Where? Where? I don't see him yet." Suddenly a blur, in the form of Max rushed towards them.

this needs a bump

don't remember writing this but found it in a notebook in my handwriting.

>>11723990
>>11724195
yeah i think this is erotic. "groping her geography" as in -- grouping her surface (mountains = tits?)

"effusive blushes" -- ie: the red flush a girls cheeks when she's fucked. "birds pour out like ore" = cum??

anyway -- i cba to decipher this. i feel like your being overly-cryptic though

---------

>>11727544
this is really bad. unless you're quite young -- this is surprisingly bad.

>>11727835
this is brilliant. it doesn't sound very good out loud though -- lots of acoustically clumsy phrases like "the aroma of slain men"

>>11727511
i quite like this. even though i known you're mocking the thread, at least its funny. unlike: >>11728492

>>11728604
I liked it too. Makes me feel bad for being a dick on here sometimes

The devil at a
red light on a snowy day
says it's all a bust
-haiku

>>11729618
The first two lines are great

>>11729623
yeah I thought so too. I couldn't think of anything good for the last line :/

Because this is the only thread on /lit/ likely to have writers in it--I'm sending queries for a novel I wrote. A lot of agents want you to list novels that are similar. I honestly have no clue, I mainly only read classics and nonfiction, although my work far from reads like any classic I can think of. Am I shooting myself in the foot to say that? I've read a few in my genre but they aren't actually similar so I can't list them. I have to drop 19/20 of the books I pick up in genre fiction because they're trash, so it's hard for me to actually read any. Not saying I'm some literary god or anything. I don't really want to sit here and force myself to choke down like 30 novels just to try and find one I can say I'm similar to.
I feel like this is just laziness on the part of the agent, they should be able to tell how I write by the sample and the synopsis or pitch.
>>11724284
Amongst is British English. As an american I use it interchangeably with among. I think there's a slight difference in connotation, but I'm probably the only one who thinks that.

>>11729746
why you using british english if youre american??

>>11729746
"I apologize, but I mainly only read classics and nonfiction, so I wouldn't know a similar novel."
I say something like this, to be more specific.
>>11727997
Excuse me but I'll sound like a cunt, if you like. You're sacrificing clarity for witty lines, but the lines aren't even witty, they're full of what reads like platitude even if it isn't necessarily famous.
>For some reason it hid itself, unlike most of them.
Here's a waste of a line. Instead of the first clause, which adds absolutely nothing, you could state how the others don't hide themselves. Do they sit there in plain sight? How do they look, are they nonplussed, do they ignore you, do they watch you, do they even seem sentient at all?
>Like a mirage, we reflected those entities
How is that similar to a mirage? The only thing I can fathom you're trying to say is that these entities have the form of your momentary desire, yet two sentences later you call them weird and ugly so that's not likely.
I don't know, maybe the disconnected narrative is trendy. But put yourself in the shoes of a reader. In order for a reader to take in, understand, and be amazed by the meaning you are trying to convey, they need to be able to see it and all your prose should point to it in order to accomplish that. If your prose points off in ten different directions, never saying enough about any one for the reader to gain a bearing, it doesn't work. You may have a masterpiece of a painting, but if the Mona Lisa was composed of only three smears of paint in order to be artsy and open ended, no one would see the Mona Lisa behind it.
Maybe this is due to you only having posted three paragraphs, maybe the rest of the story does fill in enough that all your hints of phrasing point towards a consistent internal state, but I wouldn't be able to tell that from here. You have a lot of words but say little, you write clever lines as disconnected insider references to something only you know the meaning of.
Your grammar is sub-par.
Again, not to be a cunt or anything. But you wasted three paragraphs trying to look smart and the reader hasn't progressed in their understanding of what the hell you're trying to state.

>>11729810
Why not? Globalism and all. In some sentences "amongst" reads better.

>>11723472
Fuck off commie scum

>>11723472
Pretty nice, short but comfy and climactic
>>11723990
Crap, random words - is this supposed to be funny?
>>11725100
Props for actually having a rythmic structure, but sounds like nonsense
>>11725251
Bad prose
>>11725474
>slow light
>well-dressed singing
Meaningless stupid shit
>>11725484
OK rhythm, and it actually evoked a bit of emotion, so props for you
>>11726189
Extremely short, but enough to evoke an image and a sensation, and I liked it
>>11727209
>flagellating mystery monsters
Kek. Quite cleverly written, you're having fun with language and I like it
>>11727511
Good, I like your style
>>11727544
Wtf? It's baaad
>>11727835
No rhythm, no rhyme, fuck off

Summer School Math Class by anon

Her long brown hair,
Flowing down her back,
Lies fanned upon my desk.

Losing all senses save sight
and touch, the
Lesson fades as
my desire grips my mind.

I lace my finger
through each strand,
Her soft curls
as petals on skin.

Until

A soft giggle draws my eyes
Up to her smiling face.

A knight of rust, a knameless knave,
Up the old thrust of his courage gave
And cast off that same purpose—grave,
Furious, and tiresome.

But the dragon, the dragon, she would not relent,
She hankered for bloodlet, in any event.
But her growls and her fumings were sorely misspent.
—the knight, he did not care.

He crept to the castle, as shy as a ghost,
Spread wide his bold arms, like he wanted to boast:
“Enflame me, ignite me, burn me like so much toast—
Let me show—I do not care.”

Like otters in love they prowled ‘round one another
As purpose-divided as nerds and their mothers
The knight wanted no more than for fire to smother
And put him far clear from all care.

But the drake, in line with old custom instated
By sensible things who forbore armor plated
unmaking could not—be his arrogance hated—
Bear to make him burn.

“Give up all joy and forswear all delightment
Let nothing inflame and destroy all excitement.”
This was his motto, and happen may be
The very same motto was upheld by she.

As near and as far as two parallel lines

(etc…)

>>11729558
>not understanding the works of utter stupidity and post-thinking, post-humour, post-sense

>>11727997
>Like a mirage, we reflected those entities
Do you even know what a mirage is? Stupid fuck. Didn't read any further
>>11728428
Just because you have 10 syllabes in each line doesn't mean it's good rhytmicity. Your poeam reads awkwardly. To make matters worse, it seems to have no sense.
>>11728620
Crimson eyes? What is this, anime? Though I like the sexual tension between Kai and the Tall Boy.
>>11729436
>don't remember writing this but found it in a notebook in my handwriting.
Yeah, sure you did faggot-boy

spamming some poems from when i wrote second-rate iambic pentameter.
i'll critique some more in a bit

>>11729746
just tell us about the book lmao -- it's probably not that unique. if not a similar book, tell them about a similar film or play or something. or say "it's like X but with the writing style of Y". you're thinking about it FAR more than they will.

>>11730095
this is creepy. i'm not saying that the interaction that you're describing is creepy -- but the way you've described it.
also a bit dull "her long brown hair". is that the line your opening with? yawn

>>11730106
anyone can pretend to be stupid and unfunny

>>11730122
>Yeah, sure you did
sorry, i havent memorised things i wrote years ago

>faggot-boy
why the homophobia?

>>11730095
Literally just prose, but broken up awkwardly into pieces. Why are you doing this?
>

>Like otters in love they prowled ‘round one another
>As purpose-divided as nerds and their mothers
Love it! You have a future boyo

>>11730097
Meant to respond to you here:
>>11730137

>>11730126
I'm not saying it's unique, I'm saying that I, myself, haven't read a writer with a similar writing style or anything with a similar plot.

>>11730222
give us the plot and the writing style then

Students drift along the campus
Like severed lilac stems, hovering on,
Magnetically drawn by a lone source.

In the almost Autumn breeze,
They are a slower breeze.

I catch their glances like a Venus flytrap,
They give me sustenance.

>>11728428
Unfortunately, I must admit I didn’t feel uneasy at all. It may be that the beginning appears too bright, it’s light too overwhelming, and the second half, where the focus falls to the earth, is wholly less than the start. Throughout this piece, the first 8 lines swallow up the rest; the sun becomes such a outstanding piece that, when the reader moves on, i don’t feel anything but thoughts of the sun - to prevent this, i’d recommend dialling the descriptions down as you use 2 similes in quick succession and a plethora of seemingly meaningless repetition to introduce the sun (if you put a paste bin link, I can see what it’s like compared to the entire piece and can form my opinion better).
Your lexemes appear unnatural at times, beginning with “massive” compared to the subsequent lines (the first 3 lines primarily) - if you wanted to keep this word in, I advise taking out “that”, “so” and “there” and following suit of the poem shorter (again, I need to see the entire piece). This would obviously change your meter and overall the way it’s written and if you’re trying to reflect the life of a star in reference to yourself then feel free to keep the words but the structure doesn’t fit perfectly.
Personification throughout is a great decision, I enjoy most, if not all, the uses of it.
I’d advise word choices like “alike” to be removed because they fail to add anything to the poem and overall you don’t particularly want anything there that doesn’t describe your specificity. I’m not sure if you’ve included some reference to Greek/Roman writings but there are certain parts which feel reflective to the bible and Shakespeare, do tell me if there are so I’m not looking too much into it.
The ending is probably my favourite part. Add a comma before “bleak I thought they were” it after bleak, I’m not really sure about that but I know it needs chopping to reflect the beginning stanza more. Repetition of I thought is honestly fantastic, reflective nature of it makes it powerful. Last line is just great overall

>>11730333
"like". youre writing a poem - stop using similes. "breeze. breeze" - this is silly

>>11725100
What is this actually about before i look at it? Is it just purple prose or is there a meaning behind it

>>11730268
Historical fiction
Consciousness faded in and out. By evening he awoke on his back on the sand. The horse was gone. No one was around him and there was no sign of the path they'd come from. The wind had started again. Numb and weary, he felt at his belt for a dagger and cut off a length from the bottom of his shirt. He wrapped the fabric around the cut at his neck. Blood was already drying across his collarbones and shoulders. Finishing the knot, his fingers fell and he laid down again.
The next time he awoke was a timeless place in the night. He was freezing and a dusting of sand lay across his body. The wind had finally subsided. Thinking to look at the stars and regain his direction, Andarzaghar was shocked that he couldn't see them. He waved a hand in front of his eyes, stiff with fear. He could see his palm, every line, but his feet were an indistinct blob, beyond that, impossible. Everything in the distance was a blur.
He rubbed his eyes, but only managed to get sand in them. He cursed and hunched over, tearing up and shaking in pain through his body between the injury and where he must have fallen off the horse's back. His mouth was dry but he had no water with him. He pulled his topshirt off, using the clean interior to wipe his eyes uselessly. Tears kept coming, and over ten minutes they had washed the irritation out. Shaking, he could see even less now. He felt along his hair and found the back of his head tender with a fresh bruise.
Standing up, every direction looked the same, an endless expanse of darkness fading to obscurity as the distance grew through his damaged eyesight.

>>11730126
Based

>>11730376
General Baraz seemed to appear out of nowhere. His iron scale armor chiming and glowing in the firelight had caught Yazdi's attention. He seemed to be fully outfitted, even with a helmet and a long sword at his side. He hadn't heard about any martial demonstrations. Ardashir, still trying to adjust his hair around the crown so it would stop sticking up wildly, stopped and noticed the general. The man walked up to where Ardashir sat on the festival throne. General Baraz drew his sword out of its scabbard and climbed to the top step of the platform at the boy king's feet. He plunged the point of the blade into Ardashir's abdomen. Yazdi's breath caught and he forgot about anything else. He dropped the cup he held and the fluid splashed down his leg. Ardashir was still seated, his hand hesitating above his belly not knowing whether to hold the wound or avoid touching it. He made strange noises of pain before blacking out and falling limp. Baraz gripped his small shoulder and withdrew the blade, which dripped in red. The wet metal caught the firelight, gleaming with yellow cast in the red. He turned his head and looked around, catching Yazdi's stare.
People in the area either stopped in their tracks or started running. They were shouting and whimpering and yelling for help. Someone was screaming. There were suddenly many men in armor running out of hiding places and descending on the city. They tore through the streets and filled them with chaos and panic. Yazdi's legs were shaking and he didn't know where to go. He found himself staring at Ardashir's body, unable to think on the name of the action or decide what to do, where to go, to run or to hide or to stay or to fight, and this indecision held him to doing nothing. General Baraz wore a terrible expression, it was cold and frustrated but his body and manner seemed exhilarated, and somehow his face twisted into a kind of hollow smile. Though he looked at Yazdi, he didn't think he saw him at all, like he was looking beyond anything present at the square.

Also sorry, it's hard to demonstrate within post limits. I also make use of repetition and of fast turn-arounds for lack of a better word. I'll have a paragraph describing some action, and then one sentence as its own paragraph that contains something unexpected.

>>11730383
the poems?

I eat all the blancmange
when the guests aren't looking.
Shame writes a story on my face
and my unempty stomach wretches—
in horror we find solace of certainty.
Yes, the glucose gobbles up my nerves,
digests them, steals their vitality;
it twists me honor into a reticulated devil,
leashing it and sicking it on an electric fence.
The phosphorous soaks the air
and my sticky fingers shake a plank of flesh.
How nice it is to meat you, and you,
I'm so happy you all could make it
(what a divine pleasure it is).
Oh and thank you for the desserts,
just grand they are, family recipe?
Another fish thrown onto the pile,
the captain wipes the sweat from his bow
and the seas submerge the crew once again
with its omnipresent mist of obscure anxieties.

>>11723472
Nearly fell asleep
>>11723990
Are you a woman or a man fantasising about what a woman is like?
>>11725100
Either about some betrayal or nothing. If it’s the 1st, nice
>>11725251
Stop writing
>>11725474
This could be good if you get rid of everything but the first 3 lines
>>11725484
Same as everyone else, like the other romantics one, 21st century etc, it’s good but both of you two could be really good writers if you wrote in something more modern (I’m actually not joking about being pretty good >>11725100 >>11725484 )
>>11726189
Actually really good. Doubt you’d make it anywhere in life though, seem the type of thing people would discover if you became a semi known author and died horribly
>>11727209
Stop writing, or if you continue to write this drivel, stop sharing
>>11729618
How do you ruin something that much with a single line.
>>11729746
If you want to be a famous writer, then sacrifice your art and write what sells. It’s a simple as that
>>11730095
PLEASE say you’re this trap’s stalker
>>11730333
Take out every single “like” you have ever used. Ever. You’ve just become an adequate writer who can write a million times better than the old you


Here’s mine if anyone can be bothered:

Two tocks chatted for just over half a day
Tick tock chimed and then one flew away
And one tock died before they reunited
Time, tick tock shined, for heaven blighted.

>>11730473
>If you want to be a famous writer, then sacrifice your art and write what sells. It’s a simple as that
??? I'm already writing about god damned swordfights.

>>11730473
>>11730368

Are the "likes" really that bad? I feel like plenty of poems use like, i.e:

"When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;"

So I'm not sure what the big deal is in this case? Would it be better to say:

Students drifting along the campus;
Severed lilac stems, hovering on,
Magnetically drawn by a lone source.

Imo that just makes it more confusing. I'm not sure where this idea that the term "like" shouldn't be used in poetry came from, it feels like you guys are just being unnecessarily pedantic but I can't actually tell. I'm not trying to shy away from criticism or anything but I'm genuinely confused one this one.

>>11730473
The devil at a/
Red light on a snowy day/
Stops for a second.

Do you like that better? Idk can't think of anything

>>11730122
It's a small section take out of context. I'm more wondering about technical aspects, like kinds of substitution and effects of rhyme schemes on rhetoric, and such, but if you have nothing to add in that department can you read it like you care about reading it and tell me what kind of tone it has? I'm >>11728428

>>11730540
I’m just saying, that’s the way to make it nowadays. Just slurp up the juice of this saturated market and blurt out something akin to dverything else and I guarantee you will make 500k
>>11730542
Don’t compare yourself to prufrock. If you truly want to, look between your similes and this one. Look at what his brings compared to yours:

>Students drift along the campus
This line, average, modern, gives the necessary information to begin but doesn’t really interest the reader at all
>Like severed lilac stems, hovering on,
How does one drift across a campus like a severed lilac stem? In fact, why would you ever use “severed lilac stems” as anything besides a description that denotes exactly what they are/what you have done
>Magnetically drawn by a lone source.
You have said nothing that makes sense besides your mundane first line. Your second two lines of this stanza have no connection to the first.

>my severed lilac students
Use that instead

>In the almost Autumn breeze,
You can’t have this if you haven’t even said anything in the beginning. Starting again just adds to the weakness of the first lines.
>They are a slower breeze.
I think I’ve realised your problem. You don’t know how to write a poem. All these lines need to be condensed, discarded, or placed into a couple of lines.
>I catch their glances like a Venus flytrap,
Really bad. You catch the student’s glances like Venus flytrap s because you are the “lone source” which is literally the exact thing as saying i watch students cross the campus.
>hey give me sustenance.
Just... just a weird ending to a bad poem

>my severed lilac students
>my lone source of sustenance

>>11730365
Shame the tone doesn't match what I was hoping for, but as for the sun it really is supposed to be an outstanding piece and the focus of this scene, a foreboding and intimidating presence. I agree upon reading it that the middle is a bit lacking in comparison, and will seek to remedy it. I have been reading many different things in the past months, some Shakespeare and his peers, some of The Bible, and recently finished The Iliad. I didn't intentionally allude to any of these, but their writings likely influenced me subtly. The piece is meant to be filled with anxiety and heaviness, similar to Lovecraft in his style, as I've read a few of his short stories recently as well. Do you think the rhyme scheme works to that end or should a different one (or not at all) replace it?

>>11730610

I don't mean this to seem defensive because I did ask for a critique but I think you're just misconstruing the poem and being harshly pedantic in a contrived way. I say that because the issues you take don't really make sense to me. It's fine if you don't think the first line is enticing, that's fair. But "How does one drift across like a severed lilac stem"? What do you mean? Bodies are long, often lanky, as are the stems of flowers, this is the comparison. And saying the magnet line doesn't make sense? Eh, I could see that a bit but I don't think it's as horrendous as you're making it seem. I think you were flatly wrong about the second line being confusing but I'm not certain of that and will stand corrected if other people take an issue with it. But as I think the simile is quite clear, I imagine that the appearance that they're "magnetically drawn"is apparent as they are hovering about, as a loosened stem might if it were pulled somewhere. That somewhere, in this context, being the "lone source". I am not the lone source in this poem but I do see how THAT might be confusing and that can be fixed.

Your issues with the second stanza are just a personal preference and you must recognize that if you want to be taken seriously with your critiques. You didn't give a legitimate reason as to why the phrase "in the almost Autumn breeze" can't be used, you basically just said "I don't like it". And to say "they are a slower breeze" is to say that the students move as the wind does, but at a slower pace. I think the issue is just that you'd misinterpreted the poem and instead of making a sincere attempt to rectify that you went off on a pompous rant that appeared as more of an excuse to berate than give encouragement for improvement. And don't get me wrong, I don't want a fight and I don't want to put you down, I do understand the culture of literary criticism to be prone to a certain level harshness, I do it myself of course. But you miss the point that this harshness must be accompanied by genuinely enlightening criticisms rather than petty biases made out to seem as legitimate rather than misplaced condescension. Maybe it's out of line for me to tell you how to critique a poem, I mean, I do appreciate the time and effort in any event. But I think it is also very apparent that you are more interested in being snarky than helpful. And again, if you think my read of your reaction is wrong and want to tell me, I'm all ears for it. And lastly, the purpose of the Eliot wasn't to compare myself, it was to contradict your silly notion that "poets don't use similes". It's one thing if you think a simile is bad, but to say that poets don't use them is just absurd.

>>11730713
>Bodies are long, often lanky, as are the stems of flowers, this is the comparison.
sure but don't make it about drifting
seems like you want to say they drift and also they are lanky
but they should be seperate

>Eh, I could see that a bit but I don't think it's as horrendous as you're making it seem.
imo it's just a case of being too obvious and ramming the 'idea' home rather than being appropriately discrete. you could talk about, again, a manner of action or appearance rather than just saying 'it was like they were drawn by a magnet'.

>>11730728

I appreciate this, thank you.

Time and its fickle fleeting fortunes
Unfurls in my longing heart a plan
To dispense with knowledge and be a man
Rather than with sages to importune

My mantra meditative and sublime
And in this soft silence i connect
God with god - no longer abject
To forces malevolent condoning crime

>>11730473

You get some rhythm points for using consistent syllables, but I'll take some off for the laziness of not having a consistent meter as well. As for the content, the poem wants to be more clever than it is and I'm not sure if it's working. Not to say that it's outright terrible, but, it reads like a clever nursery rhyme yet feels more like someone trying to emulate the wit of said style rather than pulling it out of themselves sincerely. The diction feels oddly anachronistic too, not that the language itself isn't modern, but I suppose the syntax feels a bit behind the times. Particularly in the last line this is so, and I believe it's the weakest line too,as it is anti-climactic. The poem sets up like the beginning of a clever tale but ends like a contrived attempt at subtle profundity. I would stick to simpler concepts to avoid pretensions such as this, so you might actually further your writing skills without making the works themselves abrasive with poor content. And tone down the rudeness in your critiques, you don't have the talent to back it up.

Erotic grimdark fantasy
Nothing really new, just a new world for fantasy fans to engross themselves in.
pic related is map of the world, this story is just a short one and takes place in the Southeast

A sexy part from on of the chapters.
>https://pastebin.com/rkb3ZvaK


>>11723472
Not a pottery guy but it paints a vivid picture in my mind for how short it is.
>>11723990
Like the other guy said, hot af
>>11728492
kek
>>11727511
George RR is that you?
>>11729618
best so far, idk about the third line though.
>>11730333
Captures millennials accurately
>t. millennial

>>11730333
Sounds like you're going brevity, I'd make it more breif. Consider which lines you could remove and your point remain, or reconsider your point. I get the feeling that you didn't know what this poem was about when you started writing it

>>11730713
I never said they don’t use similes. I said you shouldn’t use similes, at least, not in the way you do.
Your poem doesn’t MEAN anything. It’s an attempt of purple prose and it fails a lot. I concede, the autumn line was personal preference but honestly it would have been suitable nearer the beginning as it feels randomly included. My irk isn’t with the use of similes, it’s with your use of them. Give your work meaning. The severed lilacs and lone source and the single word sustenance were the words I pulled out because, honestly, I believed they were the good parts of the poem.
I believe you have some idea in your head what you want to achieve but you’re not putting it to paper. Rewrite what you wanted, BE VERBOSE, and then post again and I’ll have a look. Note I didn’t say stop writing like some of the others because you have glimmers, but rewrite, think about what you want to achieve, what you want to say, and then post back here

>>11731518
Oh I write that in half a minute just so people could rip my work apart. I honestly wouldn’t write something that is painfully redundant. The short 4 liner doesn’t make sense and lacks any rhythm. The only part that makes sense is the final lines and even they are ruined by the word choices. When I am harsh, I want people to be better.
Honestly though, you wrote such a huge paragraph about the most mundane poem I’ve ever seen so props to you

>>11730662
The foreboding nature of the sun is great, btw, well described and I enjoyed the depiction of it. I can feel the heaviness with the sun, completely and utterly, the drawing out of words and the use of the conjunction “and” really make the beginning a labourous task as you force the reader to understand the gravitas that the sun has. The use of abba does work especially in the first stanza and last one but it feels forced in the second. I think, syllable-wise, you need to check if they are all similar (it appears you’re going for 10, but I think a couple are 11). Overall the structure is actually rather nice in regards to making the piece heavy, however, if you’re trying to create anxiety then you’ll need to focus on what makes you anxious, write out a list of the words you’ve chosen, and then see how you can describe each one within a couple of words.
May I know what you’re writing this for? A competition? Publication?

First time posting. Time to die of embarrassment (haven't written anything in a while). Oof.

Shreds:

Life is blindingly transparent,
Horrendously monochromatic,
Astoundingly unremarkable.
The world is black and white,
Printed on a page for daily consumption,
Feeding you the illusion of living,
In a world where truly living is barely an idea.
The brain is a machine,
We download pre-programmed opinions,
Pre-packaged thoughts,
Mass updated ideals.

The world reads as perfect,
Printed on scarlet paper.
Hope to never learn
To read between the lines.
They say "the truth shall set you free"
But it takes the form of iron chains.
Vices serve as distractions that help us forget,
Help us dream.
But they're just that,
And will always be forever out of reach.

Truth is a work of fiction,
Free thought is a disease,
And reality is a construct of ideal misconceptions.
Fear is paranoia,
Belief is fanaticism,
Anxiety is an exaggeration,
And real thought is an existential crisis.

Those with no power,
March to drums that don't exist,
While those "with power",
Cling to the hope that they have any semblance of something one might call "power".

When the machine breaks down,
When you begin to see color,
Where do you find the answers?

When your page starts to tear,
Do you mend it
Or rip it to shreds?

Has there ever been anything of worth posted in one of these threads? It's like you guys write whatever bullshit first comes to mind so you don't give away anything "good" you actually spent time on. I'm convinced no one on this board actually knows how to write at all.

>>11732153

This is good advice because you're right honestly. I was just sitting on a bench watching people walk and said "oh that's pretty". It definitely didn't have a point and still doesn't, it was more so just the impression I got of them. I'll think of what to cut and if that'd be a great help because I do think it is still pretty brief as is, but I'll experiment to see if taking things out or switching around would improve the feeling, thank you.

>>11732421

That's fair, thank you. Ya, I mean I'm half and half about whether or not a poem ought to have meaning because I'm very much a "what atmosphere does the image create" guy as opposed to "what is the meaning of the thing". But I see your point nonetheless and will consider it. I'm definitely more prone to imagist styles than anything though. I appreciate the sincerity.

Any short stories ever posted here? I'm not a fan of poetry.

>>11732567
Apologies if what I said came out harsh, that’s how all my feedback has been (trying to be brutally honest) so I’ve tried to do the same. I would say that you should write it out as a longer piece and then edit it down. We often try to do everything in the first draft instead of getting all our ideas out and structuring them and editing them afterwards. Write all you all that comes to mind about the subject and don’t stop until you feel you have written all you want to say about this in a poem and then edit it down. Good luck though, there were some good images

>>11727511
Remove the defecating and I would actually really like this.

>>11732514
What if instead of f.e

>Life is blindingly transparent,
>Horrendously monochromatic,

You took out the adjectives and had

>Life is transparent;
>Monochromatic,

Thus you make visualisation easier and also make the rhythm slower and more in line with subject matter

>>11729618
why the third line desu
>>11727511
kek

>>11730459
Obscure doesn't really fit, but other than that, this is great

What about this prose

>>11725100
Very disjointed & you’re largely flinging Shakespearean/Romantic fluff against a wall. For example, you try to do the achieving a poetic eternity thing in the last two lines, and the last line might work in a better poem, but a lack of powerful solid images or build-up causes the whole thing to wither away.

But what I will say though is that, unlike what other anons think, it’s not “nonsense”. The fact that nobody who has commented on your post so far can parse the logical flow of a poem as simple as this is surprising. The narrative is a rather standard ‘downfall to decadence’ poem like Yeats’ The Second Coming with the eternity ending tacked on. First two lines are functionable. They set up the narrative. Lines 3-9 develops that by juxtaposing all the fancy flowery imagery against the nasty stuff. Line 10-12 questions/sets-up a sort of revival. The sonnet’s ending, as I said earlier, tries for the old eternity conceit.

Now compare your lines 3 & 4 to Yeats’ famous:

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

His are more resonant because of the consonance, and his phrasing is simply wittier. Furthermore, his entire poem is rock solid and fresh in its imagery:

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

While you don’t really describe your maidens in any new way that the thousands of poets in the past have described theirs.

The way to get out of this is is simply to read more poetry, both old and contemporary, and try to hone the inner music of your verse. Cut down all the fancy modifiers and long words, use simple descriptors, and try to focus on getting one fresh and novel descriptor per line (that fits the logic of the poem, by the way, and is not just surreal slapdash - read Rilke & Stevens for how to describe abstract things in a very concrete manner). Avoid this site and silly ambiguous crits like the plague and keep on reading and taking in as many different and good poets as possible. Also, read everything here: http://www.cosmoetica.com/top.htm

The blue haze pulsated onto the bar top. Background music droned on as the feedback from freshly set up microphones popped sporadically. The clatter of the cheap, beat up wood behind him almost made him jump if he hadn’t have been the one to slam it. He turned his head to see the door girl who was mouthing five without bothering to talk over the speaker system. She was new. Or possibly the old one with a new color in her hair and a shorter mid drift. He wondered if she had a cute navel but refused to look. If she was a new girl she’d be offended and wouldn’t want to be objectified. If she was the old one she’d be disappointed and wouldn’t want to be objectified. Where was his wallet. Ah, there, back left pocket. He pulled out five crumpled ones and attempted to organize them with little success. She took them quickly, counted them, and slammed the money drawer shut. With smooth precision she wrapped a band on his wrist with just enough of the tape to uncomfortably cover his arm hair, priming his wrist for future misery. He walked closer to the enchanting blue bar, hoping to get through at least half a beer before someone tried talking to him. That never happened. He knew it wouldn’t happen. But he always hoped. And like that it happened.
“Johnathan!” Yelled a voice.

>>11732465
All lines are in pentameter. I'm not writing with the goal of publication or for a competition. Only because I want to write these things. What do you think of this revision? It does have some obvious allusion.

An orb enormous, hung not far in space,
Of flames white and red and gold fire mixed;
Unbalanced humors so grotesquely fixed,
As it blood red did sit, with sickly face,
And grim it cast a burning light upon
All that it saw; alike God’s eye, its gaze
Forth shone, and flames out summoned were, which raze
The very earth and I. So too all yon
Below me the hard ground was baked to brick.
All else ash, as the plain cities unchaste,
That suffered the Lord's wrathful, sulfured blast.
Likewise delusions came and forced me sick,
Such bleak Illusions; false I thought they were,
But quick and sure I found them truth of past
And present, of the coming days and last
Of days to be, the blackest e’er t’occur;

>>11733199
Of flames white and red and gold fire mixed
blood red
with sickly face
grim it cast a burning light
God's eye
wrathful sulfured blast
bleak illusions

This is pretty much the most cliched way to describe a giant flaming ball (is the best you can do to compare it to a sickly face?), and the poem ends monotonously with inklings of an apocalypse. It fits a meter but there's no interesting twist of phrase, no wordplay, no development of the idea into something beyond plain description. You really have to ask yourself what your poem expresses that individuates itself from other poets who have described stuff like apocalypse or divine grandeur in the past e.g. the Romantics & religious poets like Milton.

>>11733272
Sure blood red, but have you heard any of those other phrases anywhere else that you can link? How would you describe the same things?

>>11733186
Honestly, thanks for pointing out what’s wrong with this. Many of mine that I just write in 20 minutes and then leave are exactly like this so hearing someone tell me what they think I need to improve is always a good thing. Thanks for the criticism and I’ll look at your link and read more - was there any other things you didn’t like? I focus more on content than anything, or, well, I did; this and a bunch of others that I have were all written in the span of a couple of nights so focusing on the meter etc wasn’t my prerogative but I really want to actually become a better overall writer so if you have any other criticisms that would be great

>>11733602
If you really want to improve contact the guy described here for crits:

https://constructedheroisms.wordpress.com/2017/11/28/a-primer-on-dan-schneider-v-2/

>>11733369
You really don't see how describing a fire ball with every color normally associated with fire (white, red, gold - along with yellow, orange, and sometimes blue), with sulfur, with burning light, and as an eye from god, is cliched?

And even if nobody has phrased "flames white and red and gold fire mixed" (you even repeated a synonym to fire just to fit the meter), your phrasing doesn't really add anything other than pure description.

Incidentally there's a Dryden verse: "The sun from far peeps with a sickly face" - search Google.

>>11733726
Well I guess I'll change that line, but I don't see a need to be over conscience of your originality. I don't think I need to compare the sun to something that nobody else has, just in a way nobody else has.

>>11733764
>just in a way nobody else has

The red red red red red red red red red red red yellow sun.
It's red. Searingly red and redly red.
Red is the color of the sun and suns redly.
The sun has red color on its red.

The mangy mongoloids beg for tuppence,
dancing their dance of danger
and singing like a lens cracked by pressure.
No net can cast a shadow over everything
except the only one we can't comprehend—
you know which one I'm talking about,
you helped make it—the movie credits
woven into the black, pinching my diploma.
She tossed a penny in the fountain
down by the place where people do that
and I asked her why she wasted the metal.
For fun, the memory always assures me,
just when I realize that it's being made now.

So when I see them again, in whirly row
gigging at the cheeks of passersby,
I tell them to walk down to the fountain
full of wishes and mossy riddles
so they can cease begging
and begin living in lanterns,
of their steeltrap making.

The screen overwhelms,
its two video feeds congested,
hemorrhaging with backed deliveries.
Such an enterprise can't possibly manage
in sorting out all the chaotic data points strewn about
the green network of botanical digits dividing endlessly around
every follicle of nervous laughter and understanding, a broken beam,
catapults of corporatized emblems stretching past sensuous limits,
censorious details devilishly undone, drowned of capital requirements,
the sea of molten fanfare vortexes into a Dickensian cyclone,
the mirror test fails Turing and twists another off, Beckett beckons, Dickinson dies again
(this time by terrorist attack).
The centmakers cease their craft,
and everyone goes home after the funeral.
Everyone goest to sleep.

>>11733644
Alright, thanks again for all the advise/criticism!

>>11733845
Third anon here, just wanna add to the onon who's critiquing you. I think the concrete image "sun" is already very colorful in our minds, it would be redundant to talk about the colors again. Maybe provide some information about what makes this instance of the sun valuable to the rest of the poem, and if you can't think of anything, then don't add anything. You might find that "sun" is all you need.

>>11733845
That's a ridiculous example, but coming up with some wholly original metaphor or description that hasn't been done wouldn't fit the style or tone I'm going for.

Volcano for a penis
Erupting is the jizz
Scalding hot the populace
Is running for the hills
Thick dick grease will stop them
Will stop them in their tracks
From the giant montrous
Volcanic semen blast

Scathing Smegma
In history a day to remember
Scathing Smegma
Not the case for the lives lost forever

When the giant came upon the village square
He found his hoard of sacrificial virgins wasn't there
Unholy retribution, a masturbating rage
Jerking off on houses of the villagers for days
Congealing on their dwellings was a sticky stinky goo
He farted on a villager to gas him like a Jew


Scathing Smegma

Motherfucking motherfuckers, you motherfucking know? Motherfucking back in my motherfucking day we motherfuckers had to motherfucking use are own motherfucking hands and motherfucking grit to motherfucking get motherfucking anywhere in the motherfucking world.

he threw his fist into one of the windows. It burst open with bloody force. Shards of glass flew inwards. Sacha recoiled and grasped his hand. He cried out in pain as he wiped the debris from his knuckles. He cursed his emotions and the snake he had followed. He righted himself, wiped his eyes, and plastered a sweet smile on his face. No one had witnessed the crime, so he decided to escape the scene.
And then the creeping sound of voices from the depths of the earth, whispering amongst themselves as if plotting their escape, giggling and grunting and enticing him down to meet them. Sacha submitted to the voices that rolled him over and over and over.
And then a louder voice, feminine, familiar. It wasn’t from below but above, or at least, above ground. Another voice joined, and then another. Sacha skirted the tavern for the source. He turned the corner to see a door open and close. He stepped into the darkness and watched as smoke drifted out from the door and soon disappeared into the growing gale. Was this the meeting of Heaven and Hell? Came to reap his soul for being so untrusting. But he had made a prayer. His Lord was obliged to protect him. Surely, he would do that.
He stepped out towards the door. No ill had befallen him. Yet he felt an odd sensation growing and the clouds above began to form over the clear night sky.
Another step. The only sound was the pounding of his chest, beating faster and faster with each breath that caught in his throat. A chorus of sticks thrashing him, a slow crescendo leading to his inevitable end.
Another step. The cold wind was whipping him from the heavens, kissing his coattails, pushing him forward. The gust crept under his clothing and caressed his body, two sets of hands, dainty and powerful, began to wander from his celestial head downwards, sliding like the body of a snake to the netherworld.
Another step. Halfway there.
Another step. A laugh threatened to escape his lips, forcing his teeth away, his lips apart. His skin began to peel back and soon he was more exposed than he had ever been before. He looked at the world and was more terrified and disgusted by anything he had ever seen.
Another step. His heart had climbed out of his chest. It was the beating sun and then the radiant moon. And then the sun was the door in front of him, and he was outstretched to open it, fingers being bent back by its flames. Inscrutable pain of breaking bones and burnt flesh. He could almost smell it. Almost taste it.
And when his hands clasped the door and pulled it open, he felt a wave of pleasure fall over him alike nothing he had ever felt. This was not the power of the Lord and Sacha felt ecstatic. He ran down the staircase and the voices returned, growing louder with each step.


This is a segment from something I wrote. Pls give it some feedback

>>11732090
pls respond
/lit/ is my only source of critique lol

>>11734292
its too short

>>11734288
oh i'll give it some feedback alright

>>11734202
i just reported you to the mods

“Hey.” A whisper Jamie opted to ignore.

“Hey!” A slightly louder whisper and a finger tapping him several times on the shoulder followed.

He slowly turned over to find the Princess looking at him with her usual intensity. “What?”

“It’s bloody freezing in here. Is there no form of temperature control in this place?” Caitlin said.

“What do you suppose I should do?” Jamie asked. “Force a pair of dwarves to upend-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant, don’t be obtuse, just...” Eye contact was lost. “If you tell anyone about this, I will have you executed at dawn for the whole Kingdom to see.”

“And what did you have in mind?” He genuinely had no idea what she was going to ask.

Caitlin Faraday looked as if she had been informed she was to shortly undergo anesthetic free-teeth removal in the middle of the most horrible busking competition ever performed.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be so awful if you...put your arms around me. So we could huddle up for warmth. And nothing else.”

The smirk blossomed into an ear-to-ear smile. “For you, my Princess? Anything.”

The Princess scooted over, so Jamie put one arm around her waist and the other around the back of her neck. Despite his outwardly bold expression, he felt more than a bit apprehensive about holding her, let alone touching her. Once she was done adjusting herself, she settled on top of him, forcing him to realize that she was extremely warm and had a curiously Earthly smell to her. Not like dirt or something repulsive, but the intensely familiar smell of blossoming flowers and the serenity of nature. Jamie’s chest tightened and he wondered if she could feel his heart thumpathumpathumpa.

“I’m not made of glass, Christiansen.”

He looked down at her. “Is everything alright?”

She rolled her eyes. “I give you permission to actually hold on to me, not what you’re doing right now, whatever it is.”

Caitlin had a point; his fingers were barely touching her frame, as if the slightest misstep on his part would shatter her. To try and remedy her discomfort, he more fully wrapped his arms around her, delicately pulling her closer to him.

“Is this better?” He asked, his voice not being nearly as steady as he hoped.

“Better.”

Jamie couldn’t deny there was something exceptionally endearing about having the ferocious, tough-as-steel warrior princess cuddled up next to him in her evening wear. One didn’t need precognitive abilities to determine that she preferred to keep people at arm’s length, so he considered it something of a milestone to have reached this side of her. Sure, she dispensed insults like they were linked to some sort of plague, but he got the sense she enjoyed his company far more than she would ever willingly admit.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Princess,” Jamie said. “Did you change your hair?”

No response beyond her breathing. He let his head rest on top of hers, and he was asleep.

>>11735191
Yawn

The world is empty
Decrepit
Spilled over like an old pot
Whose contents now leak through the boards of
an old peasant woman's dinner table
She sits there, mouth agape
Blank stare
Confounded shuffling of feet 'neath the windowsill
Rolling over shards of misbegotten glass
Peering into the room
Now he looks at her and hears only a
discontented sigh
Her dog now rushes over to her spoon
And licks it clean

I think my prose is shit. I know what I'm trying to say, but I struggle so hard to find the right way to say it.

>>11733138
Makes me wish there were more novels about traps realizing how much they hurt themselves through their attention-whoring.
>>11734202
"Erupting is the jizz" is an unironically good line.

>>11733971
hey really nice job i did here

Porky the Pig, UnAmerican,
he dips bacon in maple syrup,
wallowing in prewritten meddling irony—
but that's no all folks,
the porcine legionnaire from Averian Stock
decided one day to jump media.
"I'll make my big break to M-m-movies;
I'm a t-t-true artiste!" Then the curtain
fell onto his toes during his first casting:
pants, curled around a chimney of shame.
His body accepted the pork-sword.

"What really bugs me Bugs,"
he later recounted,
"Is that I don't even know who I am anymore."

The rest of the tale is a corkscrew of wrong-turns.
Porky inevitably died due to heart complications
while signing his third divorce documents,
stopping at the K, leaving inanimate 'pork' on the page.

I stumbled upon a for in the road
And wondered aloud which way I should do
A voice in my head said "You'll never know."

I stumbled upon a fork in the road
And wondered aloud which way I should go
A voice in my head said "You'll never know."

>>11735476
this is beautiful, my friend.

>>11735011
It's not done, just what I felt was okay to show
From what's there how is it?

Cupid hath pulled back his sweetheart's bow
To cast divine arrows into her soul
To grab her attention swift and quick
Or morrow the marrow of her bones be thick
With turpentine kisses and mistaken blows

See the devil may do as the devil may care
He loves none sweeter as sweeter the dare
Her mouth the mischief he doth seek
Her heart the captive of which he speaks
So note all ye lovers in love with the sound
Your world be shattered with nary a note
Of one cupids arrow under your coat

>>11733138
Post more faggot.

I’m a loser. I’ve never been able to talk to people. I’ve never had many friends, I’ve never had a girlfriend, and I never really did well in school. I really just waste time and resources all day. And worst of all, I’m fully aware that my thinking is, and always has been, detrimental to my own wellbeing and probably even the wellbeing of those around me, but I’ve never been able to stop it. It just rattles on and on. My train of thought rumbles the very tracks on which it lies, bellowing out layers of thick, black smoke, piercing the air with the shrieks of its airhorns. And the train pounds forward indefinitely.

>>11723472

"Don't test me, whore!" Bellowed Brimley as he waved his sparking taser in the whimpering woman's face. She had been judged "thicc" and sent to what the owners of Four Frogs Roastie Refuge and Range refer to as their "Dairy operation," a dual methane and milk harvesting facility, and a highly lucrative one at that. Brimley is a stickler for maximizing those outputs lest Four Frogs fall afoul of the regional energy algorithms. The latest roasties herded onto their hilly mountain framed Dakotan property speak scarcely any English and the methane spouts, inserted anally, only have English signage. Brimley, however, is gifted at nonverbal instruction and more than dextrous, grabs the spout's handle and gestures into the air for the sequence of insert, then twist and trigger-pull motions that safely pressurize the harvester with the rectum of a braap hog. He noticed the silicone tip of the spout was void of petroleum jelly, so politely, pragmatically, he swiped it through a nearby barrel of well-whipped jelly and handed the spout back to the trembling chubby woman. "Comprende, mon ami?"

I noticed the capital "E" brand emblazoned on the woman's dangly labia, right beside the vague scars of older brands, marks and tattoos. Our cursive "E" tagged a roastie as an escapee, and alerts our rangers to their tendency for mischief. The frontiers between refuges was vast, and transient roasties could wander between settlements to exploit hospitality. There were no biometric systems to keep track of anyone, so our branding, actually an epidermal etching and cautery done by a sophisticated robotic laser took barely a full count of "Mississippi," was the only way to protect ourselves. The most recalcitrant and uppity roasties were often traded to the Saracens and Semites who trafficked in roastie slaves and organs. But thankfully this "Echo" hog furtively poked the jellied nozzle into her anus, wincing as she twisted it, and pulled the trigger to lock the hose snuggly in place. I was relieved that I needn't leave my post, processing the new arrivals, who had amassed in such great numbers outside that I doubted if we could sort through them all before sun down. It had been almost a month like this, hordes of new roasties, shoeless, bedraggled, many nude but for cloaks made from tarps and garbage bags, whatever they could scavenge. The collapse of the pussy pedastle had sent many worthless women wandering in a daze and drove others to psychotic rage. Robotic burger machines, sanitation robots and even 3D printers and point of sale machines were smashed to bits by furious women, vindictively maddened by those notorious sexual cyborgs that inexplicably reduced Tinder and any other penis-sharing apps into ghost towns.

>>11733195
Anyone have critique? I’d like to keep writing, but if there’s a fundamental flaw I’d like to catch it early.
>the fundamental flaw is that it’s garbage and inconsistent
T-thanks

It is how it is until it isn't. Then everything sucks and you're like aw man everything changed. But then you adapt but you're still sad that things are the way they are instead of how they were and will never be how they aren't, but you always think they should be how they were even though they werent ever in the first place. It is this way, ought to be that way, never was which way I wanted it to be, and I will never want it to be that way that it is and will always hate the way that it is was and will. You know sometimes he says he's this and that and you say I'm this that and the third but you never really get it do you. I dont need to be schizophrenic or the devil and these things shouldnt, arent, and wont ever if this is making any sense at all. You just need to slow down and keep up.

>>11735786
oh idk i didn't read it. i'm very busy you see

.
.
.
ok I've read it. you use way too many adverbs. delete at least half of them, and if you find that some meaning is lost, then find another way to convey it. adverbs are the poor writer's crutch. hobble your way to success

>>11736902
“Is this behavior becoming of such a respected commander?” An alluring and shapely serving wench of Brambled Hall asked the sturdy and handsome Warden of Blackburn. The twenty-year-old woman was slender but robust with coiffed dark red hair that riveted down her porcelain skin, resting at her collar bones. Her promiscuous green eyes longed for the body underneath her. The Warden eyed her pale and soft body as he ran his willful fingers down to her soft chest.
“Well, if they saw these I’d doubt the men would have many complaints, my dear.” Replied the smirking Warden as he untied the maiden’s top, and groped her warm ample breasts.
The two were tucked away within the Warden’s chambers in barracks of Blackburn, hidden away from prying eyes. The Warden was a striking and statuesque man thirty-six years of age. His typical Greylander wavy black hair was cut at his strong jaw, and tied back to keep it out of his chiseled and shaven face. His lithe figure was deceiving to his strength and skill when a blade was placed in his firm and trained hands.
The serving girl sat up on her knees and undressed from her flowing skirt, exposing even more of her intoxicating figure. She bent back down to the Warden and kissed him on his strong and sturdy neck. Her lips felt like silk as they ran towards his to his chest.
“Aye? What would they say to this then?” The woman said as she laughed, putting his hand between her creamy legs, straddled atop him.
“I do have a reputation to uphold.” cheekily replied the Warden, working his well-practiced fingers. His spare hand moved again to her chest as he lightly pinched one of her soft pink nipples, making her bite her flushed lip, and let out a soft moan as she did so.
He moved his hand to the back of her head and pulled back her soft lovely red hair with a yank. She smiled and bit her lip at Warden’s roughness as he began kissing on her delicate neck, as her fingers remained caressing her below. Her hands moved from atop his head, and made their way beneath his trousers, and had started stroking him as well. Up, and down, up, and down. His head moved between her breasts, and worked his tongue to her nipple. With great care and delicateness, he bit on one of her nipples. The maiden gasped and giggled with her inviting mouth agape as he began to use his tongue again. With no warning the Warden flipped the naked woman on her back taking her arms and holding them above her head as she wrapped her legs around his hips, taking charge and pulling them closer to her. In, and out, in, and out.
The soft and quite voices of the pair was interrupted by the loud and stomping sound of boots upon rock echoed throughout the hallway, and a familiar face to the Warden burst into the lover’s room.

That better? Or am i big fat stinko

>>11736840
It could be cleaner. Get rid of contractions in non-dialogue. You use "the" far too often, when you could just omit it.

He had begun to dream of her now; of her long hair and soft touch. It would hit him in the midst of nightmares, relieving him of the pain and suffering. She would hold him, embracing his head against her chest, as he would curl up like a child. He'd listen to her heartbeat and feel the warmth of her breast, then he'd move his head up. He'd kiss her neck, her cheeks, up to her forhead before entangling her with his arms. His chin would rest softly on her head, and he'd enclose her and feel her deep, slow breathing as her hair tickled him.
It was bliss. It was warmth, comfort, safety, beauty, and love. It was life itself. But then he awoke, his head cold and his heart realizing the emtpiness it held. Desperately he grasped for the dream, chasing sleep to relive the moment, but it was in vain. He continued to fade in and out of consciousness, and he'd give up. Soon he had forgotten all about the beauty which he had experienced. Parts would linger, presenting themselves as deja-vu, but he found an inability to truly comprehend it.
He scrambled out of bed, his barefeet searching for the floor. It was cold on the tiles; It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it reminded him that he was now hopelessly awake. His hands went instinctively to his face, pressing against his eyes until they nearly hurt. He walked to the bathroom, and then toward the mirror. The room was still dark, he hadn't put on the lights and enjoyed the dark as long as he could get it. He stared at himself, jumping into the depths of his eyes, exploring the ridges across his face and forehead, and drifting across his cropped hair. It all seemed so surreal and unfamiliar. It didn't seem known to him this apparation, this doppelganger, in the mirror that stared back.

>>11728620
>crimson orbs
This is not a good way to describe eyes. Ok story though. It's kind of cute.

>>11732551
Post something of yours then
Go on, show us what good writing really looks like

I felt a shock of joviality watching the fires climb. The sudden surge of salacious life coursing through my emboldened veins was not something with precedent so far on my voyage with the dead -- but that's me ironically ahead of myself.
My name is Tommy Chandler. Thirty-four years of age, thirty-four years of idly toiling on the streets of Chicago in the land of the free, riding the carousel of casinos, skirting on the edges of oblivion, shuffling through a youthfully hazy malaise. Blissful ignorance ignited my steps, clacking on cobble walk-ways, "for to be a gambling man is to be a man!" I'd tell my comrades in the nooks and crannies of the speakeasies where you could speak easy but don't pay easy, mind you. What life I lead! As I study my currently foreign surroundings, for which I expect to be soon accustom to, I cannot as of yet make heads or tails of that life, the old life, the American life, for, as of this very moment in time, I'm in trouble.
Somewhere off the coast of Hainan I bounce on South China waves, in the hold of a particular organisation of which emblazon themselves as the "Yangtze Patrol". Protecting American interests at Chinese ports from Chinese pirates -- I'm American, what about my interests? An American's interests aren't American interests, mind, I have no right to quarrel, for, partly, on reflection, only partly, mind, this is partly my fault.
Having gallivanted through the tapestries of reds and blacks and cards and rolls and rum and "HIT ME!" I have left an accumulation of debts in my bounding lunges through life. When you never stop, nothing else stops either. At least, that's how I thought. Turns out when you owe a few grand here and there, and the economy is swaying in the great winds of international stress, doors get knocked and knees get shot. Not my doors and knees, oh no sir! I bid adieu to mon amour, and dodged onto the shores of continental Europe. I trudged through the ditches, muddied my britches, rolled through the trenches, slept on benches -- never stole or pickpocketed, mind! -- my way through Europe. At times I felt like a conquistador, meeting the Aztecs for the first time, only to instead meet the cold indifference of those I'd beg to on the street. Women with hair of wheat, breasts like clusters of grapes, breath, sweet scented as apples... I would have stayed à Paris for the women. There aren't too many flappers on a grunting hulk of metal smashing through the waves like an aphibian juggernaut, ravenous for Chinese pirates, "to protect American interests at Chinese ports".
What's the fun in that?
The towering headlines oracling the Wall Street Crash drowned me in shadow through the imploding inferno of Germany and into the depths of Russia's winter. Wrangling through the bitter cold, a blizzard knifing and daggering my gaunt frame, I succombed to an orb of orange bliss floating on the frozen horizon -- an orthodox convent.

>>11735490
>shitting on new expressions of poetry while not being able to come up with better names than Turtledove and Starrwood
Give up

>>11737438
I could definitely come up with better names, but part of my rationale was that they were "supposed" to sound really vapid and unoriginal, but in retrospect that probably would come off as really forced to people who get what I'm getting at. Also, the "new expression" is supposed to be Savanna Brown/Rupi Kaur instapoets, so it's not like I'm shitting on anything good.

Here is the opening of the narrative I'm currently working on:

To start, I am terribly handsome. To this fact I can attribute most of my success. There exists within me a unmerciful genius, that at times propels me into the most deviant of works. For instance, the grocery store that employs me is my playground for the beforehand mentioned 'works'. The store manager, JD and myself hire employees on the basis of our game. The hiring process begins with me, being the associate manager, all resumes are filtered through me. I pick out of the candidates the least fit for customer-service. The first step is finding from the candidates the worst liars. I start from work history dates. This is a common falsefied section, as people have the tendency to stretch their previous employment length. I verify this by calling the said former employer for dates. At other times I have found personal references to be nothing more than an applicants extended family, who are often quite terrible liars themselves. When the interviews begin, I'm very inclined to chose those with the most disgusting attributes: a lazy eye, early balding, rotten teeth, etc. These deplorables I send to JD. JD's kind heart always picks the most virtuous of the lot. After their hire date, we pool our bet together and I proceed with whatever torment I have decided upon. If they last through a month of my emotional traps the sum is payed to JD, and the opposite is true if they fail. I have never lost this game, but my current play-thing
has been the cause of so many problems recently, as well the cause of the narrative you are about to read.

Chovia um fogo de artíficio:
«Ai a minha liberdade!»
E o físico, bem sequinho,
Sussurra hmm mmf mfa.

O fogo caiu no Tajo.
Seguiu viagem, já tinha
Desaguado. Não chorou -
Sem ais -, cheirou a cash,
Plástico, algodão ou eucalipto.

Que colo bonito. Tanto tempo.
Fuit en avant antes do tempo.
Já sabia. Esconde isto cetim na capa.
Se ninguém vê, não tem forma.

Eliminei uma nota inteira
À sombra disto. Instalei
Um Dr.Fone, mas não funcionou.
Qq coisa do root. Que sede!
Mas escrevi sem pressa.
Se tu não sabes, negativ-racontereceu.
Não me cusques o smartphone.

Antes dos ais vem o pecado;
Depois também.

>>11737702
This starts of well, but the sentence >For instance... is a clunky transition to a setting from the conversational beginning.
Here is my excerpt:
https://pastebin.com/1YEkgs22

>>11735604
trash
>>11735757
Devoid of content
>>11736743
Cliche and childish
>>11736810
Either this is a misogynistic hate fantasy or it's an allegoric feminist vegan critique. I can't tell which one.

>>11736853
Relatable, but it falls apart near the end. This seems more like an exercise in catharsis and not so much something fit for other people to get insight out of.

>>11737952
Its smooth. It took me to the end very easily. I'm jealous. How long have you been writing?

>>11738068
Thanks, I've been writing for about 8 years.

>>11738068
>>11738343
It's mostly just trial and error. Seeing what works and doesn't. I delete about 90% of what I write. I don't do drafts, I just edit as I go.

Bless two arrows, a memory smite
Linger throughout a paternal slight
Pale valor, never partake earnest at night
Incinerate an insisting kite, youthful might

A rite will knight the pious and the endearing
His confins are made of gall earring
Repudiate a sharing, first a cradle then a daring
Seal up the prairie, instill an ordained flailing

Seagazing bride, brimming, morning castles
Impregnated cloud, flowery and bare in candles
Bending brows and sons, intrusive ace
A story of a mace, a light-bringing in face

Forged in a shrine
Vibrant, wreaking and almost a stare
Now bleeding a greeting and an heir
You are a day, you are harbinger, you are a care
Tomorrow we'll serve a demon and his pair

An eye for a thrust, summer dagger in rust
Leviathans praised and conjured up her trust
Never a fire on their soil nor a pyre in their lust
Upward crow, leftward rain, star-weaving and unjust

An enchanted elegy engulfed, caress the blood ore
They arrived, pines all around, the luster and a lore
Scales and bligh, self-inflicting shore
A sleeping narrow core, Necromancer's radiant whore
We ate the leaf, the righteous, and the other four

>>11738459
scales and blight*

>>11738459
I don't read much poetry. So I can't give you informed criticism. But I can show you my favorite line:

"Never a fire on their soil nor a pyre in their lust"

>>11737962
>devoid of content

Just started trying to write a screenplay. Haven't written in anything since I was in school almost 10 years ago. I'm scared, but excited to continue.

poem i wrote a few months ago.

got commissioned by a journal but they pulled it for political reasons (but i suspect it was just because it was too long)

ive shown it to a few people irl and they all seemed to like it but i reckon it's a bit soulless

thoughts? sorry about the length of the thing

>>11738579
not him but:
it's not devoid of content, so much as, the content is so overdone (and has been done better) that its pretty pointless

>>11738616
How do you get commissioned by a journal?

Post your email

>>11738616
oh, context: it's about this orgy that's a bit posh and exclusive, so the magazine thought it'd be a bit elitist to publish. can't say i disagree t.b.h

>>11738675
commissioned just means you're assigned an editor who tries to make it printable. i don't mean anyone paid me to write it. why you want my email lmaooo

>>11738599
interesting. but considering how little dialogue you've written bit difficult to tell. nothing objectionable.

>>11737952
this is fucking superb. i would read a lot more. the narrator reminds me of Pnin. the whole thing is very funny 10/10. might get a bit disorientating if the plot moves this quickly for a while

>>11737702
why would i want to read victorian prose written in 2018. no one uses "terribly" as an intensifier. why not write today like people speak today.
if it's a device to make the narrator seem like a twat -- i think the price is too costly, try something else. also why have this unnecessary monologue. just open with A doing some shitty thing to a poor C who quits, and then B hands him money for winning the bet. that way it's funny. it's like "oh why is C crying and quitting her job? oh because A did this shitty thing, but why? oh because he's a psychopath who had a bet -- and it's revealed this is a recurring thing." isnt that better?

>>11737154
"It didn't seem known to him this apparation" is very a clumsy construction and breaks the flow. also scrap "It was bliss. It was warmth, comfort, safety, beauty, and love. It was life itself. "
quick q: is english your native language? if not dw, but a lot of your constructions eg "but then he awoke" etc are slightly incorrect.

this is good though.

>>11736853
"It is how it is until it isn't. Then everything sucks and you're like aw man everything changed." is a good line to start some plot rather than just rambling.

>>11736743
yeah this is cliche -- but you clearly talent at writing so don't worry about writing cliche poems. i like this,

>>11735757
whereas this is just cliche and isnt even well written

>>11735476
this is really good. a bit "prose with line breaks" but 8/10. what's the dog supposed to represent

>>11735191
yawn

>>11733199
the word-order is utterly fucked. "its gaze
Forth shone, and flames out summoned were"
do you mean "it's gaze shone forth, and flames were summoned out"? and yeah these are pretty unoriginal descriptions of the sun

>>11738809
>>11737702

Thanks, man. I've just started writing and I'm pretty lost. I've been enjoying myself but it's hard for me to understand where I'm making mistakes sometimes--well, frequently. I appreciate the honesty and thoughtful response. Thank you, thank you, thank you

>>11723472

Really beautiful. Who is the prince? Are you the prince's servant or a servant in general? What does autumn mean in the context of this poem? I feel like this is layered with meaning.

>>11730333

most students are total idiots. But I do get a sense that this is written from the perspective of someone older, perhaps reminiscing about their own youth. Magnetically drawn by a lone source is hauntingly beautiful to me for some reason. Maybe it resonates with me because there just seems to be this general sleep-walking state that young people are in. They go along with certain ideas and trends without awareness of why, as if being pulled by some force.

Idea of the poem is nice, just use different words to describe the feelings. Change the verbs aswell.
3/10 .

>>11738923
>>11738933
I posted these two responses. Here is a poem i wrote. It was originally written in another language but I translated it (so forgive a lost rhyme scheme and meter):

From the Beloved separated, I am a wretch
Far away am I from Thee, I, this wretch

The nightingale from the rose separated is a wretch
His love-sickness to the garden sings the nightingale, the wretch

For Layla Majnun searches and mourns
Without Layla Majnun became a bitter wretch

Pars and Armenia are but lonely dungeons
Khosrow without Shirin is a poor wretch

Who am I and what am I - a tear and a moan
Like a bird in a cage, I, this wretch

Idiot Selim! Don't say "He" and "I"
Whosoever doesn't know Him, is a true wretch

>>11738809
>>11738809
The email you sent to the journal. I don't know how to write emails

>>11738903
Just remember prose is for writing stories. You've got to determine the best way to introduce facts from which the events of the story can be determined; and then determine the best way to express those facts. For example, try and start in the middle of action

>>11723472
Not exactly critique but I was wondering if I could get any advice on worldbuilding?
Already written the first chapter of a different novel and have some experience with short stories but this is my first ambitious project.

Got some ideas for sci-fi universe.

Any german anons here? I've been working on this on and off (on weekends when I can gather the motivation). I rushed the last couple of verses so be gentle pls
Als das Schlachtschiff von den Werften
Rollte in das blaue Meer
Und mit salzig kalten Wellen
Spritzte auf das Menschenheer

Die da kamen um zu staunen
An Deutschlands neustem Kriegesschiff
Mit Champagner, mit Posaunen
Zur See! Es tönt ein erster Pfiff

Als der Krieg fing an zu toben
Bei Denmarks enger Meeressund
Schoss das Schiff in weitem Bogen
Patronen flogen Stund’ nach Stund’

Sie traf dieHood,den alten Kreuzer
Dreifach auf dem ersten Deck
Sie unterging mit einem Seufzer
Zu Englands grösstem Weh und Schreck

Rache, Rache! Tönte England
DieHoodliegt auf dem Meeresgrund
Zusammen, schnell! Ein Schiffsverband
Wir kriegen dich, du deutscher Hund!

DieArk Royalals Flaggschiff folgten
Zerstörer, Kreuzer, Kriegsgesannt
DieArksHangaren heimlich borgten
Flieger, Bomber allesammt

Nach Stunden ohne jedem Zeichen
Gab der RADAR Treffer her
Volldampf, um’s noch zu erreichen
30 knoten, vielleicht gar mehr

So gesichtet wurd’ das Schlachtschiff
Dampfend gegen Süden noch
Gesammelt Bomber für den Angriff
Die kühle Luft nach Öl dann roch

>>11739142
Oh shit excuse that spacing idk how it happened.

>>11734288
Anyone mind looking at this? :)

>>11724270
>it's a "manage to get one of the first 10 posts and still receive no replies/crits" thread

C'MON, GUYS!!! WHAT DO I GOTTA DO?

>>11723990
oh I also forgot to mention it's really good. Idk how you manage to amp up hte horny meter without use of a single swear but it's a pretty neat trick

>>11738616
It feels a little unfocused and bloated.
There's good stuff in here but it's very indulgent (it is an orgy, after all). It seems like you really wanted to show off with all of your allusions and the result is too showy for my taste.

>>11725085
I don't like realistic stuff personally, but this held my interest for a minute. Don't take my weird taste personal... repost this and see if the people who like realism get it. Also just release it all for free online

>>11725484
Would be a great opener for another collective /lit/ novel.

>>11725484
pretty good, a little old timey I guess
>>11726765
bad dialogue, man. I'm sorry but it's just wooden and fake sounding. Spice it up and read it out loud. Once you fix that, I'll reread it again.
>>11727209
how many young men just like you have done this dumb little schtick where they try their hardest to be disgusting? TOO MANY. Please dude...
>>11727511
kinda interesting. too short though
>>11727544
>and saved an uptight toddler, was prepared
kill this comma

Also this is too washed. It's like you were smoking weed while writing it. You need to FOCUS, damn it.

>>11727835
this is kind of cool man but it reads like translations of old epic poetry. So try to make it first language status

>>11728620
fuck yes I love this kind of cheezy shit.
>tall and well-poised, everything about the
comma splice
Keep going dude. Make this long and don't be stingy on the plot twists/dramatic reversals/fascinating poetic devices. Just STUFF this thing with content. And keep going.

>>11729436
stop reading Nick Land and pray for God to redirect your poetic talents in a more fruitful dimension

>>11729607
haha

>>11729618
pretty good. not much you can do in this short a space though. Yes I firmly believe that.

>>11730095
desire is banal and dirty; love's cousin, not even her sister.. good imagery though. Painted with few "strokes" (haw haw)

>>11730126
I keep missing this every time you post it. Cause I'm usually stupid and tired and just American...

>To closely placed
should be 'too' lol

Otherwise these are amazing... fucking plebians missing this shit and burying it with one ambiguous reply. it truly is based. My only problem is that it's too old timey. But it's barely even that... however take my praise with a grain of salt; I have never "gotten" poetry, so it's likely this could be a blind leading the blind kind of thing. Favs are 4,2, & 1. Real good voltas

>>11732551
I have seen some good shit here and it was so amazing it made up for the oceans of garbage it was immerged in

>>11732575
ya, MINE: >>11724270

>>11734202
you're just like the other guy. being disgusting is not the same as being funny

>>11735476
this is horrible. Imagine this in video form and you'll realize how cringy it is

>>11735490
hatred isn't a productive thing. If you really dislike these people, prove them wrong by writing something amazing. Big secret is that satire only works if it is motivated by an obscure hidden love of the thing being satirized.

>>11735604
really good man... one of the best in the thread. keep it up. Crucial is that it preserves a sense of playfulness and genuine humor while still touching the dark awkward self recriminatory sadness that life can have... idk but thank you. It was good

>>11736762
the means by which depression gets power over someone is by presenting something subjective as objective... that is, hopelessness. Nothing is ever hopeless. Pound this in and try to change please

>>11737952
This is really good man. You'll have to keep going.

Wanna hear something funny?
Today I was down the pub. Just like any other Thursday. Just like any other day to be honest. I was sat at bar, 5 pints of Stella deep. Old Mick, the barman, had the races on. I had a tenner thrown on "Jamie's Way" at 20-1 in the 2:10 race. A bit of a risk but fortune favours the brave and all that. So there I sat, talking about that fine young Spic that started working in the kebab place next door.
Dirty Bob was sat next to me, waffling on about how mexicans are better in the bedroom. Better work ethic Bob claimed. 2:10 came. Jamie's Way started strong out the gate. Could be on to a few quid here.
Then he lost his pace some.
Then he was bringing up the rear.
Then he was left for dust.
"You fucking faggot donkey." I screamed and hurled my lighter at the screen. I polished off that Stella and ordered a fresh one.
I studied the newspaper pullout with a sour face. One of these horses would cough up beer money.
I scoured over the 2:45 at Doncaster.
Then I saw it.
"Kiri's Revenge"
I shuddered. My mouth was suddenly as dry as a Nuns cunt. I necked that Stella.
50-1 odds.
I only had a tenner and enough lose change for another Stella.
Fuck it. Do it. Fortune favours the brave.
"Pint o' piss and a tenner on Kiri's Revenge in the 2:45 please Boss."
Mick happily obliged.
So long story short, the horse pissed in. Won by 4 or 5 lengths.
510 Euros in the backpocket.
Happy fucking days. So I bought drinks for myself and Dirty Bob.
Here is the thing, Bob drank that pint like Jesus coming out of the desert, whore of a thirst on him. But he downed it.
Then he coughed.
And again.
Then he clutched at his throat, mouth in an 'O' of surprise, eyes bugging out.
Bob died on the pub floor.
We later found out that the plastic tip from the beer tap fell into the pint glass and then found its way into Bobs airhole, killing the dirty old fucker.
Heres the thing, that should have been my pint. But I swapped with Bob, his pint head a better head.
Wanna know the real kicker?
My friend had a foreign exchange student named Kiri living with him for 3 months during high school. We accidentally killed her and buried her in the woods. She was never found.
Kiri's fucking Revenge indeed.

>write a novel, thinking it'll end up as a rushed pile of pointless shit
>it ended up as a rushed pile of pointless shit

Why did I write this and why am I so emotionally attached to it

>>11739602
There's probably something good there. you may have to dig it out. Just keep revising, save each revision if you wanna be a pussy about it

>>11739609
Thanks for believing in a brainlet who can't recognized good litearture, anon.
After a bunch of revisions I already did I think there's nothing more I can do to save this story, but I'll take more looks at it anyway.
It's still my wish to get it published, I just wanna see that 1.5/5 on Goodreads before I die.

a crow might be a dove in the dark
between these coma cuddling hills
below a high up sky on fire
smiling down on the red sun

I originally wrote this in Polish, but I don't won't to die as a lurker, so here you go, my miserable attempt at translating the beggining of a narrative:

It seems a viable strategy, to scribble one's thoughts as they pass and follow present's footsteps as it guides you by hand instead of laboriously reconstructing past events, naming them, by erring creating new ones, explaining, all while verifying the explanations that expired, meshing together and restructuring, until every possible gap has been filled with meaning, until the creation of a perfect model, the form of forms, the set of all sets - so instead of doing it perpetually; however I never was able to approach the act of creation with similar naturalness, deprive the image of the treelike structure, flatten it and thread the yarn of narration through, even though the beauty hiding midst the thicket of understanding shines brightest in the form of a bead. A part of me wants to destroy every bead, witnesses of a process so shameful, composed of perspectives too narrow and false axioms - this part of it should be forgotten, all notes left in a burned draft, only destination should matter, not the path. Naturally, by remembering we perfect and by perfecting memorise, but the pain attached to the memory of imperfection can cast a shadow on all progress. A temporary solution shall be to keep it hidden, live in squalor, isolation, eating locusts and wild honey, awaiting the day of burning the briges, the instant that will stop, staring at it's own reflection - eternal as a snake, that having eaten it's tail, body and head reduced itself to nothingness.

>>11739714
will post original if any polish anon requests it

Morning mountains in the mist,
Sorely sights of you I've missed,
For from sea to silver sea,
None your mettle did I see,
That when fixed upon a cot,
Sickness for your shades I caught.
Fin’lly back my journey led
Dodging flus and flying lead,
For that danger, my just due,
Well-earned, thy slopes in sunris’d dew.

and

The misted hillocks, sunbeam blazed,
Where shining-coated cattle grazed,
And kids below their mothers lazed,
A scene serene was this.

The shepherd, distant cries malaised,
Then cattle, sudden violence, crazed,
The kids, by deaths's confusion, dazed,
A lion glutted, heedless.

>>11739369
Yeah I get you. I wanted the line to be "clever" rather than pretentious - but it came off dangerously ambiguous. The readership would've been somewhat aware of the ball, and so I wrote a account that was (perhaps overly) "poetic" to distinguish it from the tabloid smut.

>>11739468
>Nick Land comment
Lmao true. I'm sure I didn't spend very long writing it. It was part of this five page monstrosity I must've written ages ago.

>nice comments about my wee collection
Aww cheers my g. They are a bit old-timey. At the time, I'd read mostly old-timey stuff. I reckon if you laid an amateur's poems end to end you could work out who'd they read between writing them haha.
I still don't know how to write poetry without sounding too pomo or too wanna-be-Wordsworth. But if you write a girl a poem you should make it iambic pentameter and archaic, because writing girls poetry is intentionally anachronistic.

I'll read your page a million when I get to a desktop

>>11739602
Most of what people write is complete trash. But it's better that something awful is written, than something that is brilliant never was. So do your duty and write.
If you describe a more specific problem I'm sure one of the Prose Patrol could help you out.

I downloaded a new add-on
for my phenomenological software—
the extension called canine companion.
It's in its beta stage, many bugs to be fixed:
data leaks, benign malware, error message,
the developer assures me these will be ironed-out
in upcoming upgrades. It's functions
include interactive interfacing
w/ various other softwares, such as maps,
as well as a messaging application
that emulates a therapist—AI style tech.
I can't wait to integrate this code into my life,
I really think its going to maximize pleasure
as well as productivity. The experts say so.

>>11741143
fuck, this is more depressing than Plath

>>11741159
i was going to add a bit about planned obsolescence, but i couldn't force myself to do it

>>11725251
At no point did this interest me
>>11727544
>>Harry gulped.
Did he then go 'stretch his legs'?
>>11727997
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. Get over the pretension hump
>>11728620
I love it. Crisp writing, and funny
>>11730376
Passable McCarthy fanfic, until...
>The next time he awoke was a timeless place in the night.
This is so awkward it takes me out of the story completely.
>>11733195
Yeesh. Feels conflicted.
> If she was a new girl she’d be offended and wouldn’t want to be objectified. If she was the old one she’d be disappointed and wouldn’t want to be objectified.
What? I can feel what you want to say here, but it's lost in translation. Question your thoughts and ask if they're totally relevant.
Work another decade or so and you'll be a good writer.
>>11734288
>ts of hands, dainty and powerful, began to wander from his celestial head downwar
You lost me here, and it needs some work otherwise. There needs to definition for tension to exist. Introduce a guy and establish him before he goes to hell.

>>11741293
Re-posting

NATHANAEL CHRISTOPHER FULLER got born at Christmas Eve, during the year just prior that our'n own. And though it weren't come as nobody's surprise, not the old Doc's, not the Nurses', not Mom's or Pop's, and though he'd gotten born by healthy means, he cried, and to add he cried loud, and it seemt opposed against common rationale that he should done so. THE NEXT DAY CAME Christmas. Nathanael got home at eleven A.M., what Mom and Pop's house had Christmastree ornaments hanging and Jesus enjoying his nativity, figured out as pottery and bedded in a little hay. And thereabouts their Friends and Family had packt indoors. And though each Person loved him from their first little meetings, and though he'd a houseful of kind young Ladies that held him, sweet Granny's that held him, and love's his young MOM to share in holding him, he cried the entire afternoon, over loving and lovepecks and the nicest other Moms sharing coddles, the sweetest kindest relation a Person's likely of, and he cried. And really thatn't made any sense. THE NEXT WEEK CAME January. Nathanael got baptised at midway through the service when the Choir changed over. Pastor Heidt waded out above where he would later tell his sermon, in a wet pool that kept in a recession in the wall. And the Congregation had hushed, so the only noise dript off the Pastor's elbows from the water. Then the Pastor led a prayer on some blessings. And then he lowered the Baby quickly down into the water, the splash loud, startling whereat a quiet had settled, and then pulled him up to the Congregation's welcome, whatfor Mom and Pop and their Friends and Family had sat. And though he cried, though he'd not another manners at the time, whether by a dumbness on his soul, or whether by a devil at his heart, and though he'd not stopped or quieted since getting born a week before, whether out of habit or devotion, whether at lack for reason or at burden from such, whether led away or on his own, his sins got washed out at once, gone from his body, out from his heart and from his soul, having gotten born from sin, having lived a week with sin, and though he did nothing but cry they was gone, that forgiveness let the water clear his sin, whether or not he had known, whether or not he might sin from that moment, to be cleared in the estimations of the Holy Spirit, refreshed into life, a better chance a man could grow then walk righteously, forgiven again and again, along the steps of Jesus Christ the servant. And together they said, Amen. THE NEXT MONTH CAME Saint Valentine's Day. Nathanael got invited for his Mom's and Pop's wedding.

>>11741302
Easy to read and consistent style, but not really interesting content to me. May be because it's just a fragment or it's just not my thing. I don't know many prose techniques or principles so that's all I can give you.

>>11724195
>>11725087
>>11729558
>>11730473
>>11732090
I never intended for the poem to be erotic. But there's certainly nothing wrong with causing the occasional boner or dampness with words.
>>11739364
thank you for the compliment dear

>>11741763
just for funsies i wrote a real erotic poem since that's what you sick fucks wanted from me

the charmer

what a nice glug
condo glug, even with
the sweat! little
wormy tongue little
mini cake! can’t even
feel even, en garde to all
the yuppies: stiff like
toes. what once bled
births in constant feudal
bliss. can you

Today's legacy is a burnt cicada,
an internal scream lying in a hammock,
the town well flooded over with syrup;
a wily teen hacks the crows
and sicks a murder on the mute protestors;
a synchrony of bowling balls strikes Big Ben
at exactly six past seven; Krakatoa erupts,
rupturing the capillaries of nearby shrikes
also sending the nuns into collective delirium;
a monument of binary tidbits glues itself indelibly
to the fleshy console singing in nucleotide rhyme;
Earl, the Earl of Gatlinburg, mows down a sounder
leaving the meat for the amateur prokaryotes;
the Queen quietly queefs; big wigs wipe their palms;
a Leica falls into the right hands; the typewriter dies;
kidney failure seizes the sober; most importantly
gall rains down from the heavens as voles and people
look up, looking through pools of pearly tears
forgetting to breathe like a neurotoxic dolphin
whose surname is Erewhon, the noblest in the seas.

Today's legacy is a burnt cicada:
an internal scream lying in a hammock;
the village well flooded over with syrup;
a wily teen hacking the crows
sicking a rabid murder on the mute protestors;
a synchrony of bowling balls strikes Big Ben
at exactly six past seven; Krakatoa erupts,
rupturing the capillaries of nearby shrikes
also sending the nuns into collective delirium;
a monument of binary tidbits glues itself indelibly
to the fleshy console singing in nucleotide rhyme;
Earl, the Earl of Gatlinburg, mows down a sounder
leaving the meat for the amateur ghosts and prokaryotes;
the Queen quietly queefs; big wigs wipe their palms, cut their nails;
a Leica falls into the right hands, Helen Keller; the typewriter dies;
kidney failure seizes the sober; and most importantly
gall rains down from the heavens as voles and people
look up, looking through pools of pearly tears
forgetting to breathe like a neurotoxic dolphin
whose surname is Erewhon, the noblest in the seas.

I rarely write in english, but anyway, here it goes. To be honest I'm more interested about opinions related to it's meaning than about the text itself, since I know this particular prose is very mediocre.

Each day, right after waking up, the ocean called for him. It was in the singing of the seagulls, in the maritime breeze and into the slight taste of salt the wind brought to his mouth. It was as if the warmth of the sun was directly under him, the grains of sand comfortably settled against his feet, in a beach of sand as white and as free as the clouds in the sky above.
He felt the waves coming and going, the cool touch of water against his skin, as if being caressed by the ocean itself. And even then, none of them existed beside his oasis, this final refuge of mind and body.
The sea called for him, and such call was sweeter than any sirens song, more heartbreaking than the departure of any lover, and more melancholic than the realization that, sometimes, wishes aren’t simple, or direct, or even meant to be realized.
The little hut, of wood and straw, small, cozy and perfect, with a simple door and a window on its side, with a view of all his corner of the world had to offer, bringing forth the sounds of the dog happily barking, waves constantly breaking, and leaves softly hustling.

Is it bad to start out my story with the word "hell" in a monologue if it's targeted to younger readers (like the original HP audience)? It's not using it as an expletive but as the actual place.

>>11741293
>>11734288
This is actually 60-70 pages in. I was wondering what you thought about this small segment without any knowledge i.e. if it is at all written interestingly, well, or not at all

>>11738923

Haha thank you, no it's not sadly, I was just sitting in my mom's garden and feeling very close to nature and God. When I say "servant" I mean a servant to God.

Sweet apples and cinnamon.
After working strain.
Steaming out of the oven.
After heavy rain.
Sweet aroma filling the kitchen.
After walking home.
Sweet cinnamon and apples.
After scything brome.

>>11742908

This is sweet but the trick to minimalism generally involves a sense of vibrancy or engagement within the short stanza(s). And while this image is very sweet and nice, it is not very enticing as you do not offer a particularly poetic perspective on what you're describing but rather, a plain recounting of it. Also, it's good that you attempted a sort of rhythmic continuity, but it is clunky.

"Sweet apples and cinnamon.
After working strain.
Steaming out of the oven"

The third line disrupts the flow. It should be something like "Steam rolls out the oven door" or "Steaming from the oven door" or something of the sort. It doesn't need to literally be that but it should have the same amount of syllables.

"Sweet aroma filling the kitchen" is also clunky

It should be "Sweet aroma fills the room" or again, something with the same syllable count. Basically, each line beginning with "Sweet" needs to have 7 syllables, the same way you had each line beginning with "After" have 5 syllables. It's a good try nonetheless, just try to be a bit more creative with your imagery, put more life to it, and be more consistent with your rhythm. It's good that you're trying to start with smaller images to get your poetic footing rather than what a lot of guys in here do going for the grandiose content with little to not talent to supplement it. Oh one more thing, I wouldn't end every line with a period, the poem (appears) to be meant for a much more whimsical tone than constant periods would allow. I don't think it's meant to read like

Sweet apples and cinnamon(stop)
After working strain(stop)

but more like

Sweet apples and cinnamon,
After working strain.

See how that sounds different when you acknowledge the effect of punctuation?

Good luck anon.

Here or there
No matter
I flutter by
Devoid of reason
What's it for?
My longing, my want,
For a life less ordinary?
Surely not
For that would not do
We're never truly satisfied
One more dollar
One more door
Eternal need
Forevermore
The secret it seems
Is hidden
Among those sunny childhood days
Before we're trained for greed
And death is not finality
Merely a fork
In the road to know more
Have more, work less
Smile big, be free
And who am I to preach?
I almost found peace
But traded it
For cold hard currency
In my cage
Full speed in the rat race
I've glimpsed the life behind the facade
But could not grasp
For materials filled my hands
Flowers, fields, birds in flight,
Rivers edge in pale moonlight,
This is true magic,
Take not for granted
What your eyes behold
Life is short
Live it

bump

This is from a tragedy I have been composing for some months.

I’m writing a tragedy were a young Afghan woman, called Malalai, after obtaining a degree to teach literature, returns to the mountain village of her ancestors, decided to open a school there. She enters in conflict with some of the village elders, while other elders support her. They made a council and eventually decide that the school will be opened. After that a series of consequences conduct the story to its final tragic climax.

In this excerpt Malalai, after being threatened with punishment if she insist in teaching the children of the village, and after debating painfully with herself if she has the guts and will to face her fears, decides that she will not run away. In this particular scene she is arrested in a barn, it is night and on the next day, at dawn, she must decide either to give up on her beliefs or to face a Taliban-trial for treason.

A young men from the village is urging her to run away with him. In the middle of the discussion, Malalai suffers some sort of delusional nervous breakdown, caused by the fear of being tortured, and starts to talk in a frenzy about enduring her imaginary atonements with honor. It’s almost a sadomasochistic delirium.

The original is in verse, in 12-syllable verse-lines, without rhyme (blank verse):

MALALAI: They can whip me: I do not fear the wounds,
But I will raise my head high and proud myself
As if the bleeding sores were camellias
Opening themselves, in a smile, for the spring.
Yes, I'll wear the bruises like a shawl
Of amethyst, adorn myself with stains as black
As the abysmal pupils of solitude.
The blood that shall gush out from me will be a wine
That honor would kill to be able to drink,
Liquor that would have courage drunk, making it
Bristle it’s mane even more. I will fuse myself
With Calvary as with a lover.

AMIR: Malalai,
Listen to me. Malalai ...

MALALAI: The empress of the atrocious,
The majesty of martyrdom is whom I shall be.

AMIR: Malalai, are you listening to me?

MALALAI: I shall enchant the world.

AMIR: You're delirious!

MALALAI: Give me a bowl of foamy rage
That I'm going to eat it like porridge, I'm going to bathe
My body in thorns and embers: it is the bath of the saints;
Angels are the ones who soap themselves with wounds:
Then God embraces them in towels of tenderness
And lay them on his bed ...

AMIR: Malalai!

MALALAI: Go away,
Amir. Go away. I already told you: I'll stay.

>>11744739

This is the original:

MALALAI: Pode me chicotear: eu não temo as feridas,
Mas vou erguer minha cabeça e me orgulhar,
Como se as chagas a sangrar fossem camélias
Se abrindo num sorriso para a primavera.
Sim, vou vestir os hematomas como um xale
De ametista, adornar-me com manchas tão negras
Quanto as pupilas abismais da solidão.
O sangue que jorrar de mim será um vinho
Que a honra mataria pra poder beber,
Licor que embriagaria a coragem, fazendo-a
Ouriçar sua juba ainda mais. Vou fundir-me
Ao calvário como a um amante.

AMIR: Malalai,
Me escute. Malalai...

MALALAI: A imperatriz do atroz,
A majestade do martírio é quem serei.

AMIR: Malalai, está ouvindo?

MALALAI: Vou encantar o mundo.

AMIR: Você está delirando!

MALALAI: Me deem uma tigela de raiva espumosa
Que eu vou comê-la como mingau, vou banhar-me
Com espinhos e brasas: é o banho dos santos;
São os anjos que se ensaboam com feridas:
Depois Deus os abraça em toalhas de ternura
E os deita na sua cama...

AMIR: Malalai!

MALALAI: Vá embora,
Amir. Vá embora. Eu já lhe disse: eu vou ficar.

Bump

>>11742486
The writing is perfectly fine. It's overwritten in spots:
> smoke drifted out from the door and soon disappeared into the growing gale. Was this the meeting of Heaven and Hell?
> whipping him from the heavens, kissing his coattails, pushing him forward. Th

but overall the quality of your excerpt is publishable. It's about as good as Stephen King (which isn't an insult), and reminds me of the Shining.

Don't drop the camera,
crack the lens.
Observe the optics of the situation,
you hear your sensei say.
We're all the bokeh in the lives of others,
blurred aspect ratios, clinging tonality.
A picture of a duck-rabbit, worth a thousand
words, broken down into qubits,
splayed open across matrices—
mater and matter whisper in UV
lightly touching the censorious sensors
with a hotshoe bulb: the aperture narrows.
Glean magnifying droplets, they spark
dry old shrubs and twigs
into combustive oblivion. A constructive conceit:
passersby arguing to themselves,
the two-step waltz of chiaroscuro,
three-point perspective vanishing past infinitude.
The images animate, orifices engulf
this and that; the eyes vacuum the black,
prism-trapped spectra of undiluted filth.
And so set the equipment down, the studio's closed;
as the shooting ceases, chromatographic cries fade,
and the acid-bath bubbles one more time
in the room swallowed by dark and red,
the belly of a whale, the penultimate pitstop to mutiny:
the documentarian dies a nascent creative,
snapping his back like the dissonant chord
at the end of the road: screech crisply, screech.

>>11744747
Eu creio que precisa de um pouco mais de sutileza, anon. Also, você escreve com sentimento? Não me refiro a tentar transmitir o emocional das personagens, nem utilizar prosa sentimental, mas deixar o modo como sente-se conduzir tua escrita. Em minha limitada experiência, é daí que vêm as melhores criações. Boa sorte com sua tragédia.

>>11724270
You're writing style is consistently good. But inconsistent. That is, you flick between a dozen different styles and regionalisms - making it slightly disconcerting. Also, the plot:length ratio is a bit low. It seems you're trying to write "good prose" (successfully) rather than tell a story in a consistent voice.
Basically: obvious talent, but slightly misdirected

>>11739633
You need your eyes checked even if you're comparing doves and crows backlit or in pitch

>>11746153
Thanks man. So I should stick to a consistent voice and never dawdle when it comes to the story. The reason I probably extended it like that is because I always feel like other stories go on too long, and everything I write is always too short... but ya if that's the case I'll make things more eventful. Thank you.

Open space sight
As we walked thy smokey ground. Luminous
Umbra cloaking suns and stars; The brightest
Adumbration, Gazing his surroundings, ganders
Emptiness,But for dark matter, for Her light

Utterly drowns lights.
The yellow shadow guided him, as he beheld her nimbus;
Thus the path obscured; Throughout the beams a familiar form
Thee crescent shape reminiscing him of the dugout of his natives.

https://pastebin.com/uBMWd3Ht

Spring’s Child

Far before the long December, lulls deep
My breathing in my manger well asleep;
With Roses placed by head, and lullabies
Soothing soft my desire-driven cries;
With sister Autumn plucking roaring lyres
To bid the tree’s red rush and yellow fires;
Soon then to wake, my mother, Nature, larked
A dimly bird to soar and ferret cluck
Along with every beast of pouring day,
Make mincemeal of my dreams and waking stay;
My eyes, an amber, lit with fireflies
For lovers, soon to sigh, beheld by lies
Of the flowers knit well in my tresses
And magnolia stormed by my caresses;
Soon to hear my laugh styled clear and warm
To ripple sea, slake riverine and form
The dew collected on the cusping buds
Made by the gentle rain; my living heart
Beat fast the horse’s neigh and calling blonde
The wide of wheat in fields; the writhing fronds
Under the farmer’s scythe did well to die
To feed the throats of hunger, wanting eyes
By every mud-made kindling of the earth
Or every lone child wishing calm a hearth
Of simple coal and soup and blessed hugs;

But I stood far in blue, and kindly smirked.

For I cared not the plenitude of men
And merely wished to scrawl my singing pen;
To leap to run to serenade my soul
Into these twirling sandals, kissing cold
The gore of criminals and kings alike
With my sly parade of doubting lyres;
To twist my knife made of the flower’s lust
Into the jealous lover, free at last
After pulling out his smiting dagger
From a she-wolf’s blood-smeared vagina;
To dance so swiftly on the witch’s cauldron,
Whose potions stirred of carnal coronations
For every solipsistic silent prince
Whose unrequited loves did simmer in
Their guts, and quaked with vapid hate
Until the flower’s blossom, did they rape,
Until their agony poured firm in their veins
And from the windless rafters did they hang,
Like my lovely grape-spun praying vines
Rippling with my loveless spiting wines;
A whole collection of such blackened buds!
They came with Spring – a feast for Evil’s child.

And when the Summer’s verdure finally loomed
I hoped so many Roses could be bloomed
Upon the Earth, scarlet-tinged and warm;
Made of soothing blood for Summer’s storms

To wash away... to simply wash away...

>>11747563
Correction: Until their agony poured firm in veins

>>11745575
Isn’t Stephen king like a massive joke though?

>>11747563

#1

I’ve known sensation past the season’s climes:
The fleece of Winters flaked in glassy gold,
A Spring whereby the swans were grizzled old,
And Summer, Autumn, dancing on a line.

But only by your lashes could my time
Be sworn to something solid, ticked, and fast;
I placed four seasons firmly in my grasp,
When, in your lips, new weathers kindly rhymed.

I made sorbet of clouds and talked to Gods
To hope for you: a place to count the days
And from that counting unify the ways
Into a new calendar, candid, broad –

In order that our hearts could then decide
The pace of kisses, miming of your eyes.

>>11748593

#2

I’d ask permission, for what keeps your soul:
For instance, could you lie beyond the crepe
Of stars so slendered as to form a nape
Interlocking, splaying down in folds?

I’d kiss your hair for questions, then your toes
And moving up the endless temple knells
Give up a candle to your ear’s light swells,
Such that, from hips, sweet smells could then unfold

Of your incense and your simple prayer;
Whereby I’d leave my wishes to the ghosts
By which your dimming lips did just expose
(they were jealous, by your legs they clambered);

And on this breathing, fateless, holy night
I’d place my sleep by your position’s guide.

>>11747563
>>11748593
>>11748740

I do not know very well what you are talking about in your poems, but you certainly have a lot of talent: your excerpts are full of memorable verses and bold and new images.

For example:

>And magnolia stormed by my caresses

>Or every lone child wishing calm a hearth
>Of simple coal and soup and blessed hugs;

>After pulling out his smiting dagger
>From a she-wolf’s blood-smeared vagina;
>To dance so swiftly on the witch’s cauldron,
>Whose potions stirred of carnal coronations

>The fleece of Winters flaked in glassy gold,
>A Spring whereby the swans were grizzled old,

>I made sorbet of clouds and talked to Gods

>In order that our hearts could then decide
>The pace of kisses, miming of your eyes.

All of those verses are great. I would have loved to have written them myself.

I'm this guy, btw:

>>11744739

You ave talent. I wonder how old you are, what have you been reading, what are your favorite poets.

The only advice I can give is more a matter of personal taste than of true technique: try to direct your powers of imagination to more intelligible poems, to have a message and a more penetrating communication with the reader. That is: try not to be so hermetic and symbolist. Maybe you can learn some of this with Robert Frost and Wislawa Szimborska.

But you have great abilities, of that I have no doubt.

Congratulations.

>>11748823
Thanks

Here's

#3

Sidereal: that’s a word. It means starbright;
Or rather, something lone and far apart:
Like windowpane, like emissary heart
Trying to mouth locutions in your sight.

Sidereal: that’s your stare, the bilious stars
Could turn me cold and then revoke the light;
But still I’d pine by telescope; my plight
Is that you’re there. The night then softly smiles,

And – sidereal – that’s what your looking does
When some connection forces in fresh wires
To map with physics all of my desires
In hopes that I’ll traject your rippling fars

And make a wave that levitates to you
All of this longing. Satellite – a Fool!

Heres something I'm working on RN

She left me there
Little lemming wilting on the window
A mad dream living entirely as a sleeper
A motley of life playing back on the bare walls


This one has a whole format, but I'm too lazy to fix it or screenshot.

Vertigo
When you
realize
you aren’t the man you were
Not that long ago
Like yesterday gone forever
You only see the evidence
of history lining the walls
expanding eternity
like a bottomless pit beneath you

Waiting for you to jump in.

>>11748823
incidentally, I'm 21

Btw fave poets: everyone allusive and with startling imagery - your necessary Romanticists, your necessary Symbolists, Rilke, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Plath, some of ee cummings, even some of your mentioned Frost (when he is in his most darkly lit of verses), Neruda, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Bishop, Anne Sexton, Millay, few of Eliot, Pound etc... etc...

>>11745816

I like this even though I think parts of it are clunky. I would just get rid of "you hear your sensei say" or make it the first line because it kills a certain part of the momentum of the imagery.

I typically find this kind of thing is too clever for its own good but the themes work decently together so I wouldn't add anything else. It's already very busy.

You could organize this a little better to help a reader not conclude this is word-salad. I suggest breaks after your periods. You've already chosen to make full stops with your punctuation, you might as well say "full stop new idea". If you don't like that, I would change your periods out and figure out 3 or 4 clean places to make line breaks so that it isn't so heavy handed.

>>11748852

#4

I asked her what she wanted for the walls,
To tune her style to mine, and then to learn
What placement cause her eyes to lightly churn.
She answered: “motley life in the bare halls;

The living room shall undulate with scales;
The kitchen... I think a simple white;
But...oh! I wish! I wish... there was a kite!
All kites! From the roofing to the rails!”

True, I found her tastes rather Bohemian
And maybe it was all due to her age:
She was 20, but never quite forgave
The magician for his splendid ribbons,

That birthday party where he whisked away
Her youth, and harrowed it with age.

There are birds and insects churning in the weeds around the clearing and the ground is muddy from last night’s storm. Far off clouds still grumble like old men, sip at the coal smoke rising from the power plant. Overhead lines run from it, horizon to horizon through a swath cut through the trees. It is as if a biblical ploughman had passed long ago and planted a row of iron seeds.

It had never before occurred to Tassel:

The not-quite-star shape of the transmission towers resembles a person taken captive. The points of the structures are like two arms thrown up in surrender. The beam that supports them seems to be a yoke that arrests each at the wrist, clamps around the neck. And the cables that issue from them do so roughly where the top of the hands would be, like each figure is tied by the fingertips to to the next. From this angle, it could be nearly be an endless procession streaming over the hills.

This is how you know you need to sleep, he thinks and lowers his binoculars.

The overworked muscles around his eyes are begging for relief and shutting them for a moment takes some of the soreness out. He raises slightly from his crouch, drops back into it. The joints of his knees and ankles pop harmlessly.

Beside him, the lieutenant sits cross legged and pays him no mind.

Returning to his lenses, he soon spots the outline of the two helos approaching low and fast from the south.

“Here come the birds,” he whispers and fidgets with his balaclava. The lieutenant nods in acknowledgement.

Cold morning wind comes fluttering through Tassel’s vinyl poncho, exposes the carbine slung under his arm. The sound is like when a flock of pigeons all take off at once.

Fifty paces behind them are four other ECCO-SCI assets fanned out around the clearing in a half moon. Their faces are concealed. Their olive drab fatigues have been washed of all identification.

The two detainees before them are belly down in the damp brush, black hoods over their heads. College aged, a boy and a girl. Their hands are cuffed behind their backs, soiled clothes torn in places. The girl is sobbing again. The asset in charge of her clenches the neckline of her hood and she goes silent.

“Trade me for some smoke?” asks Tassel. The lieutenant hands him a canister in exchange for the binoculars and waves him on.

At the center of the clearing, he pulls the pin and watches the blue plume rise from it. Now he wheels around, points his index finger to the sky and pumps his arm for the other assets to come. The response is instant- cartoon automata obeying their robed master. Gloved hands gather up the detainees and pull them to their feet. A muffled shriek from the girl, nothing from the male. He has not made a sound since they took him from the farmhouse.

>>11749022
Correction: harrowed it with fade

>>11749025
>likening transmission towers to a chain of prisoners

Kino.

to dodge the galaxy

a fine enough
frost, returning—
a standard enough
checklist, returning—
a powerful enough
deliberation, surrounding—
we succumbed just
like angels, returning & returning
into air so strident & polished

>>11749296

Tyvm. I mean it. I got very autistic about how I could do something like that and hoped it would connect. I'm happy you enjoyed it

The amateur's win prize money
at the Subaru Outback Steakhouse
for their contributions to neurolinguistics.
"This is a huge honor," the emcee dies,
multiple cardiac infarctions. The trophies
collect dust on various shelves, mostly in Iowa.
Their company is bowling trophies, corporate softball,
their second daughter's second place spelling bee medal
made out of plastic. Eventually a new generation
buys the now ramshackle homes, on the cheap,
'a fixer-upper honey. Time to take out the toolbox,'
the Wrangler wearing arms akimbo Joe says proudly.
The houses homes again, dust unsettled.
Remains left in boxes in the attic, material echoes
of a radioactive nucleus long decayed. The light
strikes the woodwork, zapping termites,
and the cardboard flowers bloom—Spring cleaning.
"Honey, what's this?" The new conductor shouts
as he picks up a codex burnt in wood
and tosses a couple of old trophies
into the trash, past his wife.

#5

O Wish! O Wiser! Country of my Woe;
How far your Range with nonspecific pleas,
Desultory young mountains, and lathed Seas,
& Canyons heaping Promise, unforetold.

I’ve come past Twenty, yet your mighty Hold
Could not be worser; borne by Raking Past,
I’ve hidden in your Hovels, till Outlast
At last these Phantoms, then I slowly stole

Into some creeping shade. Civility
Of cities where the Holiest of Faces
Peeped out from social, staid Embraces
(At last – at last!) did beam Nihility

Into that Workplace which I so desire:
Where I could Temper all this raging Fire.

>>11723990
>OP on crit threads are always the worst

I think everyone in 4chan are literally the worst in general.

https://vocaroo.com/i/s0x9WyAPeKcZ

would anyone willingly sit through an audiobook of this?

Baby, a quick shitpoem i wrote from a text i sent to an estranged friend

I made a new kitten friend today. He looks kinda like Sensie, except he’s got these eyes like Puss N’ Boots. I might call him “Pussy” or something. I’m at my house in Fort Smith right now. He was waiting for me on the porch when I got home, meowing. I held my hand out to him and he received me. He appreciated the food and water I gave him. I think he might stay. I hope he does. I gave him Ignat’s bed. Ignat doesn’t use it anyway. I named him Baby. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you this week. I’m working on getting better. Baby is sleeping now.

Wolves

"Were you raised by wolves?"
My mother asks me,
marveling at my inability.

Play room

The walls were barren
The floor was cold
The toys were for infants
Hard to blame
Recovering alcoholics

Dog

I kicked the shit out of my dog
He tore up

Disappointment

It's funny that you thought
Something was something
And now it's not

Considerations

Dad's. Alcohol.
Bedroom. Sleep.
Train tracks. Unlocked door.
7th floor. Hope.
Parking garage.

Fear

Instead of pulling out your teeth
To fit all of life's cock
Have you considering trying
Opening your mouth?

Dust

Instead of turning my inner voice
Into a choir
I've decided to kill it
By asking where it came from
It screams at me
"I came from you!"
I respond
"Who?"

Good boy

Yeah it feels good to stay
Yeah it feels good to sit
Yeah it hurts to lie
Yeah it hurts to cry

I'm obviously trained
To put up with your shit
But I'm I'm not going to pretend
That pain and pleasure are
More than

#6

Accord to May fine smells & Deeply Plunge
Into a green Circumference guiled by Light;
Let bare Rose retwist & fool the Night
Into a Jugglery beyond the Nuns;

That which Obscures, let Emblems hold him still;
That which is Holy, let our sword Singe past
& strangle full the Penance; Thorns with Lust
Shall deconstruct until he’s had his Fill

Of all Objectless things without a Price,
Of Love (a faire) unsteady of its Charms;
The rocking-horse could Fathom in your arms
Under the Spell of Metaphor – Reprised.

Let Courage spring! Let levitate a Lyre!
Let Flower sing before the Saintly Ire!

#7

A penny for your thoughts? What would you do
If, then, my pockets emptied with white doves?
I had no coins to give, to know your girth
Of thoughts... and so I guessed you had none too.

But men are climbing all around the Earth
With dreams, ambitions, anything to start
Towards a day where Mind would have no part
In telling them their scrawniness of worth.

I give you doves. I have no coins to give.
Since I’m so immaterial, hardly there;
Merely...well... I’m a phantom round your air
To feed you wishes; let you slowly writhe

In silent dreams, seared with my stormy words
From which you cannot settle in your thoughts.

>>11725474
other anons didn't notice the structure because they got fixated on the first verses, it may strike as a little forceful too
it's ok i like it
what else have you got

>>11726154
oh you realized by yourself, sorry I didn't check beforehand

Inside the larder
Reaches no sun
Yet reaches the son
Who frowns South
One the dying one
With drying eyes
And crusted mouth
From his leer
The son draws near
To hear the father's final breath
Instead smells death
And seasoned beer

>>11752979
*On the dying one

Sonnet 01.

Throw yourself, my Sleipnir draughthorse, dark
eidetic blur, Olympic diver — crash
against my gates. And heavenstorm like an ark
with rugged keel, and dorsal strength to thrash

upon my center. Clasp my fingers. Chest
restricting chest. A viscous sarabande,
Ravel between your collar and my breast;
you teasing time from my nape and hinterlands.

Stir me, Wing Chun and bhangra thunderstorms
in your sweet loins. Like Anaxagoras
said, ‘everything's in everything’. (How warm
your embrace.) Take me in you in me. Remember the sea,

the sea dissolving every name and meaning —
dark like pining. Return to black beginning.

>>11744739

It's very good. Looks like this from Measure for Measure:

As much for my poor brother as myself:
That is, were I under the terms of death,
The impression of keen whips I'ld wear as rubies,
And strip myself to death, as to a bed
That longing have been sick for, ere I'ld yield
My body up to shame.

>>11753650
This is about gay sex isn’t it.

>>11741293
>This is so awkward it takes me out of the story completely.
Oh, I see, I could just change that line. It sounded fine to me, but if it's pointed out like that it might be a little redundant after all.
>McCarthy
Haven't read him (sorry), I'll go and do so and see whether we're similar. Thank you.

The Vezir in his bright robes, under the just Sultan’s blissful golden palace roof stands,
Watching the Sultan, the Vezir goes rabidly mad.
For he wants the throne in jewels all clad,
To be the ruler of his ruler and all the desert sands.

But his brother, the Sultan…

A harem, a palace,
Bought with evil and malice?
From Satan’s abode ink has tainted the Blackbeard’s mind.
God is blind or is He not? Answer God, your Satan’s might!

When nightfall falls and the Sultan’s guardian angels are busy praying,
On nightfall he sneaks to his brother, Sultan of his’ bedchamber,
And smothers him like a faulty new-born son or thieving stranger.
And his turban he dons and wears, stuffing jewels on his black hair.

He now rules his ruler and desert sands,
The human god of all the lands.
But where is God, He, the ruler of the ruler’s ruler,
Will he not stop these thieving hands?

‘A scolding for thou on your second day of rule,
The killing of your senses for ever and ever.
What brought you this want, Satan’s own school,
Will be quenched by a burning thirst for food.’

Said a candle in the bedchamber
Talking to Blackbeard, the Sultan’s arch danger.
The black eyed brotherkiller, a lowlife, for all gods a sinner,
Could not believe a candle,

Is it God or just the wind of madness, of madness inner?

The morning, the new blackbeard Sultan,
Under the high a palace roof blissfully seats on his bejewelled throne
The big window, the curtains from it unravelled, he orders the pretty slave girl,
He does do and reveals a sight to behold.

Gold, gold and gold!

So much gold, red-yellow gold.
The blackbeards eyes light up, become blue and wide.
How did piles of gold, yesterday from his sight hide?
The Sultan jumps through the window, landing on stone street,
He died.

The gold, the gold but where was the gold?
Not where but who’s and it was of God’s angel’s
But not a guardian’s, the Sultan’s guardian was praying again.
‘This family was cursed!’ cried the blackhaired slave girl.

The gold, get back to the gold…

T’was only sands, you fool!
A gift from your brother a
And a third sultan, the only sultan
God and His answer.

>>11753862
what gave it away?

https://pastebin.com/KUX63xMv

Down
Oh how I weep and how I cry
Down
When I was born, a hopeless lie.
Down
Who am I to steal a life?
Down
We come so close, but never touch,
Down
The nature of my immaterial crutch
Downs

>>11752552
>>11752590
Thanks anon, I know my writing isn't spectacular but I like to think I have good prose. Here's another

Though I and eyes,
Hold moments fine,
The herald's time pulls on,
And while your horses pass me by,
Our father's hands lie
still.