/lit/ - Literature

Jesus…
Was a gangster,
Who did not care,
About his rent,
Or his job,
Or even his parents.
He cared about his crew.
And the other crews,
Were not so good.
They didn’t like Jesus,
He didn’t like them.
And fights would break out,
As fights so often do.
Until finally,
Jesus was hung from a cross.
On that cross, he’ll say,
"I'll be fresh until death,
Hip until there is no hop,
Be cool with my dying breath,
Then my disciples rise to the top."
Amen.
Praise, praise,
‘Twas the gospel truth.

Kind of free form, I've yet to decide what to do with these snippets of rambling

Out there is a nexus of uncertainty
One in which navigational points are those of desires
The primal fires which guide us
Lead us to believe conviction as fact
But it is a matter of cognitive dissonance
To confuse lucky happenstance
As fate, or otherwise pre-destined
In reality
Though reality be
Not something which we can divulge easily
Being only human ourselves
In reality the nexus is the universe
And it is indifferent
Beautifully and terribly so
And we humans yearn for meaning
And in our yearning we confuse creativity with convention
And force upon ourselves greater meaning

>>3704216
I like it, but it could use a bit of polishing. Like you said, it rambles a bit much. One more thing, the ending seems a bit unfinished.

>>3704211

I hope this is supposed to be humorous satire, because if it was, you've done well.

>>3704291
It is definitely supposed to be one. Thank you, anon.

The warmest day of the year, is it? You can tell. You can feel it. Even now, stand in the light for long enough and you can feel the sun's glow float around the skin of your arms and face like an aura or a halo. When did I last feel that? September? Surely. It feels good.

Winter is on its way out, finally. It's only April. The fells over the other side of the campsite still have the white scars of its grip on their sides, where they rise half-invisible in the distance, beyond where the others unfold deckchairs and open brown bottles. Matthew's gaze catches mine. He beckons me over.
I shake my head.

Here there's a gate in the wire fence, and behind it a path that tunnels through the trees, a mossy gate that creaks when it moves. The path is a slip of dry dirt, beaten concave and bald by generations of soles, and in the dark spaces between the trunks tiny flowers grow, white ones and yellow ones. At the tiniest tips of the branches of some of the trees hang miniature egg-shaped buds, but a few of the other trees still carry dead leaves. They are dark and papery and clenched like fists. I reach to take one. It splits and crumbles against my thumb. I let it drop.

That brings back memories.

I don't know what I did, but here it is.
Timers time away,
And the racers race,
The cheerer’s cheer,
The coaches coach,
I sit,
And what group might I fit into?
What might I be able to call myself,
So I might act?
I will call myself Death,
And I will die,
Slowly,
Without timing, racing, cheering, or coaching,
But with a damn good deal of thinking.

>>3704307
Spring does have its own beauty, I suppose. The sky though the scratchy canopy is deep and empty, its darkening blue marked only by the stretched white wisps that hang from it. At ground level, in the patches where sunlight filters through the shifting branches, everything seems to move. The path curls just enough that I can't see where I'm going, or where I came from. There is no sound except for the gentle breathing of the wind in everything, as it slips past branches, through the grass, between my fingers.

The campsite is a different world. I will go back, but I need time out here first.

Out here, where for seconds I can be nothing but me.

Everything is a reminder that time has moved forward. The grass is greener than it was. The sky is bluer than it was. The light, in its unplaceable way, is wrong.

Now the trees part and fall behind. The path drops, opens, softens, until I'm standing on the beach of a vast lake. On the other side, small as a model, sits a white hotel and its simple wooden pier. It is surrounded by trees. It is backed by hills that have their every crinkle picked out by the low light of the sun. They are reflected in the lake.

I sit on the shore. The damp soaks up through my jeans, and I let it. With my thumb, I trace letters in the sand. I underline them, once, then twice. They spell a name. The water rises and falls; shifts and swells. Where the breeze catches it, it becomes peaks and arcs the skid across the surface that is dark and shiny and sharp as obsidian.

The sky, too, is a little darker now. By the hotel, a group in orange jackets push kayaks onto the water, and somewhere a bird sings. It's a song I've heard before.

>then one of his friends comes to him and asks him why he's moping about and he says it's because he's in love with autumn and he's sad that it's spring but at the same time happy because autumn is getting closer
>i have written this bit but it's tricky to get right and so far it is definitely not

>>3704269
Thanks, I wrote this a while ago in a spurt of inspiration. I feel like I ended it so abruptly because it ends on my conceptual conclusion. Maybe I should try capping it with a metaphor of some kind.

Any suggestions on polishing these now fleshed out expressions? I'm good on the first step, but I've never really ventured beyond, I'm an instrumentalist by nature, jazz trumpet.

>>3704323
Fuck yeah trumpet.

And the jazz hit itself,
clashing again and again,
Just as the universe goes.

>>3704309
Good shit right here ma nigga
Should be expanded somewhat though.

I am not yet warmed,
not have I been chilled,
to these waters, these waters of life.
I do not wish to be changed,
I enjoy lukewarm lava,
breakneck ponds,
and mediocracy.

>>3704393
Should say "nor" instead of "not" on the second line.

I wish I could be the reaching hand of the heavy sun beating through a cloud of marijuana
Like the rumble of a train or the mouthpiece of a reciever
Or raw meat chewed and expelled
Be touched and held

>>3704328
Something I wrote about jazz

Inspiration needs cooperation
Instantaneously before being lost
For it comes free but there is a cost
Vaporiously cast into that void which
The brain forth with has no switch
Improvisation.
The sensation of which
Is euphoria.
That which the sublime sudden coercion of
Melody and harmony
Transcending predestination
And entering the divine.
An escapade
into metaphysics in music
Is something a few choose to make endeavors in.
For the fruits of such studious infatuation
Is the most wonderful experience I have ever known.
And such is the sublime pleasure knowing jazz.

>>3704417
Hmm.

*For it comes free, with minute cost

and

*But the fruits of such studious infatuation

Better

http://pastebin.com/CvuxVjZc

It isn't that long, but I didn't want to put in multiple posts.

Tell me what you think and how shit it is.

>>3704309
I don't even know how to start with what's wrong here
It's just one poorly drawn out metaphor
You should probably work on extending it and either adding more repetition or less
It just seems so middle ground

>>3704440
Not bad. Not bad at all.

this thread is shite

>>3704478
Why not contribute and make it better?

>>3704482
why don't you?

>>3704486
I have, m8.

>>3704487
half the things in here don't have a critique
do a better fucking job

>>3704307
>>3704322
>>3704393
>>3704404

look at all that

As the tide rolls
The sand shifts
Time deliberately
Strutting forward
Laughing at you
Soon at your demise
as well as anyone's

Leaving the uncertain
Enveloped in anything
But piteous grins
It is once again gone
Unattainable by any
Wished for by all
Infinity never granted

Lives so burgeoning
Now so desolate
The hand of time
Lays redder than all
Bidding your goodbyes
There is none to blame
Other than you
For you have not tried
Tried hard enough

>>3704216
This is heavily abstract, and therefore for me a bit difficult to grasp onto. Philosophically the voice is exact, but due to abstraction the message is muddled. I think it is very difficult to write with concrete imagery and also write about cognitive thought, which is by design abstract

A myriad of bright, over saturated stars in primary colors, scattered, on top of the monotone darkness, devoid of color, lays reflected on the water spread, wafer thin, on the pavement, and makes me dream of a future of high tech and low life, hip clubs and interesting, cool people.

>>3704393
"waters of life" is a very heavy idea. The last three lines work well but not as an ending - i think this deserves more than 7 lines.

>>3704417
Language is very eloquent...sort of echoes some great jazz solos, so i think that works. end-rhyming is distracting because it's free verse and not metered. I think, again, your abstractions (euphoria, predestination, divine, etc) are also somewhat distracting, but less so than your first piece here.

>>3704523
I think its more of a conceptual musing, which leads to its abstractness (I don't like this word, I wish abstracticity were a bonafide word, I might try using it anyway) and I assume too much about the reader's language capabilities (not to insult anyone, but I throw around some odd phrasing).

Thanks for pointing that out, it makes complete sense to me, but that's just because I know where I'm coming from. I'm saving your thoughts for when I return to this.

>>3704545
Wrote some more.

As of now, I float,
In my little tributary,
An offshoot,
Of a much grander scheme.
And when the tributary ends,
I might became part of everything,
That is,
I might die,
And be forgotten,
Yet be a part of the dirt,
The trees,
And maybe even a true ocean.

>>3704418
the fruits line - the subject (fruits) is plural but the verb (is) is singular.

Would You Know Yet More?

With eyes glazed in dull brilliance,
Clouded with absence of thought
We trampled reason,
Steadily marching onward;
Onward, always onward
Towards the jaws of death
and the gates of infernality
where we could circle
in an eternal debauched reverie.

Free from morality
And the constraints of the judicious flesh
We cast our humanity
Into the jaws of the wolf,
the rotting carcasses
feeding the ferocious bloodlust
which could no longer be ignored.

Raging against his fetters,
He lets loose his howl
And we smile
Because we know no better.

>>3704560
Oddly I find the terms you deem abstract to be the most specific in my view. Perhaps because I have worked out the definitions for myself already.

Maybe I should provide anecdotes in my poetry for those who don't know me very well.

It's just the way I talk, I speak like that any time I am explaining something in depth, albeit this is more open-ended because I'm not talking to anyone directly.

It's a good thing I am drawn to jazz because I don't think I could make much sense in any other profession.

Thanks again.

>>3704580
Reminded me of high school, not in a bad way.
The imagery is great, but I feel you could add a bit more to the last stanza.

>>3704440
>http://pastebin.com/CvuxVjZc
character interaction and internal thought are strong, but the setting less so. we know it's cold, that's about it. what's the occasion? how did the narrator and others get to this particular situation?

>>3704565
Now the water metaphor is working better. Still not sure on the ending...i think you have set yourself up for obviousness by including the lines "i might become part of everything/that is,/i might die,/and be forgotten." i think you can go from the words "i might" straight to "be a part of the dirt" - you have already established the water as a metaphor for life, thus when you say "when the tributary ends" you are already suggesting death.

>>3704620
Of a much grander scheme.
And when the tributary ends,
I…
Do not know.

Shabam.

>>3704588
They are specific, but they are internally specific as opposed to universally specific. our definitions of "euphoria" are probably much different. and "divine" while maybe universally specific, still refers to something that we must imagine because there is no physical object that represents "divine" in the same way that a "baseball" (in all respective languages) is a white sphere with red laces.

also no problem, happy to help.

>>3704605
-but a crime for which they were wholly guilty.*
(I have a thing with prepositions, but I think it legitimately sounds better this way)
-intimately raging (?)
-remove the "so as"'s in section 2. You don't complete the cycle of them, and it would flow better without them.
I get completely lost in section 3 because of the metaphor conflation. (Maybe I'm just retarded, but I don't understand how you can discuss trade and purchase then immediately shift to robbery. You can go from trade to robbery, since thievery can be a trade, but purchase implies a lawful exchange where robbery implies a undesired stealing. It's not that I don't know what you're talking about, it just doesn't really make sense to refer to it in nearly antonyms in the same sentence.)
1/2

>>3704644
Section 4: get rid of that god damn "I guess." You're writing it. Tell us how it is.
-It could be said they wanted nothing to do with me, either.
-Even now my false freedoms shift under that oppressive reign.

Okay, just stop with the crying.
This was really good until the self came in. Now it's mired in quandry and self doubt, pathetic reflection and self deprecation. Just stop. You go from being subtle about feelings and concepts to blatantly saying "this is how I feel" and it absolutely butchers it.

>>3704628
So this is what the poem looks like if i followed the posts correctly.

"I am not yet warmed,
not have I been chilled,
to these waters, these waters of life.
I do not wish to be changed,
I enjoy lukewarm lava,
breakneck ponds,
and mediocracy.
As of now, I float,
In my little tributary,
An offshoot,
Of a much grander scheme.
And when the tributary ends,
I…
Do not know."

first, i retract my previous statement about the end of the tributary suggesting death...it is actually the opposite (as a tributary feeds water into a larger body of water e.g. river - my mistake). However, i think this ending captures the idea correctly that all futures are uncertain.

I think you could expand on the idea of you floating in a tributary as a comparison to the waters of life being oceans (though still heavy, it's sort of an adequate allusion to the internal idea of the significance of singular life versus the grand-scale contributions of that singular life to the world population).

>>3704695
Thanks a bunch, man. I'll be sure to change these bits.
And the end of the tributary is meant to signify death. I become my own person (tributary shoots off) and then join back into the miasma that is everyone.

>>3704605
The setting is less detailed because the conflict takes precedence in the character's mind.
That may sound like a cop-out, but I think i'm trying to show how obsessed he is with the relation of independence to security.

The entire situation is just an allusion to an outcast of society and the trade-off for security to individuality.
A lot of it is mired within his own struggle of identity which relates to>>3704668

I understand the criticism, but i'm trying to show that the individual is a flawed being.
That's the whole point of the conflict, he isn't resolute in his standings, shifting between rebellion and acceptance.

I don't know how else to convey that outside of action, but then action would dictate that he is confirmed in his own thoughts.

I did change the robbery part though, you're right that it's not concise.

I'm newer to writing, so i'm sorry if i'm not making a ton of sense.

>>3704722
You do it with metaphor. Injecting it directly into the text is a cop out. The fact that you're standing in a crypt by yourself makes it pretty clear that you are trying to seek a communion with the dead, since you are unable to do so with regular humans. Push further on metaphor, if you want to maintain the obliqueness earlier in the piece (which I think works really, really well).

Also sorry for getting so aggressive, but I really liked this piece early on and then it took a nose dive. It upset me.

But as far as extending the metaphor goes, talk about generalities like you do with the dead. Condense the living into one entity that can be talked about and contrast the individual with it. Make it a monolithic and threatening entity that seems perfect against the individual who stands meek and searching in the crypt.
Go into the individual without going into the personal.

Make sense?

>>3704742
And you can have it shift in perception of the whole without needing to directly say it or say "I was lonely" or "I was sad"
"The crypt was devoid, despite their presence."
You can change just slightly how it is you see the world at large (are they thieves or are they beneficent?) and we can get a sense of the shifting ideas of individualism vs communal idealism.

Your early prose is actually pretty strong. Keep up the work.

>>3704742
>>3704758
My train of thought when I wrote this was erratic, so the situation you interpreted is something entirely different from what I originally intended.

But I like this better so I'll take your criticisms and try to write out the second half better.

I do have a problem of injecting personal thought too much within my writing anyhow.

>>3704714
oh ok so i got the intent right the first time. Good luck moving forward

Bump because I don't feel like creating a new Critique thread.
I revised this story from earlier but still am unsure, it's a bit rushed so there may be some mechanical errors.
http://pastebin.com/UNukvp0w

I am a victim of vicious circumstance
The soul of an explorer trapped
By the walls of modern convention

>>3704309
>Timers time away
Dumb

>>3704328
I like it. You could trim the last line to make a good haiku.

>>3704396
Yes, and I think you meant mediocrity for the last line.

Frederic

A silent figure stands
through braided rope gazing
unseeing

Porcelain in place of hands
flesh rend to stone and ash
unmoving

A heart no longer beats
blackened ichor stagnant
unfeeling

A soul cut in living
delusions drowned by truth
unliving

A silent figure stands
ended by his own hands
free


A simple poem. Im not anywhere near well educated in literature, just learning from reading.

>>3706191
Short, to the point, and still interpretive. I like it- could be a bit more vague in the tone, less angered, allows more use of imagination, and allows people to use more imagination as this is a relate-able thing.

>>3706191
For three lines that's pretty damn good

>>3706267

>blackened ichor stagnant
unfeeling

Love it.
But change the beginning of it

>a heart no longer beats

I'm guilty of writing stuff like this. Ya know, stuff that sounds like its been written before. But try changing it because starting something off so, and please don't take this the wrong way, unoriginal and then writing the lines that follow it- lines that are really good and powerful in my opinion- hurt the poem.

i desire nothing more than to be a drop of water in the ocean. unthinking; free.

pls respond

My mother has died
The cause: she had cirhosis
Now I make shitposts

O'Boyle chuckled, the ends of his grizzly rust-colored beard shaking about, "I think I like this guy. He's got enough spunk to trade words with you, Helen."

"Now you're talking out your ass." She said, turning her head towards her partner.

"You're just feeling intimidated," O'Boyle said, "Still up in arms over Duski and Fleense coming in and working with us."

"Well it's bullshit, Alex. You were supposed to get the Project Lead position, not this nobody from the Skypit. I never even heard of the name Tzen Duski until two days ago. Why is he leading our Bastille operation? We put the work and research in, not him."

"NaTSAB employs a lot of different people, Helen. There's no simple reason that explains why I didn't get the job."

The two were completely engaged in their own argument now, seeming to have forgotten Freddie's presence entirely. He wondered if Duski, sitting in his private office with a wall separating him and his three underlings, had any means to listen in on the heated conversation being held. As Helen and Alex continued bickering--O'Boyle sounding much more sensible of the two--Freddie did his best to slump down behind his computer's monitor and work out what had caused the Northeast Pillar's freight elevator to jam midway through its ascension from The Shanties. As he rectified the problem, the two's dispute moved from the subject of NatGov's unfairness in their employee promotion guidelines to much more personal matters.

"...and it's a waste of water."

"Helen, I assure you, it beats hearing what goes on in there."

"It doesn't. I pay the utilities, and I can say it doesn't. I rather hear you poop than pay what I'm paying."

"See, that's the thing though. I don't poop--men don't poop--we crap. It's a completely different set of actions we partake in when using a toilet, and if you want this relationship to continue working as it is, you should make it a point to shield your ears from those going ons."

"I can still hear it, though. You think running bath water covers the noise, but it doesn't. It's ineffective."

"And now you're talking out your ass," O'Boyle insisted.

"Only ass that talks is yours. Specifically when you're using our bathroom."

How, Freddie thought to himself in amazement, did these two ever find the time to finish any amount of work? He was having touble focusing on his own and he was only passively listening to what they were bickering about. It was in the midst of O'Boyle and Harrison reaching the unrealistic compromise that O'Boyle use a neighbor's bathroom for defacation purposes when Duski opened the door of his office. Standing within its threshold with a look of incredulity, his physical presence bore an imposing tone. It was odd, seeing the formerly reserved Duski with his soft features and nearly childlike face displaying such levels of intimidation. He was taking on this new position of his seriously, Freddie realized. His career with NatGov seemed to be Duski's life, and it was becoming clear why Len had charged Freddie with his desired under-the-table research.

"Twenty minutes," Duski charged to O'Boyle. "Twenty minutes have gone by since the last input was made into either your or Harrison's keyboard. Being only recently integrated into this group, I am completely unaware of the work techniques the two of you usually partake in, but twenty full minutes of idle conversation is not something I can allow as a Project Leader."

"Apologies, sir. Won't happen again," O'Boyle responded coolly.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I have another two hours of extensive case files that I need to evaluate, so I'm post-poning the group session until tomorrow. For that I apologize, as I'm well aware that the two of you are awaiting for more direction in regards to Sons of Bastille containment. We'll deal with that in detail tomorrow."

Helen's hand shot into the air.

"Yes, Harrison?"

"With all due respect, Duski, can I ask exactly why we have to wait until tomorrow for our focus group session? You told us that we'd be doing it today. Are you having some kind of issue getting through the case files? Do you need help from someone more familiar with the amassed data?" Helen spoke with smug regard.

"Jesus, Helen. Shut your trap," Alex said under his breath.

Spunky indeed, Freddie thought to himself.

Duski smiled softly at the not-so-subtle implication, "It's much to go through, but it's important that I evaluate them on my own so that I can form an unbiased outlook on Bastille and their functions. But I thank you very much for volunteering your assistance. Now, if there aren't any more questions I'll be continuing on with my work, I'd appreciate it if you did the same."

Shutting the door to his office, Duski disappeared from the the examiner's room. Freddie stared on past his screen with curiosity, waiting to see what reaction the heavy-handed display of authority would yield from his two co-workers. O'Boyle, with his nose stuck into his monitor's display had returned his attention back to his work well before Duski had returned to his office. Helen on the other hand, was having trouble unlocking her expression of slack-jawed contempt.

"God, What a head of cock," she stated bluntly.

"Completely your fault." O'boyle said, refusing to turn his attention away from his display and speaking quickly, "first day with a new supervisor and you screwed us both. I start talking to you and twenty minutes fly by in an instant? You're a Succubus of time, you know that? A chronological nightmare that I can't wake up from."

"Or poop in front of, it seems."

"Helen, I'm begging you here, get back to work."

>>3709094
I know that feel, mate.

>>3706191
It speaks to me, yo.
Obviously, small things like these very rarely have the opportunity to hold within them mindblowing representations of the human psyche. But I found it to be a palpable and close to the heart explanation of men who live in a world that's overwrought with guidelines and rules. I like it, man. I like it a lot.

Part 1
I just watched a video of a woman who is facing being put to death. She’s being charged with taking another human’s life and lots of other humans are deciding if she was in a state of mind that would excuse her actions in some regard. She states that she didn’t have complete mental authority over her actions.
The video by the way is of her singing for a holiday singing contest between her and her fellow inmates. Her voice is nice. She is an attractive woman.
I wonder if she is completely “present” while singing the song? Did she practice it? And if she did, for how long? Does she go into a performance-oriented state of mind that focuses on the words of the song, the tempo, actively dampening the audience, the judges, the cameras? Does doing this allow for a lessened feeling of self awareness? The kind of self-awareness that would stop her singing cold if she were to suddenly in an up-front and concrete manner think about the very real possibility of her life coming to a complete and final stop. Perhaps she would not stop singing.

>>3709223
Part 2
If she did practice, did she want to win? She is much better than some of her peers. Some of them who seem only to have the words memorized and who don’t seem to be quite engaged. Kind-of keeping up a facade of good behavior that given their own respective circumstances may present a more well adjusted and rehabilitated individual.
Some do seem like they’re having fun though, but a dampened kind of fun. The kind of fun that one experiences at a party for children or young adults (yourself being the target child and or young adult that this event is being held for) for whom the the lighting is a bit too bright and the music not quite loud enough and the supervision altogether much more visible and hard to ignore than you would like. That fun that doesn’t allow one to lose oneself in. There are also very present and hard to ignore video cameras in the room. Ones that communicate that this event will be recorded and distributed to a wide and varied audience. A very judgmental and in some cases very hurt and damaged audience. She looks much better a a brunette than as a blond in my own opinion.

Do you guys want some edgy poetry I wrote at 2am a few nights ago?

http://pastebin.com/iSsA1MW0

I'm not particularly proud, but I think it has some promise. I don't usually write poetry, so let me know what you think.

How do I poetry?

I try to read it, and asides from the occasional couple words that make me good "yeah, that's a good image" (e.g. a womb of marble) I really don't seem to get the gist of it, not even reading it outloud for musicality or whatever.

And a lot of times it seems
They just write something and break
It into small lines like this
And I'm not sure if there's
A method to this
As most poetry, I found, barely even
rhymes.

Now, I'm not mocking it or anything. Rather, I'm admitting my ignorance and asking how should I read poetry, because I don't really know a thing about it.

For the sake of reference, what I've tried reading is Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and T.S. Eliot.

>>3709361

You're starting with meta-poetry. Good. Soon your edge will wear off and you'll start to write the real stuff.

>>3709363

Actually, I was trying to start a new thread but I don't know what happened.

I'll leave you critics alone forever now.

It's a kind of synopsis/prologue type thing for something I plan on writing.

The sun rises as does the poor man; whilst the rich man slumbers on. As their boots clank on the pavement and the factories start to rumble; the rich man slumbers on. Slumbers on in a palace up high, his needs all waited to by the poor man. His cruel visions inflicted on the poor man; his bad days the best of the poor man. In this world of rich and worse; grey coloured skies and futures full of demise the poor man lays awake. In short cut nights of sleepless slumber his thoughts all ravelled up. Thoughts of futures not of demise but of days were he is not woken till late. But these days he may never see so his thoughts fall to his children; born unborn and coming. He vows to himself not to make them wake to make their take so small; as he must do. But to wake from slumber at times past dawn and live their lives unto the nights; not harried by rich men above. As the light creeps slowly up his thoughts fall to what he can do. So the poor man dreams up the children’s army. An army made of him, me and you. His army would fight for a future bright; a future for the children of him, me and you.

Poetry is the cry of the broken breaking,
and rebuilding;
the joy, its host and origins,
and its untimely demise.

The soul which animates these words is not visible in each individual word,
but only in delightful segments of text,
concealed on the surface,
but found in droves upon delving into the depths between the phrases,
flowing elegantly through the gaps between words.
This silent and subtle language is poetry;
not what,
but how.

Life expresses,
a statue has no tongue and needs none to reveal its story.
Good tableaux needs no vindication,
nor does poetry,
it tells every secret once.
The power of poetry is incessant, -
an element as unconcealable as fire.
The nobility cannot in any country be disguised,
and no more in the wind
or in the earth,
than in the words.
No man can resist its influence.

Poetry is the universal,
the (un) true.
Poetry lives in forgotten leatherbound books,
the songs of now
and our forefathers’,
even that annoying jingle on the radio.

Poetry is human,
to be human is to construct poetry-
through even our thoughts,
poetry is omnipresent.

Poetry is natural,
ingrained in our DNA,
and found in the glint of one’s eyes.
The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues,
with the advantage,
that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary,
but is understood all the world over.
When the eyes say one thing,
and the tongue another,
a learned man relies on the language of the first,
a learned man relies on poetry.

Poetry,
humanity;
indivisible.

“Spontaneous overflow of emotions”
Wordsworth reckons,
and I’m inclined to agree.

>>3709127
>>3709133
>>3709136
I really, really loved this story. It was funny in just the right way. Thanks for posting sir.

>>3709136
>"God, What a head of cock," she stated bluntly.
you're almost breaking the fourth wall here by removing the reader and reminding them this is not real life because no one actually talks like that. reword this

other wise good

I have a non-fiction essay I've been polishing up for submission. Should I upload it to pastebin or?

>>3704211
It's great. I liked it.

>>3709543
http://pastebin.com/p8WHri5f
Take a look.

>>3709570
I can tell that you really worked hard on this. I think it is informative but in an interesting way. You did good, son.

>>3709344
I really liked this and thought you ended with a great line, a great thought.

>>3709531
This work shows a lot of thought. My biggest impression from this is that you are proficient at separating thoughts into different lines and give just enough of a spark of idea in each stanza.

>>3709417
Well I definitely like how you start and end the paragraph, you start and finish strong. In between there are some interesting ideas and poetic types of sentences. Pretty good.

>>3709226
I thought it was funny and intriguing how you mix in some compliments of how the woman looks with the rest of the story.

It was late. Pops and Sara were having a beer, but Ma still wouldn’t let Rob drink. “Not until you're officially 18,” she lectured him when he had complained.This far out from town, there were no other lights besides the ones in the house, so the three of them had a perfect view of the stars. Sara took a deep gulp of her beer and then sighed. She looked up at the night sky and in a soft voice said “Man, I missed this...”

Rob smiled and asked, “They ain’t got stars out East?”

Sara shook her head and said, “Not a one. If you go out into the sticks, things are better, but I swear, one of these days they’re gonna have so many lights out East, you won’t even be able to see the moon no more.” They were all silent for a bit. Sara shrugged. “I honestly feel sorry for them.”

The silence continued for a moment, but then Pops let out a little laugh and very quickly they were all laughing hard. Rob could tell the alcohol was helping the other two, but he found their laughter infectious.

“Ah, girl, you’ve been gone for too long,” Pops said, “It’s gonna be sad to see you go again.”

“It’s going to be sad to leave again. You know Pops, when I first left, I couldn’t have been happier. I thought I was finally getting my chance to see the world, and, you know, while I’m glad that I did stick with the Academy... I gotta tell you, there were many times the homesickness made me think about giving it all up.”

“What?” Rob said, “You’d give up a chance to fly Strikers for little ol’ Follett, Texas?”

“You saying you wouldn’t let me take the Daland for a spin every now and then?” Sara asked with a sly smile

“Are YOU saying you’d rather take the Daland for a spin instead of those fancy Strikers the Army lets you play with?” Rob shot back.

Sara laughed. “Yeah, the Army does have better toys, but there’s more to life than flying, little brother.”

Rob shrugged. “If you say so, Sis.”

dust's accord the sun vibrating
molecules quickly actuating light
what we walk through/ empty days

but stong muscle hearts full of
blood. cats and greenest blades
of grass spring time allergies

I think it is good to know your
lover. fresh apples, clocks tick, the
DVD's don't have to be rewound

they remember where you were.

sandbox grit nearly getting beat
up for telling smut because you
lied, this stock of repressed mem-

ories when birds only chirped and
cars went by. I remember the taste
of hose water how quickly my stomach

filled and reminded me I am not a god.

It was clear he had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t even skin the creature. He just propped it up on two sticks and stuck in on top, holding it with one of his massive hands. He didn’t watch it either, she noticed. Smile never ceasing, he scanned the area around the fire, watching in the darkness. It was completely silent. Not event he fire made a sound.


More time passed, and the wolf was finely getting cooked. It had been over an hour, and even the moon seemed to darken. They were stuck on their island of light, at least she was. The man cut off a piece, finely skinning off the fur, and handed it to Lithia. Her hands were numb, but not from the cold. In fact, she felt like she was ablaze. Sweat came down in thick beads, snaking from her forehead to her eyes in stinging waves. She wanted nothing more than to jump into the snow, to run away from the fire. She had done her job, hadn’t she? It was over now, he knew where to go, he knew from the beginning…
His eyes fixed onto her. He opened his mouth and ended the hour long silence.
“Hot?”


Hot? Was it so obvious? He was smiling, the same leering grin, having his own private joke, his own humorous, personal aside, comedic soliloquy, internal laughter. He was nothing but a big, big liar. She was tired and hot and dying and he was joking to himself, always joking to himself, never taking anything seriously, and why should he? He was nothing but a coated boulder getting easy money by killing a retarded goat too stupid to stop climbing a mountainside. He was just a lucky liar with a rusty iron blade… and a goddamn grin.
Lithia raised herself up and started to walk back down. The light dimmed as she descended; her feet seemed to disappear in the snow.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice reached her as she stood on the bastion of light. Another step, and her foot would evaporate, become the invisible snow she knew was right before her. It was obvious she could go no further.
“I’m sorry.”

She is the same home as the one that settled
Out of the many quiet hours with myself
She hangs dense droning euphoria
And wraps me in it
Her eyes are the night;
Dream finders; searchers; horizonless
Painted and ringed with imagination
She is the nurturer;
The spring that gives tired ideas new life;
New ideas fuller life;
Motion to dead limbs; warmth to cold hands
She is the giver;
What she is given, she returns tenfold
What she gives, she imparts with herself
And it flourishes
And it builds and grows the homes it finds
She pulls up mountain strength
Through Earthcore roots
She is the gentleness of long grass
As wild as the Wind
Yet keeps stillness near to herself
She is being lost in a forest without being afraid
She is mystery and knowing

>>3709533
That's awesome to hear man, can't begin to tell you how much. Been getting pretty poor critique from /lit/ as of late(deserved of course), so it's great to hear that I'm finally breaking ground into some proper good dialogue and narrative. Thanks for the feedback. Made my goddamn night.

>>3709540
Yeah, I got the same input from my friend. He said that he didn't have any problem reading it as the mannerism is one I use pretty often, but most others would find it a bit alienating.
So I'll definitely change the line. Much thanks for the feedback.

Sputtering light of a decaying fire
Sends its sparks abroad in search of tinder

Many bright sparks fall into the mire
However dulled, they march ever further

Small scraps consumed, given unto the flame
guttered and gutted, its hopes unfulfilled

The sparks, yet to fulfill their purpose
Onwards they fly upon the wind, strong-willed

Fierce wind and cold chills, many fall away
a lone pilgrim, flying on through the night

yet now in view, most brilliant of any
an unbelievable, shining wonder

bright spark and hot flame combine into one
together they outshine even the sun

title's in subject field

My man Jerry –

a bit weary, struggling
over harriedness like
tub mans or disturbed
follicle strand

(ings).

My man Jerry –

a tad segmented, stand
(dings) curving up into
one inching curl, monotone
curbed, congregately swirl

(ling).

My man Jerry –

unvaried except with
normal do(ue), Spanglish
barely linking bar(ring)s
verde-lieu

(tinge).

My man Jer– no,

caterpillar, no substitute.
You preach like he used
(two): cater-pillared,
cacti-crowned pew-pulled,

wobbled for ad-
hea(e)lance at the
a(e)nd, abjecting
a desert in this hand

I hold (you)
to.

Like a self-damned Sisyphus
Pushing boulders up his hill
My love for you drags onwards
Yet I'll never have my fill

Kindred of the cursed Mariner
Bound forever to the endless seas
Around my next hangs my affection
An endless turmoil, never to cease

Fellow of father Prometheus
Bound forever in his woeful plight
My quest for the warmth of your dear heart
Tears my own out each and every night

And yet I carry onwards
In this never-ending pain
Holding on to fragile hope
that my love will never wane

>>3710433 here gonna critique a few poems n stuff. plz rape mine to death

>>3710444

the greek fetishism is not okay in this. it's not original or insightful 2 hit on a bunch of references in direct, obvious ways. if you're going to reference greek mythology you want to either reference it in a way that hasn't been done before or isn't done usually or add a spin onto the idea/event/god/whatever you're alluding to. generally this is 10x more interesting than reading another fire/father of creation reference regarding Prometheus.

the 4x4 square format is okay and simple but the rhythm feels off. The 1st and 4th stanzas flow the best, but the last 2 lines of the 2nd and 3rd are suuuper clunky and long-winded. There's a snappy rhythm that's prepped in the first couplet of each of those stanzas that stumbles into shambles as those end couplet progress. Read each out loud and see where the flow doesn't work, then change ur language accordingly to have it fit in to a natural rhythm. This 4x4 format fits itself for a natural flow, so if you're going for off-kilterness you probably want to alter your structure as well.

most of the ideas here are cliche and straightforward, but you evidently know what purpose you're penning your poem for. if you elevate the language and take a few turns i think you'll come out alright, since this isn't really -bad- just extremely mundane.

>>3710433

I have no idea what this is on about

>>3710471

>>3709531
i hate this because it has no flavor of rhythm and is precisely the way not to go about romanticizing prosed free verse. shit like (un) as one/un-true is garbage, the flowery, absolute asinine statements like "found in droves upon delving into the depths between the phrases" like some sort of ~iLlUmInAtEd MyStIcIsM~ besides your knowledge coming into contact w/ the text dictates how words work together, and the utter laziness of the end turn in the last three-lined stanza that succinctly sums up the fucking problem with people's inability to commit themselves to positions they themselves put forward. okay, you're self aware that what you've presented is a crock of shite, or what the "speaker" presented or w/e but that does not excuse the fact that it's shite and it isn't sufficient enough for you to dismiss your own whole work as shite. regressing into nihilism is so fucking easy and so fucking lazy to do; prettying up the path to that shortcut doesn't make it any less of a ridiculous move.

>>3706191
same reason i really dislike this one. take an obvious statement, distill into 3 lines without an ounce of rhythm or creativity in language between any of them and put it forward as an "interpretive reflection" on "our culture today": instant postmodern masterpiece. are people really so cowed into the haze of stupidity than trash like this has to serve as a bridge to insightful discussion? i honestly don't think that's ever been the case with intelligent individuals. shit like this simply hoodwinks people with its "piercing" obfuscation, presenting a agonizingly dull inanity that sends english majors scrambling after whatever spices of justification and interest their mind can cluster up from their cupboards of compartmentalized thought.

sorry ya'll but those shits are bleh. no offense 2 u ppl if ur good folk.

>>3710444


Like a self-damned Sisyphus
Pushing boulders up his hill
My love for you drags onwards
Yet I'll never have my fill

Kindred of the Mariner
Bound forever to the seas
drifting about lifelessly
never to embrace your breeze

I strove towards the heavens
my quest your passionate fire
fettered now to this cold earth
never to venture higher

And yet I carry onwards
In this never-ending pain
Holding on to fragile hope
that my love will never wane

>>3710685

same guy from before, the 2nd stanza flows much better.

your new 3rd stanza is interesting and isn't heavy-handed with the Prometheus reference which is a better way to do things imo. it's very much there w/ the sisyphus priming line but it doesn't dominate, a poised homage as opposed 2 a rambunctious commendation.

4th stanza also flows smoothly too.

i don't think there's much the poem innovates on re: love and all that although it does make note to touch on the four classical elements which is a fitting avenue of exploration but you're definitely moving in the right direction w/ writing this

What do you guys think of this? I'm new to /lit/ and I've been looking for outside opinions since I tend to be very critical of my own writing. I only really write poems when I'm taking a break from working on my novel, but I'm trying to improve.

I dream dark dreams,
Of shadows lurking in silence.
Shifting in and out of focus,
Staring with beady silver eyes.
Eyes so bright amongst the bleakness,
A light lives in them, flawless, like diamonds,
But so terrible too.
I see your face in the glint of their eyes,
Your smile guides their footsteps.
They shift toward me, a pool of blood against the floor.
Why do you smile?
Why do you hate me so?
I try to flee, but your face is there behind me, in the shadow’s cold face.
Its dark arms embrace me, and winter takes my heart.
In the company of shadows I am guided away,
A rotting corpse, toward my tomb,
A murky shadow thriving in the dark woods.
The shadows urge me along, digging their nails into my shoulders,
At their touch my flesh burns away, revealing the shadow inside,
The entity I tried for years to hide.
It lives now, breathing shallow breaths,
Shifting amongst the shadows, all I can do is laugh.
I have lost sight of hope,
I have become one with the darkness,
My soulless eyes glaze silver now,
And I am greeted into the void, by nightmares of you.

>>3711718
Very well written, but a bit too abstract for my taste. Poetry isn't really my thing though unless it's a bit more literal or intensely surreal. For me, this felt like a description of a dream, a dream based in the reality of one's own emotionally stressful life. Keep at it though, you've definitely got a voice.

Got anything from your novel that you'd be willing to post?

>>3711718
Har Har Har. I laugh at your feeble attempt of poetry.

I shit in your throat electronically. I then take a stab at your mother's appearance and call her a slobbering piglet: raped by her very owners before slaughter was due. You resulted somewhere inbetwen her being a slobbering piglet and dying birthing your corny excuse for a poet.

Sonnet to Banksy

I got my Banksy calendar at War
-terstones. Its p submersive. Did u saw
the pic where 2 policemen kiss? Its gay!

Old ladies turn from Songs of Praise in shock.

Hes got so many clever things to say
about whats bad like use of child labour
by western nations rotten to the core.
He paints these things and then they go away

and decorate my room 4 the dumb flock.

The extant modes of domination suck!
This revelation hits you too hard maybe?
Well Ill paint something dissident as fuck
like Mao Zedong shaped after Donald Duck
or Spongebob Squarepants strangling a baby.

>>3711736
Thanks!
Here's a snippet from the novel.

Perking his head up to the sound, John sat perplexed. He was alone now, in a strange, gray sea. It slugged past him like concrete. He still held the object however, and its light was the only source of color in this muddy world. Steadily, the three seven pointed stars aligned into one, and the combined light beamed against his chest. A searing heat followed along with a blue fire that steadily devoured his cloak and everything beneath, leaving only his bare pale skin. The blue light had scratched the insignia into the center of his chest, and strange lines like cracks spread out from it across his body. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t release his grip on the device. The gray swirled around him; his body the center of an ethereal vortex. He cried out for Clarice or anything that could hear him, but he was deaf to the sound of his own voice. The cracks spread and the light shining through them grew continuously brighter. The light burned. It burned like memories.
“Do you believe you can hide from me?” A voice asked him.
However, to his own surprise, it wasn’t the malevolent voice that continuously hounded him. This voice was softer, almost like a whisper. It was authoritative, with strong inflection, but it was also soothing. There was a warmth in it, an unidentifiable comfort pouring through it all. John couldn’t think of a reply to the voice’s challenge, however.
“What are you?” The voice continued, “Who are you? Why have you come to this place?”
A trickling light in the gray vortex caught his eye. It was another crack, but this one was gold, and it steadily etched itself along the swirling entity like a crack in marble.
“What do you seek boy?” It continued in consideration of John’s silence. “Power? Justice?”
The crack in the vortex continued, as the painful cracking in himself forced John to the ground in searing agony. He couldn’t answer the voice’s questions.

>>3711765
“Or is it something more?” The voice continued, “Something you can’t define?”
The pain made him cry out in agony, but despite this, he managed to form some faculty to reply.
“Who are you?” John asked.
“Intriguing. The others have recognized me, yet you do not.”
Sprawled out in pain, John tried once more to release his grasp on the object. However, his will continued to fail him.
“Why-“ John stammered, “Why can’t I release this?”
“Because, in this place, only my will endures. Now, you will answer my questions.”
Despite his pain, John found himself preparing to speak words he wasn’t prepared to say to an entity he wasn’t prepared to know.
“My name is John.” John replied, “I don’t know why I’ve come here. I do not know what I seek. I am listless, driven only by fury and loss.”
What? Why had he said that?
“And what do you know about power, child?” The voice asked him.
“Nothing.” John replied.
“And what do you hope to learn of power?” The voice asked again.
“Nothing.”
“And what do you hope to achieve through power?”
“Nothing.” John replied again.
“You wouldn’t even save your mother?” The voice asked.

>>3711765
You SUCK and you'll never but nothing ever be anything but cold hard SUCK

>>3711754
Hahahahahahhaahaha You should write comedy. Seriously.

>>3711768
Hey, kid. If you don't like something, offer legitimate feedback instead of outright calling something shit.
Shitting on people's work is fine, just explain why you're not fond of it.

repostan

She was snoring again, and this time the shuddering of her nostrils were not fake. There would be no awakening this time, no perchance intervention. He peeled the bedclothes back, fingers trembling and threatening to send ripples of incriminating fear onto her bosom. Her hair fell softly to one side and hung lamely over the bedside. The sight of her bare navel tempered his courage, and he drove on. Unseaming her from just beside her belly button, he revealed her internal organs to the air for the first time. The scent both aroused and nauseated, and the sight of the bodily fluids bubbling and coagulating in the air accentuated this. Still, he had a dream to fulfill. He squatted over this new orifice, pleased to be actualizing his desires. She was oblivious to both her mutilation and his naked scrotum hanging just a foot above her, still in the throes of an endless sleep. Finally he began. Squelching first, the feces came sliding down his small intestine. It reached his rectum after a minute's suspense, and he felt his arousal heighten. At last his child slid out. A perfect, 10 inch turd slid into the hole in her stomach and sat cosily between what looked to be two vital organs wrapped around each other. He patted it lovingly into place, as both bile and blood bathed his creation, and he saw some of the feces break off in the surrounding blood and be carried off into the unknown frontiers of her body. Soon he would be all over her. He swallowed the saliva that had built up in his mouth, and sutured the wound up. Sweeping the hair back under her pillow, he left her there in the night, unknowingly tampered.

The next morning she arrived at the breakfast table. "I feel a most unusual sickness in my abdomen, father," she said.

>>3711768
Well Stephanie Meyer has a career, so I think I still have a reason to keep my hopes up!

>>3711781
In fairness, that bitch stumbled upon an untampered niche in the marketing potential of the neurotic female bitchmind. It has since been saturated to fuck and has reached its peak with Fifty Shades.

If I were a money man, I'd be trying to write something to appeal to whatever mentality seems most prevalent in feminists today.

>>3711785
That's very true. I'm not necessarily targeting a market with this. I haven't even thought about trying to market it yet. I'll start doing that when I have a finished novel. I'm still working out kinks with the story and concept at this point, and it hasn't been easy. I've been working on it for almost a year now.

here are a few short things ive thought of that id like to elaborate on.

"I want to bite the hand that feeds
garbage foolishness and deceit
the high chair found me overgrown
I objected to calling it a throne"

-other thing-

"the voice of a man at the window
coming through the box
"may I help you?"
The glow from the menu
was too bright
so I lied to him.
he even wished me a good day :)
so this industry is not entirely
without sentiment"

whuddya thank?

>>3711793
I say good luck to you. I wouldn't let /lit/ get you down, half the dryballed bastards on here are just out to kick others down. A novel isn't great or awful on the nuances of its prose alone, and really that's all these threads have to go on for critics.

>>3711798
Thanks! I've really been trying to work on my third person omniscient prose. I'm fairly satisfied with my first person pov projects, but sometimes I feel like the prose in this novel is a bit stilted. Is that the case? If so, how can I work on improving it?

>>3711794
>here are a few short things ive thought of that id like to elaborate on.

Enough about your cock, you goblin.

>>3711777
I'm not fucking about here m8. I'm far way deterioratedly dead serious. I'm talking post-post-mortem.

>>3711779
I didn't even read it. I have better things to do. Right now, I'm getting ready to fap.
>shitting on people's work is fine, just explain why you're not fond of it
Because once someone openns s up to /lit/ with an excerpt from their upcoming novel, it's a DEAD STORY AND YOU WILL NEVER MAKE ANYTHING HAPPEN YOU WILL JUST GO AWAY DIE AND GONE EVER FUCKING HOMO I WILL FIND YOU AND MURDER YOUR FAMILY I WILL CHOKE /LIT/ WITH MY COCK

there isnt anything to find here its all just shit and more of it. its bullshit and will never cease to bsssssssssse thssuly

God please. Slob.

>>3711816
Hahahaha neither was I. Mate.
I just wanted some constructive criticism, which I got in spades. I've never had anyone take an electronic shit down my throat before. lol Kudos on that one. If your insults are anything to go by, then your poetry must be pants shittingly amazing. Do you have anything to post?

>>3711816
You sound drunk.

>>3709749

This is a good half day late, but thanks friend.

Instead of clogging the thread, I put my stuff into a neat little pastebin.

http://pastebin.com/9AFx1tnx

I know that I'm probably going to get ripped all to shit; its just a prologue. I don't know how much to reveal, but this thread is an answered prayer.

>>3711824
Poetry? Why not? Any retard can into potericismy:

OPedly, shatteringly starteruberited
Magically appeared, fisky narwhal hoover
Shibberlang stuffing, relenting flattering
Rhumubutous schlafturing, ether tanking
Gassy flees--amor lure
Cuntropulous freight,
Extravaganzous labida
Enamel slithered
Kamel återfödd
STD cringled above
Fraghil strongwhal
Thusly
Here therefore
Fratebly insistitory
Constitutionary inhibitory
Freight, I
Trethle

Fín

>>3711844

Your writing is very colorful (this is a good thing. Purple prose, however, is not, and you're toeing that line dangerously) and your vocab is very good, but try not to let the work take itself too seriously.

Personally I don't like prologues very much at all. I feel that the story should unfold in the narrative, as opposed to being given a big ol' spoonfeed right at the beginning of the book. They can be done well, but they're tricky.

I'd recommend you take a look at Orson Scott Card's "How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy". It's the bible for anyone interested in that sort of stuff.

>>3711857
I know I fucking hate it myself, but the jump from Earth to Gavisus is a flying ring through the back of the main character's head. How am I supposed to unfold into that?

>>3711855
Pants=shitted
Bravo, my friend. You're destined for greatness. Keep up the good work!

>>3711855
I'm getting a distinct Lewis Carroll "Jabberwocky" vibe from it.

>>3711798
Thanks again for taking a look at my work! I'd stay on the thread a bit longer, but I've got things to do.

>>3711866
iM' DESTINED FOR MCDONALDS. Tehr.

Don't kJ know what else to be written. We both know it.

I had duties to attend to, even in the dark. Boils. Every day on my hand like a cancer they multiplied and relentlessly grew as I lanced them again and again. Taking a pus-covered Wesley Forge I got right to the head of a particularly gruesome one on the ball of my wrist, and dug in. Pus spurted out of it, and I realised the knife was covered in the stuff from the week or so I'd been doing this. There was something cathartic about the whole process - the total control you felt as you were the master of your own pain for one fleeting moment, as you entertained yourself with the knifes fleeting gleams in the pirhouettes you put it through. Next came the feet. This one was a chore. There was no spiritual watersheds ever achieved doing this. My toenails hideously distended, grimy and cracked in places were a haven for uncontrolled pain to flourish and torment. No worse fear did I hold. That pain that hit you suddenly, before you could stick a needle in your last standing vein or swallow enough poison to take you through without feeling it pierce your mind.

>>3711916
Taking off my torn and vomit-soaked socks, I inspected the damage. Christ. It had been building up for a couple of days but I didn't expect it to be this bad. One toenail hung limply by the last remaining cells alive in my now gangrenous foot. It was bizarre to look at. You know that type of pain, where you don't feel it until you look upon it? That was what it was. Hell it was my eyes that were dealt the hammer blows. My foot was blessed enough to be free from the ankle down of all feeling. And lucky for it too. Green, bloated in parts, and on the underside, the bearer of a most horrific sight that even in my drug-induced stupor I could not help but cringe at. The flesh on the sole of my foot was now rotting away, leaving blackened, dead sinews in its place and revealing the slightest hint of a metatarsal bone. That's one hell of an eye opener, whether you're a monastic prude susceptible to tantrum at the idea of offense, or a drunken fool who thought he'd killed emotion with his chosen poison long ago.

I'll give it a shot...

(1/2)

The Man in the Store

It rained steadily outside. Thick, vertical drops plummeted down and collided against the asphalt. Running for shelter, I ducked beneath the grey tarpaulin canvas that hovered over the door to my neighborhood grocery, and made my way through the small crowd of umbrella-less shoppers waiting for the rain to subside.

Before leaving my flat, I had scribbled down a list of essentials I needed to pick up, but in my haste I left the list at home. Bread, yogurt, and some other stuff that did not interest me were certainly not the reason I was there this morning. In fact, I probably wouldn’t even be bothered to get these things if I had no other food at home. For that matter, I hadn’t checked, but I was pretty sure that I indeed did not have any other food at home. No, I had run out of scotch, and last night my guests—who were still asleep in the living room—had drunk the case of beer I had stored. However, it was barely past nine o’clock, and I usually don’t lay into the beer till late in the afternoon; the primary reason for this visit is the scotch which I like to have before my morning coffee, and which is also the only thing as of late that picks me up after vomiting. I also needed cigarettes and peanuts.

>>3711929

(2/2)

With the rain and so many things on my mind distracting me, I completely forgot myself and my eyes started to wander to whatever insignificance was occurring at the moment. Gradually they found themselves fixed on one middle-aged gentleman with a vacant expression on his face, paying for his groceries at the counter. I am at a loss to remember his distinct features; nonetheless, he was pretty average in all respects.

In my absent-mindedness, I let my gaze linger a moment too long. He saw me see him and a brief flash of involuntary distress showed on his face before composing itself into a sort-of spiteful, resolute blankness. Apologetically, I averted my stare to the magazine display above his head as if that had been my object of focus all along, but the damage was done. He gathered his things angrily and marched out into the rain. I collected my peanuts.

please kill me

1

the white bud of spring
blooms at night,
Undo your braids.

>>3711931
Prolixity is one of the worst offenses that a writer of any age can commit.

Right after plagiarism, which I just committed.

Awesome.

Songbirds in the branches, breaking my heart.

Wrong words, turn of phrases all do their part.

How come all the hum-drum,
Is evidence enough?

With wrong words, turnt phrases I say today:

Melancholy songbirds are here to stay.

>>3712018
2

it's Tuesday morning and
your raincoat watches me
as I set the table for one

>>3704211
Liked it. Posting on fb

>>3712063
That's kind of what I was going for. It's why the story is so short. I wanted a kind of betrayal at the end..

>>3711379
just got back, thanks for the critique

An ode to a road

I wrote an ode
About a road

That looked quite pretty

When it snowed

And now this ode
Comes to a close

I hope you enjoyed

My poetic prose

>>3712468
999999999999/10 saved

At the edge of town there is a gorge,
above it a gnarled tree grows
and drops its fruit over the edge of a cliff.
I grew on those branches, between earth and sky;
today I will fall onto the sharp rocks
that line the bottom.
My skin will split, exposing stones and wasps
burrowing inside the rot and mold,
the dirt and rocks will be stained bright with juice.
I hope you won’t see me like that.

I hope the birds and ants strip my flesh
until all that’s left is the gleaming white pit.
I hope you plant me someplace where I can be reborn
and grow my own tree,
my own fruit
to drop on the ground,
where they can open up their hearts on the sharp red rocks.

"Orange Boat"
Cascade orange boat!
Fall down
Land upon calm waters
Dwell not upon the coming rapids
Glide easily 'cross yonder trickle

astonishing joy
sorrows of the world expunged
the cruelty of dreams

>>3712468
I sincerely enjoyed this, Anon

good job

Wrote this after some mixed feelings.

You've done the same things over and over, time and time again.
You think you're developing some OCD because you have learned nothing from results nor mistakes.
"It gets better," they chant, a mantra burning into your skin and branding itself along the sharp lines of your jaw.
Love. That is the reoccurring sense of pain; it is the heart wrenching disorder of humanity.
You fall in love on Tuesday and forget on Sunday.
You think you're developing some OCD.

just something thought of now, not sure whether it's worth expanding beyond this

I used to dance my way through life
bopping to your catchy tune
yet now the notes are memories
a song ended far too soon

>>3704211

Like the legend of the phoenix
All ends with beginnings
What keeps the planet spinning
The force of the beginning
We've come too far to give up who we are
So let's raise the bar and our cups to the stars
She's up all night 'til the sun
I'm up all night to get some
She's up all night for good fun
I'm up all night to get lucky
We're up all night 'til the sun
We're up all night to get some
We're up all night for good fun
We're up all night to get lucky
We're up all night to get lucky
The present has no living
Your gift keeps on giving
What is this I'm feeling?
If you wanna leave I'm ready

>>3712990
liked the 3rd and 4th lines

The thing about a tin can, he reasoned, was once you opened it up you couldn’t close it again, so even though he was desperate to see what was inside, he couldn’t help but feel hesitant.

What a thing to find in one’s pantry. He obviously didn’t remember buying it, he’d never owned a barbecue for the entire time he’d lived there. He had chalked it up at first to a humorous misprint, and had kept it around to show to his friends. None of them thought it was funny, of course. Still, there’s no accounting for taste. It wasn’t his fault that they didn’t have a sense of humor.

That was two years ago, before the fights, the breakup, the drinking and insomnia and solitude. That was before he’d realized that the intermittent, distant, high-pitched wailing he heard late at night didn’t come from the lighthouse up the road, but rather from the kitchen closet. Before the unemployment, before the food stamps ran out, before he stopped doing anything but succumbing, day by day, to entropy.

The first time he had held the thing up to his ear to try and figure out what the hell was making that goddamned sound, he had felt it thrumming. When the metal touched his earlobe, he smelled the sizzling before he realized it was his own flesh melting. He’d screamed obscenities and dropped the thing onto his foot, compounding the pain. The can bounced off and rolled along the ground, dented. Worried at what might happen if he tried to pick it up again, he left it there among the refuse.


What would you do if that can was all you really had in the world? Do you think you could throw it away, either?

He knew one day he would open it, lift it to his lips, let whatever viscous material was inside pour down his throat and fill him, tarlike, occupying every inch of space within his body. That was a foregone conclusion. What he didn’t know, what he feared, was what would come after.

Would it kill him? Or was it possible, just maybe, that man can live on hate alone?

>>3712995
interesting enough

>>3704210
About half of a short story I am currently working on. It probably has a couple of spelling errors or grammatical errors because this is straight from the rough draft

http://pastebin.com/MttzxqzV

>>3713004

If you ask me, scary stories about Internet videos occupy this fairly impotent space between passe and niche. I think it could stand some cutting, to get rid of the intermittently purple prose. Nevertheless, you've got a pretty respectable aptitude for the grotesque.

>>3713013
Well thank you for the comment about the grotesque. I'll try and ditch some of the purple prose.

>>3712995
I like this

THE SWEDE
Sitting with Infinite Jest (DFW) on the seat next to me, writing poems in a Moleskine
Asking myself: "Is this 'cool'?"
Asking myself: "Am I being 'cool' now?"
At the bus terminus, as I stood there and smoked, I saw a cute guy dressed as a bum/"artsy guy" quick-walk over the road with a trolley case
When he came to the separating thing in the middle of the road, he just lifted his case and jumped over
My heart beat a bit faster
Wondered what would happen if he came over
Examined the fact that I wanted to give him a cigarette
An instinctual boot-up of a "mating ritual"
He came over and gestured something that meant "lighter" (I was listening to Notes from the Underground)
I understood what he meant, but still I took out my earplugs and said "what"
He asked if he could borrow my lighter (he could)
Then he asked for a "whole smoke", which confused me until I saw he was holding half a cigarette
I chuckled/giggled, and gave him one
He asked where I was going
Where
Is that far north
He was going to Göteborg
He asked if I knew anything about music (no)
I talked a bit about books
He was told his writing was "metaphorical" when he was a kid, he said
He was too cute, I didn't know what to do
I said I was going to the bathroom, and stood in there looking at myself in the mirror

Post script: The bus stopped for half an hour at Kvam, so I went to buy a soda
Then I noticed my lighter was gone

Who cares that your old lady’s always nagging?
Who cares that your career just took a dive?
Who cares that, once again, you’re off the wagon?
Be thankful that at least you’re still alive.

No sweat - your only jacket doesn’t wear well.
No sweat - the nightmares kept you up till five.
No sweat - somebody mugged you in the stairwell.
Be thankful that at least you’re still alive.
Oh well - you’ll never play the ukulele.
Oh well - you’re looking pale and sleep deprived.
Oh well - your hair’s been falling out lately.
Be thankful that at least you’re still alive.
So what if you’ve got footprints on your forehead?
So what if you are breaking out in hives?
So what if your cholesterol is horrid?
Be thankful that at least you’re still alive.
Big deal - you are a nail and not a hammer.
Big deal - another summons has arrived.
Big deal - your spent your weekend in the slammer.
Be thankful that at least you’re still alive.
It’s true - a man must pay for every blunder.
It’s true - I’ve made the bed in which I lie.
It’s all so very true - I only wonder,
Whom do I thank that I am still alive?

>>3713107
I can't tell if that song's being ironic or not but I'm choosing to believe it isn't and I like it that way.

You drop the ball with the syllables and rhyme scheme sometimes but it's nothing that a good singer couldn't workaround.

here is your ticket, there’s your car,
It’s in good order, you may now board here.
In Technicolor heaven your dreams are,
A constant movie for three hundred years.

All’s now behind you, all you’ve seen,
We took your prints, and smuggled goods won’t pass.
Like seraphim you’re sterile-clean,
You still get bedding, though you aren’t in first class.

Now all the prophecies are now all coming true;
A skyward train - we wish you all the best!
Oh how we want to, how we’re all wanting to
Not die, but definitely sleep and rest.

This station Earth... Don’t look so blue,
No point in shouting; it’s deaf now to our calls.
Where one of us is travelling to -
He’ll meet God there; there must be God, after all.

Go tell him hi from us, you know...
If you forget, we’ll live, and we won’t cry.
We’ve got a few more years to go,
We’ll play some more, and properly we’ll die.

Now all the prophecies are now all coming true;
A skyward train - we wish you all the best!
Oh how we want to, how we’re all wanting to
Not die, but definitely sleep and rest.

Our sons and grandsons, three ages hence,
Will follow us into this void without dreams.
Though God forbid a war, perchance,
Or else our great-grandsons will very foolish seem.

You’ll wake, and someone’ll show you to
A world where cancer, stench and war are past,
Where vanquished is the Hong Kong Flu...
For all things ready - are you happy, fool, at last?

I did not drink or sing at all
That night I only looked at her
Just like a child, yes, like a child
The guy who was with her before
He said to me: You’d better go
He said to me: You’d rather go
You got no chance

The guy who was with her before
He threatened me, he told me off
Yes, I remember, I was not drinking
So when I thought it’s time to go
She said: you can’t leave me all alone
It is still so early to go home
Why are you leaving?

The guy who was with her before
He did not miss it after all
And once in autumn, when autumn came
My friend and I - just as we walked
They were standing like a wall
They did not move they did not talk
They were eight

I got a knife and so I said
You never get me just like that
Come on, You bastards, now all of you!
Why would I go to Hell for free
I hit him first-that’s what I did
I hit him first-that’s what I did
That was my rule.

The guy who was with her before
He set all better than I thought
The way he made all, it turned out sad
Somebody gripped me round the neck
Tommy shouted: Watch your back!
Tommy shouted: Watch your back!
It was too late.

For seven sins get a single say!
I was in hospital in jail
That very night That very night
The surgeon cut me all along
He said to me: “My friend, hold on”
He said to me: “My friend, hold on”
Of course, I tried

The time went fast - for my return
She did not wait- she was all gone
Well, I forgive her, Yes, I forgive her
I will forget her after all
the guy who was with her before
the guy who was with her before
Of course, I won’t

I will forget her after all
the guy who was with her before
the guy who was with her before
I’ll meet alone

If you are declared “WANTED”,
And you soon may meet the rack,
If the hangman, nothing daunted,
Soaps a rope for your neck -

Hurry off to Sherwood Forest,
There’s a shelter, safe and strong, -
If they sold you in chorus
With your entrails for a song!

Yeomen, running from oppression,
Who despise all risks and threats,
Poor servants whose possessions
Are but just enormous debts,

All the vagabonds and wretches
Run and hide inside this wood,
Where the master’s a courageous
Good old fellow - Robin Hood!

They will trust you with no vow,
Though brawls occur, of course,
And they never throw out
Outcasts and outlaws.

Even knights would join them here
In this wood of pine and oak.
Those above reproach and fear,
As a rule, are always broke.

Deer trails these people know
Like the lines of their palms.
They are archers here, although
In the past were slaves and bums.

Serfs and losers by these archers
Will be saved and understood.
No one is free as much as
Good old fellow - Robin Hood!

They don’t care for the sheriff
With his law a bloody damn,
And for nothing they would care if
The forest covers them!

Starry heavens are their blanket,
Under head - a mossy mound...
Don’t complain of cold - but thank it
That you’re, buddy, safe and sound!

Feeling homesick and low?
Cheer up, man, it’s all right!
You had better fit your bow -
Must be perfect in a fight!

These free archers have no peers,
No shooters are as good...
Where will these guys appear
With this fellow - Robin Hood?

Now the world seems so strange, though it looks just the same:
Skies are blue as the iris petal,
Just the same are the forest, the river, the flame,
But he didn’t come back from the battle.

I don’t see who was right in the disputes we had,
I cannot understand who was better...
Yet I started to miss him as soon as this lad
Failed to come back alive from the battle.

With his gibberish talk he would wake me at dawn,
He would not let me sleep with his prattle;
His remarks would be wrong, he would slip in a song,
But he yesterday fell in the battle.

It’s not loneliness that I’m talking about;
We were two - and no one can reset it...
By the wind my campfire at once was put out
When he didn’t return from the battle.

To the troubles we have, our dead will respond,
They’ll protect our values and treasures,
Skies reflect in the forest as if in the pond
And the trees look as if painted azure.

Spring has just shaken off winter’s shackles. And I
Simply called him, forgetting the matter:
“Buddy, leave me a smoke!” -there was no reply,
He would never come back from the battle.

In the dug-out we had I would share with him
Time and space and a battered old kettle...
Now I own them alone. But I really seem
To have fallen myself in the battle.

Who you guys crit. a 24 page script?

>>3713142
Loved it.

>>3713137
I seriously doubt you wrote this when you were 9, but I kind of enjoyed it