/lit/ - Literature

TIAMAT

There is a kind of quiet power in an approaching storm, a looming dissonance bound to sneak into the subconscious and drive you outside. In steel-lighted dawns the cityscape loses its lines and angles, becoming a host for the swaying shadows of people summoned by smells of wind and copperish ozone.
Often times I’m one of those cloudwatchers, climbing my building to the very top, atavically transfixed to Earth by the sky. I met him that way, on the rooftop of my condo. He was sitting still, casting no shadow in the dim, milky unlight, on a patchwork carpet as beat-up as he was, both of them frail and sturdy-looking at the same time. He didn’t turn around when I approached but he offered me a place beside him and there I sat, a student beside a sensei covered by a military issue coat, dirty and patched and smelling of metal and asphalt.
I couldn’t see much of his face, hooded and grey-bearded as it was, pointing skyward, but every once in a while a stray ray of light would puncture the cloud derma and reflect in his eyes, yanking them to life for a moment. I added my smokes to the grubby stash lying in front of us and we lit up, eyes fixed waiting for something in the sky. He began to speak, in time.
I never was much of a talker, but he made up on his side. With his deep voice, words slurred by alcohol and age and lack of use, he described the sky and all that was behind it, tracing an oral cartography of lightning yet to come and radiant winds soaring across the world wildly. He spoke of the awesome battles between djinns and angels in the guts of the clouds, tearing apart the texture of sky itself. Of painful thunder hurling itself through the boulevards, of the ur-storm creeping upwards from the worldwomb.
With drunken urgency he spoke, urged on by my being there as a listener, as nothing more than that. He imparted his teachings, at once delusional and self-aware, hanging to his own narration to keep a semblance of self. As the first raindrops shimmered into existence in the distance, he got up, still muttering of clouds and tears in the sky – of angst and sadness and metaphors, had I wanted to see it that way, and left.
With the regular, broken gait of limping people he entered the building and disappeared, leaving me the smokes and the mat I was sitting on. I remained there alone and, as I thought he taught me, let the storm tell a story.

My opening. The story is circular. More?

It's a circular story. This is the "beginning".

More?

>>6225092
Yes, if anything because it looks bonkers and it may keep alive the thread

>>6225106

more?

B u m p

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkSlDYeT4K4

>>6225120

please no

As I sat listening to the simpletons in my creative writing class "critique" my fantasy short story, I tried to honestly and simply explain a portion of the story I had yet to finish, but my professor, an old, bitter man unceremoniously cut me off.
"That is quite irrelevant!" he rudely chastised me, in his simpering old man voice.
I boldly sat back in my chair, brushing my long flowing golden locks back from my majestic forehead.
"The only thing," I slyly yet proudly proclaimed, "That is irrelevant, is you!"
The class erupted in cheers and delighted applause. Two women began making out furiously to my right, both maintaining eye contact with me as they caressed the other's supple body.
I put my wrist back on my mousepad, my anime princess's supple breasts lovingly cushioning my thick, strong, manly wrist.
With my sly left hand held slyly under my desk, I pointed at the wrinkly old professor. Suddenly, in a puff of smoke, his clothes were gone! Trying to cover his microscopic genitals under his fedora, the professor said "I'm sorry, I'm just mad at you because you are a better writer than I could ever dream of being, and I'm jealous of how strong and mighty your penis is!"
I stood up boldly. "You'll regret," I prophesied prodigiously, "Ever questioning my prowess!" I pointed at him again, and his nude chest sprouted a lovely pair of Double D's.
The class erupted in cheers and delighted applause. The two women who previously had been making out suddenly turned into anime characters in real life. They begin performing acrobatic feats of erotica.
I looked around at the class. The women wanted me. The men wanted to be me. I snapped my fingers, and all of the women's clothes disappeared.
I looked at the men, fully clothed around the room. "No," I disdainfully surmised, "This won't do."
I snapped my fingers again, and all the men turned into beautiful busty anime babes.
I put my sunglasses on.
"Now, that's better."
We had all the different types of sex.

the ending to a memoir about my time in Air Force basic

>>6225092
>>6225120
I like it. I don't think I could read a lot of it at once, but I like it

>>6224910
There is one word in particular that is problematic. We all know the saying, "repeat a word over and over again, it no longer sounds like an actual word" This word in particular is used so often, it has lost it's original meaning all together. Detached of it's origin, detached from the emotions that make words what they are, from it's overuse, it becomes meaningless. No longer does it have the flurry of emotional charge. It's Meaning is dead and we have killed it.

OP is a faggot.

1/3

>>6225925
2/3

>>6225928
3/3

have at it

Merl

The traffic in Seattle is never
good. One interstate is barely worth
mentioning. The other is constricted and falling
apart. At the end of the day I
wait for the bus, wait
on the bus for a seat to
open up, wait for my
stop, wait for the doors to open and the
wordless strangers ahead of me to debus.
I fill the time thinking about the
girl who I should have spoken to more, my
empty stomach, what to cook or go
out again to buy fast food
garbage, and the customer I
tried to help who hated me
anyway.

He has been waiting too, all the day
long. Hey boy. I'm glad to see
you. You hungry? Me too, me
too. I'll feed him then
myself and the big
beggar will ask me to
share and I can
not say no to his panting
goofy orange muzzle going to
grey. Afterward, he'll settle
down at my feet with a
groan for his aches and
haul his old bones
up to follow when I stand.

The day after tomorrow I will not be
greeted at the door. I will ride the bus
not as usual, think not of a
girl or food or any customer, and I will
not be waiting. There is no one to wait for.
There is no one who will be waiting at home
for me.

>>6225913

Not in this case, moron. Abandon ye unindividualistic memes

How strange it is that we hide in plain sight,
and chop up our harmonic breaths for a nickel,
passing knots of wood resonating 52-Hertz catcalls,
traversing weary webs without will, unfree
of some somatically grounded fixtures umbilically
stringing us together like post-church football games,
or the death of a Titanic personality, like God,
that we hope is just a mirrored-image in a fun-house.
So are we but ad hoc mannequins with dovetailed joints,
desperately vying for a personal fount of spellbound ichor,
that might slowly ossify into an suit of armor,
encrusted with the crests of our once cavernous hearts,
so that the Hoover of time sucks much less
and ceases blocking the raging river above our necks?

How strange it is that we hide in plain sight,
and chop up our harmonic breaths for a nickel,
passing knots of wood resonating 52-Hertz catcalls,
and traversing weary webs without will, unfree
of some somatically grounded fixtures umbilically
stringing us together like post-church football games,
or the death of a Titanic personality, like God,
that we really hope is just a mirrored-image in a fun-house.

Are we but ad hoc mannequins with dovetailed joints,
desperately vying for a personal fount of spellbound ichor,
that might slowly ossify into an suit of armor,
encrusted with the crests of our once cavernous hearts,
so that the Hoover of time sucks much less
and ceases blocking the raging river above our necks?

WATERFALL

waterfall will end
their Lives---
Captain only whispers
Good Night----
crew rest in peace,
Into Eternity-----

its a bit surreal, please don't be too harsh


The Sea Isn't Opaque Inside a Submarine


Tentacled foyers grope the
athlete's blues ridden rhythmless face,
covered in blankets sewn
from small-town facial hair, grown
by award winning trophy makers
for the Raiders, not the park
where crusaders grovel for
a ruined lost ark: a messy, meso
Mayan delight. (All prophecies are a
silly beverage, i.e. Sunny-D.) So sons of the
lightweight-less detergent, amidst
a mist of Googling gregarious gurgles,
stop at green lights just to shout–It's
the gargoyle! Now, hide the ribs from
snapping alligator gars, who beg not for
the begetting of aurora borealis, but
jamais vu: the ubiquitous nothing that is
visible; when everything unseen is,
eyes have you in their custody. So can
gloveless hands catch a home-
run ball, a glimpse of odd-numbered
feet and feats and wins? (If I knew,
I might answer.) The running,
weary King George III feels
tickled. (Ears bleed, my dear deer. So
smear the blood from the jet. Leer.)
Now he says without showing fear:
Hear, hear! Hear, here!
The silence
sieges epileptic seizing: the wriggling
nervous capillaries forged by burning
limelight. Seething piles of human-less meaning:
slimy slats of slizz. Has the grapevine told:
The Jabberwocky is on trial for identity
fraud? Ixnay, so I pack three nines to defend
my moat with more than lead. No, not
just with bullets–I lead them to Victor's
place. Then lead them to mine
disgrace, a forsaken space, and
ask: who forsook the big apple? Ay,
it is an addict of decay. (Thankfully,
though, I decide to mention nothing
regarding the cyanide in the seeds
at its very core.)

–so say the cephalopod

Blast! Crimini & Beluga:
I forgot my wallet in Naples!
That long-haired pipe-smoker
must have borrowed it.
I hope he saves it,
for me when I return.
But, half-a-year remains:
my cushion between now and then.
And so I must live outside
and make a pipe
to keep me company.

SANDPIT

sandpit won't begin
its Death---
Crew yells loudly
Awful Dawn----
captain roll in your grave,
Temporarily-----

>>6226143
woa our structure and content is almost exactly the same.

GOAT

NIGGERS!!
TRIGGERED NIGGERS!!
NIGGERS BIGGER!!
niggers

>>6225896

appreciate it, largely just me dicking around trying something new. It's only going to be a 5ish page story anyways, that was about the first page's worth

>>6226482
It's time to stop posting.

>>6226538

you literally just fueled the fire for him to shitpost more. you gave him attention. just like I'm doing to you, hypocritically.

It's time to stop posting.

The ikon was untouched but for the second figure; Christ who's face has been obliterated into a featureless oval of rough wood.
Flanked by angels in Greek finery; he stands robed in sea green and rust; one hand raised in an open-palmed supplicant's gesture
the other clutching the globus cruciger.

For a time I took in the faceless figure's bearing, and the solemn downturned faces of the angels, and wondered at the man who might have painted
such a thing; and again, at the man who would deface it.

I could not fathom the care of the former; who's imagination, and faith was committed to the ages; evident for as long as their work
should remain, in the severe, honest gazes of the angelic attendants.

But less could I ever touch upon the motive of the latter; the iconoclast, or the thoughtless vandal,
or the sufferer turned from faith; I could not know which.

The object itself was an artifact of two lives; now gone to the pale lands where lost things dwell in indistinct forms until they fade from living memory.
One, clearer; a shining hand, and a golden mind.
The other; a bare oval of scratched timber, and the merest suggestion of an angry impulse.

>>6226482
Now I know that I can rhyme the words trigger and nigger, I'm never going to stop doing it.

>>6226623
terrible; you; dont; know; how; semicolons; work


>>6226514
nice memeing anonymous legion!!

>>6226466
actually decent

>>6226674
no; apparently I don't.

Teach me if you can.

>>6226681

how does someone not know how something works and then proceed to use it that many times?

like are you fucking dumb

>>6226684
It's like a tic, really.

I don't put much thought into my punctuation, it's just what flows from out the hindbrain and seeps from the ends of my fingers.

But hey, shit like that's what editors are for.

I've generally always put more stock in the content of a piece rather than the presentation;
not to say I think my content is anything special.

(seriously, did I use that one right)

I'm also really bad at formatting paragraphs.

Blame a lack of formal education, if blame is your thing.

>>6226466
>>6226674

are you gonna samefag in this thread too?

>>6226701
>that's what editors are for
wow and you have no idea how publishing works either

>>6226709
Editor; noun.

One who edits.

You're a very helpful man anon, you must have many friends.

>>6225120
more like prose poetry...

>>6225925
ok stop dude. you have to think who is the narrator? the narrator sounds like a fucking cock-slave of your goddess.

>>6226731
lol you're going to need to step it up a hell of lot if you want to get anywhere with your writing. it reeks of a beginner who doesn't understand word definitions, has wrong punctuation, incorrect verb tenses, and a lot of try hard prose. you'll never make it past the slush pile to an editor.

>>6226765
Now, I'm gonna need some actual citations of mistakes, or I'm never gonna get any better.

And worse, I'll assume that you're talking out your ass.

>>6225871
>implying you're not long gone

If I said anything about it I'd say it sounds like you're trying too hard to be lyrical and reflective. Your effort is almost palpable, and 'good' writing should feel effortless.

What you've written is proficient and better than 99% of the stuff that gets posted but it's not perfect.

I think if you grounded it more in shorter, sharper sentences it might sound better. This is just an example, but your last phrase could be:

"I finished laughing a few minutes later, unclenched my fists, relaxed my muscles, and kept on walking."

That sentence isn't perfect either but I think it shows how what you've written is too much, and a similar effect can be accomplished with less.

It's a small critique, but that's my opinion. I'm retarded though.

>>6225871
>memoir about my time in air force basic
-_-

>>6225913
The phrase you're looking for is "Semantic Satiation"

>>6226776
"who's" should be "whose".
"he stands" is present tense, everything else is past tense.
"the former who's imagination ... their work" changes from singular to plural.
the tone is pretentious. write honestly in your own voice.
&c

if you want to be a writer, learn the craft. it takes work to become a good writer.

>>6226849
Thanks.

Took you long enough to deliver some actually useful criticism.

Some of us actually come here because we want to improve, rather than dump our shit and hope for praise, or prey on the insecurities of self-proclaimed writers.

Be quicker with the goods next time, I can't always be bothered to back for forth for four or five posts trying to squeeze out constructive commentary like the last smidge of toothpaste.

I wanna get high and fuck french models
pop bottles in foreign condos
like dennis rodman going full throttle overseas in north korea
thanks for the shoutout but i couldn’t hear it
they observing my whip but can't get near it
gold weight on my wrists just so i could steer it
so much loud i be hard of hearin
I can’t see straight, I’m always late, I’m high as fuck call me young thug
lead up in my shotgun, serve that nigga a slug
you don’t even know, call that shit escargot

>>6226881
i'm not an editor for free working on your timeline. you will need to figure out the basics on your own or take some classes or you will not make it as a writer.

>>6226922
Then why are you in the critique thread, if not to post your own work, and provide constructive criticism to others whilst awaiting it on your own?

Ah, right, to boost your flagging ego.

Carry on.

>>6226928
psh, i told you what to fix earlier. did you even go back to your piece to see where you might have made errors? i had to spoonfeed you.

i am not the one with the ego saying "that's for editors to fix".

>>6226941
Way to justify being an unhelpful dingus matey.

Anyhow; I got what I wanted outta you, and you've helpfully excused me from being grateful for it to boot.

>>6226958
help yourself boyo. people aren't going to spell everything out for you.
if you can't take criticism, writing is not a field to get into.

>>6226996
1. But you did, eventually.

2. I was actively asking you to criticise my work, properly and clearly.

3. too late.

>>6227005
there's much more that i didn't bother to comment on. find those errors yourself and fix them. you obviously posted a rough draft that you didn't bother to edit or revise. those are the skills that make a writer.

you're a beginner making beginner mistakes. i'll believe you're a writer if you're still writing two years from now.

'Mirror'!
'Yes, my highness'
'Higher will you; lest we decorate the heavens'
'My, my: a lion stalks the shadows of my sight. A fine animal enrobed, nay'
'Sir'?
'The tapestry'
'Truly, sir, a most ferocious beast'
'A garment for such regal furs, a kingdom crowned to - '
' - 't'were a diamond jewelled in sapphires, your highness'
'Creation's own purple prosed blemish'
'Truly, sir, enlightening to the eyes of all impoverished'
'Blinding; I dare say'
'You would duel the sun, dare I say my liege'
'And double done! - A mere shadow of flame compared to these Promethean fires'
'Our Lord would be proud'
'And so I am. Come tailor - between the pools of crimson sew wreaths of gold; cloak me a natural ruler, as the forest lord to all savage'
'But so you are, my lord'
'In province. But among all species of thrones must I march the mane from Eden's mud to similar shores: sailing with the stamped wax of industry, to pour the throat and gut 'till full no more'
'A revolution of kings, nay, sire'
'Most. Barbarians freed, to shackle, stuck'

>>6226701
>I don't put much thought into my punctuation,

You don't put much effort into your writing.

>>6226701
>(seriously, did I use that one right)
>right

Correctly.

>>6227798

The fuck is this gibberish? Am I being rused and this is some obscure 15th century potboiler, or did you actually sit down and think this up? If the latter, did you actually read it after you finished typing?

good thread so far boys
keep up the good work

>>6227815
Mate, I've left out both stage directions and script-names.

If you must know, it was not I that wrote this. It's an extract from a master's (arts) submission. The script itself was accepted with modifications.

>>6227916

What the fuck is "my highness" supposed to mean? Is it some clever clever tricky tricky I'm missing or is the author just retarded?

>>6227921
How the fuck should I know.

>>6226958
>>6226928
>>6226881
>goes on critique thread
>posts unpolished, amateurish, grammatically incorrect shit
>attacks those who CRITIQUE HIM ON A CRITIQUE THREAD
>ruins everything

could your attitude be any worse?
fucking insufferable cunt.

>>6227923

You posted the fucking thing, cunt. Is it too much to expect that you've read the fucker?

Anyway, My highness is wrong and the word liege is also misused. Whoever wrote this shit should stop trying to sound like they've read shakespeare and actually read some.

>>6227938
It's almost like their inappropriate use was on purpose!

The people change... Only their demons' heart stay the same, and I pick them like wildberries, and they burst and stain my clothes.

>>6228040
Demons stay...the heart people change: and they burst, and stain my clothes. I pick them like wild berries.

>>6226541
>can't unsee james joyce with an afro in this pic

>>6224910
Good album, OP. Ferraro is p cool

A single needlepoint of light punctures a tapestry of pure darkness and through the ragged wound a grid of buildings seeps through, or perhaps the inky black is drained away.

City in the early morning empty save for a captive mind observing it from the heavens, or a place far removed from the humble dimensions of the earth. Sunless illumination colors everything the dark blue of an alien world unbefitting of the mundane details revealed to the watcher. The light which wounded the darkness remains within the city now amongst an intersection; it pulses with pent energy and sends rays in all directions like a fallen astral god writhing on an unfamiliar plane unable to free itself. Just as soon as the city fills the watcher's view the light explodes like dammed water spilling forth upon road and sidewalk alike.

Stars let lose upon the earth raced across the streets in chaotic motion like that of a gangly double pendulum fanning out through familiar boulevards and tracing the curve of possibilities bound between nothingness and life. As it goes on though they retread the same paths and out of the jumbled trajectories a shape emerges at first as a blur and then something just barely recognizable from far up above. An image of a person across all times begins to form, but then the bounds are reached and a definite unchanging value is left in place of all encompassing epiphany. Farther above now and then still farther until finally the truth, that all things which have beginning and end will be swallowed up by the infinite, turns the image first into a point and then into nothing. Yet by observing this blank canvas the mind begins to recollect details from all places where it has been and might still go.

Remembered darkness filled the room that no waking eyes could see. Digital green glare shot diagonally across the bed emanating from an implied clock out of sight and out of mind. The blankets piled atop the bed were constrained by a memory of gravity or a different unseen force lurking far below like a hungry beast eager to devour those it had trapped in its reach. A hollow body lay suspended above the beast's abyss both crushed down by swaddling meant to protect it from a cold gone missing, and also falling deeper into an emptiness created by a child's understanding of permanence; what was not perceived did not exist.

Feebly the mind trapped within the human shell tried to animate its surroundings, but found that the memories of both movement and change had not returned. For now it was only able to twist and jerk like a beast within an iron jaw incapable of freeing itself and possessed by inhuman panic. Soundless voices begin to call out to it, but their speech is a mockery of language with no meaning behind it yet nostalgic like the voice of childhood before words described the world.

He awakens from the dream and savors the feeling of reality as though he had discovered water in a parched desert

MY NAME IS LAZARUS OF BETHANY

Most my death was spent peering
through the cracks in my tomb.
I liked the sleep. I liked the dark dust–
no, I did not care, or even ask to be raised
from the peace of death. Martha wept
as she removed my damp wrappings

of linen. Later, in the night, we burned my wrappings
and I could not stop peering
into the smoking fire pit. Still, my sisters wept.
They thought I was lost to the tomb.
We added branches, the fire raised,
and the flames smelt of fabric, and the dust

of death. In sleep, I still smelt dust;
In my dreams I was constricted by funeral wrappings.
In the morning, when I was again raised
from a kind of death, sleep, I faced the new sun peering,
covering my eyes against harsh light. The tomb
upon the hill had not yet been closed, where Jesus had wept

and pried me out. I too then wept
not for Jesus, or my sisters, but for boats of dust
built, scattered round river Lethe like floating tombs.
As I poked the ashes of my burned wrappings,
In the distance I spotted converted Jews peering;
kind souls who had not left for the Pharisees. I raised

my arms, and waved to them. Raised
from dead– the man for whom Jesus had wept–
Animated again, brought to life, spent peering
into the emptiness of death–the Kingdom of dust–
that had healed my rot– I can still smell those wrappings–
And how light burned my eyes from the darkness of the tomb–

Now, life is death again, and I sleep inside a tomb.
Resurrected every morning, yawning, raised–
blankets and furs removed like funeral wrappings
after chilled nights. When my sisters wept,
thinking I was rot, decaying bone, disintegrated dust;
they should have known that one day we will all be peering

towards nothing but funeral wrappings. Yes, they wept
over my tomb, amazed as I was raised;
I am sorry Martha, sorry Mary– it is into dust, and nothing, we are peering.

>>6228269
>peering

I thought that was peeing. It would improve the poem if it were.

I'm in you now:

Between;
between the hand -
land 'o tract -
between betweened fact,
(Jest a crack);
there you'll find it.
Folly
Between sense lacked,
between 'all that'
there you'll find it;
joy held back

A jolly field

'Land';
flesh 'o Earth
gripped,
between.
Palm, to another:
'All double seen'
and done.
That jolly field
we have won.

>>6228246
Could you get to the fucking story?

Your purple prose are nowhere near as good as you think they are. Stop trying to be profound, just tell us the fucking story.

>>6228220
Innit? My favourite of his. Inspired a few short stories.

>>6228303
Can someone explain this?

>>6228362
yeah it's shit

>>6228246
pretentious and tiring. develop your real voice.

>>6228362
>>6228303
an amateur writer's failed experiment

>>6228246
why do people write like this?

>>6228491

They think it sounds clever and literary.

the three men

When Lord Jesus was brought to this world,
'Tis said that three kings paid him a visit.
When these three men hath the curtain unfurl'd
That hid the newborn God, and the Holy Spirit;
The Lord gasped and cried and Mary consoled him,
And Joseph truly saw the visitors who'd arrived -
Kings they were not, but men, their shadows dim:
Three powerful men, with destiny intertwined,
Who'd lead the world to ruin when the time was right.

The first spoke, and a thundering voice he possessed,
Terror filled Judea, a terror never seen nor heard.
He praised Jesus with such a rage, intense yet suppressed;
That the Lord wept, and his Spirit was blurred.
He spoke of machines that carried the Lord's sign
And brought to his loyal flock unforgiving death,
He spoke of the Lord's ancestry, exalted and divine
And of poisonous air that robbed them of breath;
He spoke and spoke, his very words became death.

The second laughed, and in Jesus' face he spat,
He denied the divinity; and the Lord and Saviour,
"You are nothing but a poor crazy brat,"
He curtly said, "and you are doomed to failure."
Jesus looked at his garb, his hat a single Star held,
The Lord understood his corruption of the Light;
He was cold as the winter of his adopted land
And likewise, would never yield without a fight;
Even his kin fell and scattered 'fore his blight.

The third bowed, and saluted the Lord in deference,
"I was ever faithful to you and the Word," he said,
"I will vanquish your enemies, with perseverance."
The Lord was wary, he looked in his mind instead;
Saw Light that was Death and Death that was Fire.
The Lord screamed and wept blood from his eyes,
For there is not any crime which is higher
Than faith that breeds death; the world withers and dies
As the iron midwives of doom conquer the skies.


Mary wept and Joseph wept and Jesus lay there still;
The three men smiled, though their faces stayed grim:
The night was young, the Lord dead; and on a distant hill
Walked the shadows of three men, three long shadows dim.

>>6228898

I didn't read it but Jesus Christ, man.

>>6228246
Dude, stop

>>6226796
>trying too hard to be lyrical
I can see that, but a lot of the vernacular comes from other elements of the story, like my instructors or the Jodies we would call out during marches

>and reflective
That I'm not sure how to fix. Its a reflective moment. I'm coming to terms with a huge disappointment that shamed me in front of family and friends

I agree about the lady couple sentences needing to be condensed and i can definitely do that in other places too

Thanks for the feedback!

>>6226747
The narrator is a third person observer who is privy not just to the events of the story, but also the characters' thoughts and feelings. So the narrative tone changes based on who happens to be the protagonist. In this case it's only Athena, but in stories where there are multiple protagonists or MCs it isn't really that uncommon for the narrative tone to change based on who the narrator is "observing" at the moment. So the narrator isn't a cock slave of Athena, but rather it's elucidating Athena's thoughts to the reader

>>6225092
>>6225120
>>6226514

be honest guys. Is this even worth continuing? should I just move on? Should I just rewrite it as a poem or something?

Even as the rain falls on the streets
Inside you stay in comfort
Even as snow is covering the land
Inside a fire keeps you warm

>>6229559
Honestly I just don't get it.

He wasn’t sure where he was, and even less about how he got there. All he knew was that he was currently laying face-first on a musty stone floor, and that there was a spiked ball trying to burst out of his head...or at least that is what it felt like. He could feel his heart thrumming on his ears, and his head swell with each beat. To say he was having a headache was an understatement in every possible interpretation of the word.

He rested there, breathing deep and slow, waiting for his head to stop trying to kill him with pain, or hoping it would succeed faster. It took what felt like an eternity, but the ache eventually whittled away into something he could deal with. Groaning with every movement, he managed to prop himself up to a sitting position, focused on not letting the sudden bout of nausea to get the better of him.

“Goddamn, where the fuck am I?”

>>6229754
Kind of a cliche way to start but I like it. Throw in him blinking when the light first hits his eyes as well for good measure.

posted this in a poetry critique thread, but it's dead

Trying to write in interlocking rhymes, but I feel this imposes some pretentious voice. I feel like I'm *trying* to fit into trimeter and rhyme.
~
My strangers—lovers!—wake
to a new life bound here.
Forget all nights, all aches.

Wander the day: see, hear,
taste the bounty of blood!
For we are past our biers.

Years since rain—rivers, mud—
yet, foot tracks have remained
from old, remembered floods.

Woods in ruins. What pain?
But love that we believed
ended with ourselves stained.

Echo our love conceived
in private moments of
living searching. I’m here, see?

You, here. I’m again loved.
~
suggestions? I'm writing this for my forms class.

>>6229744

I think that answers my question then.

>>6229768
>Kind of a cliche way to start but I like it. Throw in him blinking when the light first hits his eyes as well for good measure.

Can't do.

There wont be any light in the story.

There should be four stanzas, but I'm having trouble with paragraph breaks. Help required across the board. Will repay with sentiment.


Middled ending

A cool quiet church
on the seabed
The wet, softblackness
in your chest
The small peace in an apricot

A clock at rest?
Or the serpent sin
to ever shed?
To never digest
lumps for eternal regurgitation.

Better to roam like land
under rainclouds
fatten and fall like wheat heads
vanish like a dot of spray
into that deep slow sea in the sky

Encircling you and me
its Prussian Blue eye
cleary sees
each and every street
Is a graveyard of homes

>>6229770
I don't really do poetry but when I try to read it the rhytm between the stanzas seems to change to much taking away the flow, you dig?

>>6229778
Now that just sounds edgy. The guy better be blind or imprisoned in some deep cell or something.

>>6229792

>The guy better be blind or imprisoned in some deep cell or something.

That would be telling now, would it?

>>6229789
I think I get what you're saying; that the rhythm is not consistent when shifting into another stanza. At the same time, I second guess my meaning, if only because it reads
>between the stanzas
which... has no rhythm, right?

>>6229809
Yes that's what i meant, sorry if i wasn't clear on that.
But like I said I really don't know much about poetry, so don't take this too seriously.

>>6229798
>a writer who doesn't want to tell his story

>>6229826
This is really helpful, thank you. I should probably diagram the stresses, but I just plain suck at it.

>>6229788
Don't know how to change that without rewriting it.

>>6229839
oh dear

>>6229899
I like it's imagery tho. Specially 'The small peace in an apricot'.

>mfw when I opened the thread and no-one critiqued my piece

>>6230002

I'll critique yours if you critique mine after. But first yours. Which one is it?

>>6230002
Which one?

>>6230018
>>6230020
The one titled Tiamat. I'll critique yours, thanks.

>>6224913
The 'sensei' irks me. Also the 'drunken urgency' bit. Everything before and after suggests a slow talker ('words slurred', 'muttering', etc.), nor does your writing style suggest urgency there. Makes it feel dissonant.

The wisdom he had gained watching the waves roll in ebbed away on the cold walk home. That sudden clarity lingered only long enough to breed hope that it might one day return. Looking out into the black as the surf sprayed the shore seemed to put things in perspective, but you're not yourself by the sea in the moonlight. Or at least, you're someone else at all other times.

Streetlights, satellite dishes, stop signs; they brought his other self back to the surface. The one who plays pretend. The one he had to live with. Nobody changes after a midnight stroll as far as he could tell, only in movies, books. It should be the easiest thing in the world to open the door and let everyone see, but there is always an easier way out. He turned the key, pushed the handle.

"Everything alright?"
"Yeah. You?"

burger messiah

land of lakes bake me cakes

burger messiah

>>6230060
Eh, you're right. Didn't notice it. Thanks!

>>6230065
Can't see anything wrong with it, but it feels bland. The imagery is nice, but conventional; the places feel a bit like a minimalist theatre backdrop; the protagonist is a mannequin without personality, and his reflections aren't that noteworthy. There's potential, kind of, but you gotta pick it up.

>>6224913

This sounded really shitty and overdone the first time I read it, but then I gave it another shot and it's actually not bad at all. The first sentence is just a bit overdone for, well, a first sentence.

>>6230169
Thanks mate, much appreciated and duly noted. Will critique if you post something.

>>6230201

I have, I just think in hindsight it's overdone and retarded shit. But you can look at it if you like.

>>6225092

>>6230209
Tell you what: I like it. But I also like Begotten, Bunuel, Noise and Glitch Art, which are all things that come to mind reading what you wrote. That a narrative exists, is undoubtable; if it can be unraveled, well, I don't know. I think I can, but i have several disadvantages working against me. One thing I shall tell you, nay, two. You know words and how to use them, like a painter uses his colors, maybe Kiefer or some other nutjob but a painter nonetheless; try to use this story, but alongside something else. You ever heard of Necrology? Look into it; what you wrote sould be used like Siratori writings, a dead, wifely body duct-taped to a screaming, insane but ultimately comprehensible narrative to be buried. Read Negarestani's essay, thinking with Nigredo. You could find it interesting.

>hurr durr show, don't tell

could someone explain what this advice means other than "git gud"?

>>6230267
Informed attributes. Instead of outright saying that a character is intelligent make him act and speak intelligent.

>>6230285
Okay so it doesn't mean instead of saying

>against the red walls

saying

>against these expansive, seemingly boundless panels overlaid with synthetic blood, the national colors of the Ruzuki corporation

It doesn't mean obscuring every description and approaching it in an necessarily circuitous way does it?

>>6230337
>It doesn't mean obscuring every description and approaching it in an necessarily circuitous way does it?

no. It means more like:

> he smelt tire burning.

instead of

> he smelt tire burning and thought about how it smelt just like his best friend's mother's underarms. He then thought about having sex.

Taken from the middle of my novella, r8 and I'll r8 back thanks ppl.

We are deep into pine country now, lost. The dawn-sun ripples through the trees in a cascade of lights, playing on the surface of my phone. Reflected, they burn the car orange-pink from the inside.
There is no Internet connection here. For now. I feel cut off, not human.
France’s driving with one hand, smoking. He’s down to his last pack. The others are sleeping with their headphones on, songs endlessly looping. I can’t sleep, in the daze we feel eternal and absolute.
-How you feel about some music?
-Huh?
-Music. I feel like listening to some. Do you?
-‘s okay. I don’t feel like much at all.
He grunts, rustling through the pile of junk beside him.
-Smoke. There’s some left in the bag, I’ll fix up the music.
I smoke. Ethereal guitars and feedback and strings well up around us, soothing, single notes melting into continuity and contemplation. France grins.
- Mid-day Meditation.
He says. I don’t get it.
-Sun Araw.
Snickering now. I take his phone and start playing with its camera. The lights are still following us. I turn off the Bluetooth radio-phone connection a couple of times, but manage to turn it on again.
Still messing around with the phones, his and mine, when we get to a village. France stops.
-I need to get my smokes.
We get out, the buildings and the road look like poorer traditional German hamlets replicas but the synthesis with dawn-haze and high renders them inwardly monastery-like.

everything is cold
which i could then say that it is because i am cold
but really everything is cold because it is all i can feel
or is it because all i feel is all that i am?
or maybe the cold is of an absence of heat
but too much heat would burn me, right?

>>6224913
>atavically

Wtf does this even mean? Google doesn't even recognize it.

>>6230426
Ancestrally, more or less. Atavic is that which pertains to a remote ancestor.

>>6230433

ur a fucking moron the word you're looking for is atavistic fuck urr dumb lmao

>>6230440
Eh, probably. Thanks for pointing it out. Made sense in my language.

>>6230447

no not probably there is no such word as atavic ayy lmao

>>6230483
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/atavic

http://www.treccani.it/vocabolario/atavico/

Here you go. In Italian, too.

>>6227930
It's amazing that days after I lost interest you are still mad.

And now, for something completely different...

This is a translation.

With that in mind, how well does it read?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MFf9e93fkbzTJkcPHdFZlfN7EyfvHcaVsdrlmUzpB3I/edit?usp=sharing

>>6229559
it's an interesting exercise but i wouldn't want to read any more of it.

>>6229788
your line breaks are incorrect. the first word of each line has emphasis.

>>6224913
overwritten, almost purple. also, you're telling not showing, denying the sensei his voice and his stories.

>>6230390
>a cascade of lights
>the synthesis with dawn-haze and high renders them inwardly monastery-like.
trying too hard to be poetic

>>6230515
that wasn't me just another person seeing through you.
here's another hint for you: your piece is thematically broken.

>>6230069
1/10 for effort

>>6230517
Okay, the story in itself looks fine and by that I mean an average teen-fantasy story. Might be good, night be bad. Don't know, it's not enough to judge this kind of stuff. Your prose errs on the purple-ish side, which I personally dislike, but it's appropriate to the genre I guess. Not redefining it but fine. But.

Simply put, your English is not good enough (I assume you're not a native speaker?), even though I really really don't want to say it (myself being Italian, I know that feeling). I suggest maybe trying to read some books from the genre in English, if you haven't already done so. Try to write directly in English. Avoid strange, unorthodox, complex words if the rest of the narration is plain: they don't fit. Keep trying, tho, you're gonna make it

>>6230586

No sweat, man.

That's the reason I'm asking in the first place.

>>6230590
Happy to see you're not taking it badly. If you've got something else and want a critique, feel free to post

>>6230549
I'm >>6224913 and >>6230390
I'd say you didn't get what I was aiming for, but if it isn't clear it's probably my fault. Thanks, I'll try to rewrite them to make their aim clearer.

>>6230422
Heh, kinda nice, generic, stinks a little of 2deep4u tumblr but that's not inherently bad. If it was included in a collection of early poems, it'll probably be among the minor ones. A few can appreciate it.

>>6230699
to care about generic-ism is fucking stupid
emotions are what im feeling and that is what came to mind as this is now

but yeah totally tumblr grill

>>6230422
yooooo haha this fuckin sucks my lad

>>6225925
Wtf is this shit? Percy Jackson. God damn... Kill yourself.

>>6230714
Get where you're coming from but still, it feels kinda generic, non-descript. It may be stupid to refer to generic-ness as a parameter of value, but it really doesn't appear to convey any specific emotion apart from hazy, vague sad synthesis between author and background.

If you were to cut off the last few lines, it'd be nicely epigrammatic tho. Reminds me of a few Greek/Roman flash poems I've read.

>>6226095
>>6226132
>>6226141

Shared some thoughts already, would love any commentary on these. I know they're not much, but any pointers on how to improve would be much appreciated

>>6226095
>>6226132
>>6226141

I know they're not much, but any pointers on how to improve would be much appreciated. Oh, and I've critiqued a few already

>>6230731
That's bullshit. Percy Jackson exists so now the Greek pantheon is forever untouchable? Also, Percy Jackson makes the Gods distant, unrelatable ccharacters when the most interesting part about Greek mythology is how human the Gods really are. Also I'm not touching that teenage demigod shit with a ten foot pole.

>>6225933
>the small of her back

Is there a bigger cliche?

>>6230777
Body parts are cliche now? Would you prefer i say "all the way down her back" ?

>>6226095
I'll preface saying that I'm not that erudite as far as poetry goes, so I'll just give my impressions. Hope they'll help. This one feels more like a word-dump than an actual reflection; as far as word-dumps go, this is quite a nice one: I like your imagery, in places, but it's at odds with the subject matter. Purple lyricism in front of the Great Other? Odd. If you were aiming for a scholarly madman, enraptured by the beauty of an absurd and doomed world, you did good tho.

>>6226141
This one I liked: the oddness of the first poem is coupled with a better (inasmuch as the subject matter is concerned) use of language. Strangely comfy, reminds me of some kind of hybrid between Absurdism and 20th Century Italian Poetry (yeah I know, but it's where I'm coming from. The namedropping helps). If I were to give you any advice, it'd be to keep writing these nice, small images; small in apparent scope, with an ample subtext (I may guess/imagine) and a smirking self-awareness. I'd quite like a collection of these, if it was to come out. Yer gud

>>6230787
i'd rather you suck a fatty you fucking idiot pussy

>>6230802
Oh /lit/, /b/ with less wit

>>6226466
Garbage often assorted tritely?

>>6230734
>>6230727
also note the picture please

but yeah recently ive just kind of lost the need to care for impressing people by avoiding being '2d4u' and just accepted that it will happen. I say stuff like that because ive thought of stuff like that, does that make me wrong? or am I evil? both of these questions will be yes and no until i find an answer that i wanted for each.

>>6230813
What am I seeing in the picture?

>>6226623
Hmm, I like the flow

>>6230813
word of advice: saying stuff like this and arguing that it's what people actually think typically works better in fiction, not poetry.

HERE R SOME BARS I JUSR WROTE LEANED UP ANDBKUSHED OUT FWI MY NIGS

DJ FAGGOT IS THE OG
STRAIFHR MEAN LEANIN IN THE OC
GAYBOIS SEE ME AND SAY "OH PEE"
CAUS THEY NO 2 WATCH THEY MOUTH ROUND ME

LEST A BITCH NIGGA CATCH A CAP (BLOCKA BLOCKA)
WHIP OUT DA GAT, SAY HELLO HAVE A CHAT
MAKE MY GAT ANGRY IT GON SNAP
BARK BARK BANG AND IT SPAT (SPAT)

DJ FAGGOT FUCKIN YO BIT
BOY OR GIRL, DICK O CLIT
BEND A NIGGA OVER NEVA QUIT
FUCK YO DADDY WHIL SUK MOMMY TIT

I MOVE BRICKS, SNOWBALLLA NIGGA
I MOVE CHICKS, HOEBALLA NIGGA
I MOVE DIX, FLOWSWALLA NIGGA
I SUCK CLITS, TOECURLLA NIGGA

UH FUCK WIT IT, COUNT UR A B C
WHEN A NIGGA ON THE BLACK THEY SEE ME
WHAS THAT NIGGA NAME THEY SAY
LIKE I SAID, DJ FAGOT IS THE OG

>>6230851
OI FAM

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

>>6230840
sorry homie didnt know it was a poetry, just read post anything and wanted to mumble
>>6230818
just admire it
get ur eyes in that half engaged state and look at it and feel what it feels

>>6230854
>GOT MORE WHITE DAN DA KKK
>AK IN DA PUSSY GOONG SPRAY SPRAY SPRAY

STRG8 FIRE MY NIGGA

>>6230867
YEAH BLUD HEAR DIS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sU66neLSfHQ

FRENCH NIGGAS GONE AND FUCKED UP

>>6230390
Hate to ask like this, but can anyone take a look at this? Been pretty active critiquing these last few hours, I'd appreciate it.

>>6226922
This coming from the guy who wrote purple prose about an apocalyptic wasteland. This guy's subject matter and his flow is a lot better than yours. Those are two things that put him hand and above you.

What do you fags make of things written in this style?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GDU6ns2mRM

I JUST THOUGHT UP SOME MORE HOT SHIT
HOL UP O FORGOT IT
WAIT
IGHT I REEBER IT NOW IT GO


AINT NUTTIN WRONG WIT FUGGIN A NIGGA
CAUSE WHEN U IN PRISON U MIGHT GOTTA NUT IN A NIGGA
SWEET SWEET LOVIN A NIGGA
WAIT LMAO JK IM NOT GAY IM JUST HAVIN FUN WIT A NIGGA (DEEEEJAYYYY FAGGOT)

>>6230892
You're confused dude. I didn't post the wasteland piece.
My criticisms are all correct.

>>6230898
DJ FAGGOT
REMEMBER IT MAGGOT

U HIT THEBREPLY
AND NOW U GON DIE
LESS U GIVE ME WEEDS SO I CAN GET HIGH
JK I DNRB DOBDURGA IM A REGULR GUY

WAIT THT WAS A LIE
IM CRRENTLY HIGH
INJECRED LIQUID HEROON RIGHTBIN MY EYE

>>6230897
>>6230908
YO BRUV YOUR SO GOOD
DROP THAT MIXTAPE BRUV

>>6228246
This is a great parody of terrible writing.

>>6230892

man your writing is shit and your attitude is even worse

like some part of me hopes you're a troll cuz no one can actually be that entitled and talentless but in the pit of my stomach I feel like you're just a bad writer and person

>>6230925

beat me to it

protip: never start with a beam/shaft/spire of light entering darkness or some shit

so cliche it hurts

Most amateur poets are either songwriters with no musical ability or writers with no concept of sentence structure. Feel free to prove me wrong.

>>6230986
No need, you're probably right.

-Any amateur poet with a shred of self-awareness

>>6230772
>not touching teenage demigod shit
>his story is literally College-age Titans. Also your character is a fucking Mary Sue

>>6230962
I didn't even post anything in this thread for review. Also I am William Gibson and my dad works at Thomas Pynchon

Please be kind It's my first piece and I'm just starting to write

I always looked at her in that special light
resisting erection is always an onerous task
So, I give in and follow suit
Grasping my member I begin the routine
I can feel my anus gasping for air
Its violent percussive rhythms fill the room
The patrons within are forcefully deported
I rub the excrement over my lily tinted skin
I am quickening
I release
With great efficiency I close the casket
I check /lit/ to see if people compliment my anime fan fiction piece

>>6231064
>please be kind
kindness wont make you a better writer.

line 1 is cliche
line 2 is fun change onerous
ok now the rest is stupid and heavy handed.

a poem

WATERFALL

waterfall will end
their Lives---
Captain only whispers
Good Night----
crew rest in peace,
Into Eternity-----

Ching Chong
I am China man
Ding Dong
I am china man
Small of penis, I lament
Ching Chong Ding Dong
I work to venerate my ancestors
All my life I have never pooped
My butt is so big
Brown like zip-loc bag filled with shit it is
All the day I smoke crack
The JIDF is on my back
With such vigor is resist the jew
Thou shalt not deface my being I declare
I take another hit
Such is life in ching chong china

>>6231101
>Into eternity
cliche, try something like "obscure arrival"

>>6231123
anything else?

>>6231127
It's about pirate right? I think you should try to be more overt about this and say things like "arrgh," or even better, say something like "I lost my parrot searching for ma buried treasure,"or better still, "Momma said life is like a buried treasure, you'll never know what kind of parrot you're gunna get." Just a few tips. : )

On a cold winter morning
In the time before the light
In flames of death's eternal reign
We ride towards the fight

When the darkness has fallen down
And the times are tough alright
The sound of evil laughter falls
Around the world tonight

Fighting hard, fighting on for the steel
Through the wastelands evermore
The scattered souls will feel the hell
Bodies wasted on the shores

On the blackest plains in Hell's domain
We watch them as they go
Through the fire and pain and once again we know!

So now we fly ever free
We're free before the thunderstorm
On towards the wilderness
Our quest carries on

Far beyond the sundown
Far beyond the moonlight
Deep inside our hearts and all our souls!

So far away we wait for the day
For the lives all so wasted and gone
We feel the pain of a lifetime lost in a thousand days
Through the fire and the flames we carry on!

>>6231172
Cliche, heavy handed, lacks any form of subtlety, I.E. the artistic equivalent of a pokemon card

There was one, then three. Three is above you, in you; four squares you, slaves you. Five only to break you free, peace!.

*sniff sniff*

A pleasant smell––sulfur,
sugary Shea buttered soap––
and a yummy-yum taste, for
the betrayal of our dope
enticed instincts (oh, bacon!),
are not, like the ideal marriage,
interdependent; they are
causally unrelated, like eating
midnight wax off the irresistible
skin of a woman above the sun;
no matter the scent's weight
or its place on the body,
your tongue will spit, recoil.
And never be ashamed
of marrying thoughts of
food and sex, because without
the constant occupation with
both, we wouldn't be here.
And for that we must thank
the ole olfactory receptors
that remind us not only of
roses and perfumed galas,
but to save room for manure
in our hopefully fertile lives.

>>6231194
U have just be fired and flamed my friend

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15JCb6P60Vw

He thinks it's gone but it's all in his head
Lost to twenty winters by that tyrant time
But brought forth by taste of tea and sweetened bread
Finds an old mem'ry before his new mind
So he'll search to find these treasures lost
To distill what was dead to turn sweet from old
While the act of pursuance pleases him most
His character, this action, it does mold
Produced by a taste, a feeling so blue
Remembrance of old gives way to anew

Just a small preface.

The dear, Brown Prince was dead. He had died at Nancy, by that stream called the Meurthe.
The dear Prince had died because he was struck -in the head- with boldness. What an unlucky fellow, and no sooner will he see the light of day again, than he will his own oldness. And now on the ground his golden fleece lay, with no one rightful left to hold it! His daughter could be of no reliance, barely out of her teens. Barely a duchess, and no princess, and certainly not a queen. So it was up to them to maintain the stability that had barely been forged by those bygone Dukes. And although not without quarrel, they'd forged quite the comradery, and that could not be rebuked. Those idyllic leaders whose power had teetered, and filled these Low Countries' with pride. But with their line now at an end on them they could no longer depend; this conclave which would not abide. It was now up to them to resent and resist this prospect of Imperial agency. For they had grown quite settled and used to these men, which were known as the Dukes of Burgundy.

>>6231078
I liked the "I can feel my anus gasping for air" line, it's evocative.

>>6231341

While I like the phrase "tyrant time," it's hard to gain a grasp of exactly what your poem is expressing other than a dance between memory and time; the whole piece feels much too prosaic and vague. I'd suggest striving for clarity and conceptual specificity.

>>6229297
read it you fgt please read

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sgw-Yrns9wOGIdMQqGBpVRv3Ub-enDvJZLRmpCKiVsQ/edit?usp=sharing

>>6231499
first of all, what?
you have the writing style of an 18 year old

>>6231337

Under the rain the sound of passing cars splits your ears, refracting and amplifying the sound of tyres sluicing water, making their headlights beam in all directions and blind pedestrians on the sidewalk. And the nightlight of the street gets the same treatment, everything glowing under water from the man-sized billboards on on Cornmarket, to the night-time neon of fast-food franchises, and above the dark of closed-down shop-windows the yellow, hearth-y warmth of upstairs living rooms trying to ignore crowds of drunken 10-pm-on-New-Years undergraduates, huddled underneath umbrellas around iPhone screens.

Oxford’s ancient buildings turk dark and shine when wet, but do not glow, the windows staying respectable and dim. Urban redevelopment does not touch Broad Street, and the walls of Balliol, of Trinity, of Exeter and Jesus give the city an austere architectural spine. The raised voices find no purchase to echo here, are instead absorbed into the stone as though so many New Years have passed by they no longer receive acknowledgement.

Lines are forming outside clubs already-full, where inside dancefloors are packed to welcome the changing of the decade, to celebrate 2009’s death on schedule, as expected, the promise of 2010, the wiping of the slate to clean, the promise that things can be different, that there is time, still, that We can have everything, that the world can be Ours, and that We all can start Our journey towards our dreams: after one more night, we can try again tomorrow.

YO I GOT SKME MLRE BARS AFTER THE WAKE AND BAKE INSPIRATION NAHM SAYN STRGHT FJRE NY NIGAS

YO, FUCK RED LOBSTER AND THEY BITCH ASS BISCUITS
I WOULDNT FEE DAT SHIT TO ANY ONE OF MY BITCHES
IF I WAS DYIN OF HUNGER AND I HAD THREE WISHES
ID USE ALL THREE TO MAKE RED LOBSTER SLEE WIT DA FISJES

YOU KNOW WHY? CUH FUCK RED LOBSTER(HUH)
MY NIGGA FUCK RED LOBSTER (YEEEEEEEAH)
FUCK RED LOBSTER (WHAT)
MY NIGGA FUCK RED LOBATER (DEEEJAAAYYYYY FAGGOOOT)

YO THIS BE THAT F-R-L ANTHEM
U R READY KNO WHAT IT MEAN
FUCK RED LOBSTER, AND THEM
UNGAY NIGGAS SICK OF PEEN

U KNOW WHY? CUH FUCKIN DUDES AINT GAY (HUH)
MY NIGGA FUCK A DUDE U STILL STRAI(YEEEEEEEAH)
SOMETIME U JIST GOTTA FUCK A NIGGA (WHAT)
CAUSE U GOT A BUST A NUT IN A NIGGA (DEEEJAAAAYYYY FAGGOOOOT)

YO
FRL ANTHEM
WE DA RELEST
U CANT FU W DA CREW
MY SQUA U NOM SAYIN? GANG SJITNOGGA WE STR8 FLEXIN AND FUCKIN EVRY WHICH WAY FWI FWI FRFR

The merry-go-round goes merrily round
and round
and round
and round
(ad infinitum)
until:

the conductor croaks.

>>6232563
GARBAGE NIGGA U PROLLY THINK THT SHIT CLVER WELL LEMME TEL U NIGGA IT AINT LMAO

>>6232169

I quite like Red Lobster. Of all those American chain restaurants it's the only one that doesn't make me feel sad if someone suggests it.

Chilis is the worst. I'm never going to one of those places again.

yo yo yo word.

>>6231041
>College-age Titans
>Titans
now I know you have no idea what you're talking about

>>6229775
Well shit man I liked it

>>6230772
not that guy but demigods at summer camp is only half a step away from demoted goddess in a college dorm

>>6230422
>>6230813
you aren't wrong or evil but i don't think you have created a successful poem. all i get is a small bit of philosophical musing. it feels like you are trying to say something but you are hiding behind generalities. your poem would be stronger if it was concrete and specific.
if you took the photo, it is stronger than the poem. i don't think the poem adds anything to the photo.

>>6232949
let me try again (dropping trip)
Nothing is new anymore, and we are dead because we have wanted to be.
I had not asked for it but I had not an opinion
am I dissapointed? or am i joyus?
It is much easier to say i am both because to choose would be to have an opinion
"With all things good comes something bad"
"Thats a pretty sad way of thought, and if you feel that way im sorry"
but i chose to fall in love with that
do I disconnect and lie to myself?
or would I then have an opinion?
maybe this pondering is an opinion
Im sure if i think long enough I will be right and wrong both times over
opposed to a coin flip I have chosen it to be as much as the other
I had not asked for it to almost be
I had asked for it to be as I wanted it.

felt forced but i hope its an improvement

Like trying to keep an umbrella dry. Or stopping the wind from blowing, or shining a flashlight at the sun. Every single day of my existence is as futile as the latter. Every single waking moment being plagued by a burning hopelessness. Every second of time that flows, every grain of sand that falls, every petal carried away by benevolent storms exist indifferent to me. It is something of a pleasant pain, never being happy and all. I do not have "down" days, because there are never any "up" days. I am never asked how I feel; Sorrow is distinct. I do not have to worry about why I am not happy or why I am sad, because I already know. This depression is vivid. It is potent, palpable, maybe pertinent if you consider a black-hole of a being relevant in any situation. I have not always been this way, though. I remember being happy as a child, a pleasant little ant hill under the scorching sun. Everything was bright and spontaneous to me. Life had this compelling flow, and memories were made by the second. Now I am a massive mountain of inadequate dirt and rock, and the lovely sun is flickering; Life does not flow anymore, it drags its feet. The kind of memories we crave are now an infrequent serendipity to my mind. I am dour. I stink of pity and disenchantment.

It might smell like grapes sharpened to a point,
It might be a skin irritant and fire hazard
It makes my eyes water,
And I think abusing it fell out of fashion in the 50s.
But it's ether, damnit!
And a chain link fence and one storage locker,
keys held by a Pakistani graduate student,
popular for her cooking though she may be,
isn't going to stop me from burying my face in clear liquid,
and salivating while I watch the sunset.

>>6234565
I'll try and be constructive, prefacing that I do not personally like this genre/way of writing.

The main issue of your piece is that it isn't compelling. I felt interest towards four or five lines, but as a whole it just drags on. You have a few compelling images (the dualogy hill/mountain, for example, or the black-hole) you can build on, and the subject matter can be spun to interesting angles (is he awe-struck at the distance he feels at the world? some kind of Anti-Cartesian, absurd weltanschauung?), but as it is it feels cliched and kinda generic, without the drive for readers to keep going.

As I said, you have the writing chops, I feel, and a few glimmers of nice idea. Work on them!

I'd appreciate a critique too >>6230390

I think I found a way to make fantasy boring by writing what is basically a monster manual entry in the form of a wikipedia article

http://pastebin.com/ENMbd0R8

>>6234611
You know, I reallt can't get the aim of this one. What are you trying to say? Is it just you musing over ether and scenes you saw/imagined?

It oddly feels like something written by a scholar of modernism after reading a couple of Beats poems. Oddly charming, but the novelty could wear off quickly and I feel the style can be done better, maybe with a longer piece; add an underlying macro-narrative, maybe a few more characters, and it could become some kind of meteoric prosimetric lyrical bastard between Eliot and GInsberg.

>>6234646
You haven't read The Lambshead Tackery Pocket Guide to Eccentric & Discredited Diseases, or the SCP Archives. It can be done, and fairly well at it. Your attempt is barebones, but if you were to add some kind of spin/gimmick it may become nice.

As stated otherwhere, I'm >>6230390 Any critique would be appreciated

>>6234565
Its kind of embarrassing honestly. Did you write this while listening to Linkin Park? Is this actually how sorry you feel for yourself?

>tfw I can create nice flow and imagery
>I hate writing poetry
>I have no life experiences
>cannot write about anything with confidence, love, business, politics, death. Nothing
>don't even think I can write convincing dialogue because I hardly ever talk to people
>all I can write is sad-sack Kafka-type shit where I whine through some sort of stand-in me.

>>6234663
thanks for the feedback. I was wondering if you could maybe give me an idea of how to create this kind of "gimmick"

your sample is interesting. it seems sort of like narrative poetry rather than what I would consider a conventional novel. The last few bits of dialogue, starting with "-smoke" kind of lose any sense of reality though. The writing makes me feel lightheaded if that makes any sense

>>6234697
That feel

>>6234698
Thanks for the feedback too, and for pointing out the issues with the dialogue. I'm of the same opinion, but can't find a replacement.

Talking about "gimmicks": I'd say they are mainly a meta-narrative device (for example, if you were writing a medical guide, the concept of faux-medical categorization and the role of the entry itself into the narrative).
These kind of meta-narrative inevitably "spills" into the writing itself, creating a definite style; if you want to be cheeky, you can then play the with the conventions you created, averting their tropes and cliches.
If you want advice on creating one, think about why an article like that should exist. Frame it. If you write a number of them, create an underlying, meta-narrative. Are they weekly articles written for a new-weird Victorian London, to help its denizens defend themselves against fiends and monsters? Then have other articles come up every now and then, interfacing with the "main" articles in some fashion. Maybe your book is some kind of faux-true crime research written in an alternate universe, about a monstrous crime-spree that sundered the city years ago...
Possibilities are endless.

>>6234777
I wrote it like a wikipedia article, but I was thinking of making it more an article from the fantasy equivalent of some pop science magazine

>>6234806
Yeah, that's what I mean. Give it a context, and the context will give your writing shape. Then maybe, if you feel like it, add stuff around (and beneath) the edges.

>>6234673
It's an excerpt, bub. It does not accurately depict or even represent my disposition.

>>6234936
who you calling bub, bud?

>>6234565
i this is a dead end. people being angsty is only interesting to themselves.

>>6234990
Now I'm going to go listen to the Black Mass Sonata.

>>6235326

GOOD CHOICE, THOUGH HIS 10TH SONATA IS ALSO GREAT

...He wrote a similar line every spring. Right after he ecpected the snow to melt but still, it was there two weeks later. This aspect he did not think much of. He did, though, think of the significance of the coming spring.

'A new beginning', almost. He still felt the same but he thought differently. This time of year when the geese started arriving, he thought only of new occurences, new life.

Winter was always a difficult time for him. It wasn't the cold weather or snow, it was the lack of social interaction, or at least in his mind. In his mind winter meant a constant longing. Of what he desired varied. Never being able to tell what it was that was actually wanted or what was just vanity. Maybe it was the lack of sunlight. Maybe the lack of warmness, or, perhaps, everything altogether.

Every year when he saw those birds he would think of all the places they've been, all of the life they've lived. And each year he knew he could not match with the birds feat. If those same birds ever had days of boredom. If they could, an animal, what does that mean of a man? Of mans boredom and lack of interest? He would find him thinking these thoughts daily.

The winter was a time of denial. Happy to feel, he took advantage of the self-isolation with small self-victories. This often ended with arrogance as well as an equal amount of shame. He had theories of where this shame came from but he did not like thinking about it for very long. But still he thought about it constantly, albeit against his best well-being.


I wrote this drunk as shit, I haven't written in a few years, it's all shit, I know.

>>6235326
>>6235338
>implying No. 5 isn't his best

>>6235427
>Implying his symphonies aren't his masterpieces.

>>6235427

YES BUT THAT IS NOT THE ONE I CAN PLAY ON PIANO. HENCE IT IS THROUGH THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVISM, IN MY WORLD, THE WORST ONE, AND THE BLACK MASS AND SON. 10 ARE HIS BEST. MUH REAL

>>6235429

SCRIABIN IS THE BEST PIANESQUE COMPOSER WHO EVER LIVED. TO NOT DROOL PRECUM AT THE THOUGHT OF HIS SONATAS IS CHILDISH

>>6234697
Holy shit

Looking in the mirror it is me.
There is no doubt. The red hair and freckles frightening paled skin – oh it is me no doubt – but that nose has grown a bit smaller. Pointed like the talon between two beaked eyes. And that mouth; is it perhaps a bit too taught. (Oh How waxed my flesh – and my bearded feathers plucked, save a silver wick here or there!) Flightless and fat on this flat Earth; but it is my image, lord. In that mirror. In the image of all wicked sin, My lord? No doubt, My Lord; furies’ brotherhood mated. I’ll say my penance and ask for your forgiveness, My lord.
Amen.

>>6234697
>don't even think I can write convincing dialogue because I hardly ever talk to people
You could talk to yourself? That's how I became good at dialogue

>>6235764
Sounds try-hard imho

This thread needs more critiquing.

>>6235775
You've gone all purple at my prose, tbth.

>>6235791
it is 2015 my friend, that style of writing is hardly applicable to anything but tryhard.

My advise is to
>get real

>>6235803
Wealthed rych lest perish tryeth.

>>6235809

>>6231818
Not bad. I feel a title would be beneficial to let the reader in on what they're reading, instead of basically feeling themselves around in the dark, until the last part/sentences, so to speak. With a short piece like that you can't afford with being vague if you just reveal it at the end anyway. Takes a lot away from it I think.

>>6235764

Read this to yourself. Would you pick up and read a book in this format? The answer is probably no. Keep that in mind.

>>6235399
>what's this weird rambling about?

see
>I wrote this drunk as shit
oh well, that explains it

>>6236539
I'll be sure to write without myself in mind next time. Thanks.

>>6237240

Does that mean that you would actually read a book with that type of writing? I think you need to read more

>>6237258
Of course I wouldn't you vapid kvetch; writing for the general expression of one's form suspends the necessity of the subordinate end.

Have you actually bothered to read what was written?

>>6235764
Unsuccessful. Develop your real voice instead of this faux flowery patische.

"Fuck"
That's all Varun could think. He was out, he thought, where he wanted. He was amidst the sea on his boat. He was away from the trivialities that had tormented him his entire life. He, finally, had taken absolute and total control of his life. He had seized himself and bought a boat and sailed aimlessly into the sea.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck"
This time he vocalized it. He felt petulant. He felt childish. His whole life he fancied himself a Thoreau, a simple man with profound thoughts who merely wanted to live by his pond and write poems. His boat was his Walden. He had idealized it since he was a child. He had craved, ached for the sea. Dreamt of it even. But now, as he lay here, with unimaginable lengths of blue stretching out before him, he felt like a child. Stewing in his own petulance

"Fuck" he repeated

>>6237311
That's the point of it though.

>>6237276

I did, and as >>6237311 just put it very nicely, it feels like a plastic baggie filled with 19th century imitation crab.

>>6237328
"Looking in the mirror it is me"
It's impossible to be 'unsuccessful', because it's already 'achieved' what it is.

>>6237322
Congratulations on being bad then I guess. I suggest you rethink your entire approach.

>>6237377
How can you miss the point this hard.

>listening to Scriameme

>>6228246
Lmao NIGGA you are not Virginia Woolf calm your shit down brun. Put the thesaurus away, and try to write something with feeling.

>>6237276
>writing for the general expression of one's form suspends the necessity of the subordinate end.
what?

>>6237383
So you are trying to be terrible?

>>6237419
What do you mean by terrible?

>>6237422
There's a difference between flowery and over the top.

>>6237437
You've done nothing but reformulate the word 'terrible' in the voice of commonly accepted standard.

Who reads the line "Looking in the mirror it is me"?

>>6237445
I don't know hat you're looking for man. All the response to your piece has been negative. If you can't take your lumps, don't post in critique threads.

>>6237445
Feel free to explain what you're going for because it clearly isn't working for us.

>>6237450
I'm waiting for someone to recognize the stupidity of criticising a piece that purposefully uses 'terrible art', flowery prose, for the reflection of such an oxymoronic expression. Read the first line literally.

All in all, it's really just one massive way of pointing out - as we all know - that these threads are far more concerned with the effervescent style than what is said.

>>6237315
Very brief. Feels rushed. Flesh it out

>tfw wish you could write but haven't since hs
>tfw only confident enough to post this homemade image

>>6237484
Oh god, what a monster. I'll never create anything

>>6237467
most of the pieces posted here are by beginners who don't know when they go too far. ok so you're being purposefully terrible, as i asked, but the rest of the posters aren't. i was trying to help a supposed beginner with criticism and we have all wasted our time.
shrug.mobi
i'm making pancakes with sausages between posts so at least i'll have a good breakfast since this is done.

Train days

rolling through a sea of urban grey
A dull landscape
Punctuated by blue white and green
And occasionally my own face
Ghostlike, reflected back at me
Ugh! How ghastly!
I attempt a grimace
And worry the person next to me
This train is making me
See through myself.

An automated recording
Is narrating my life
Scattered voices
Are the foreground to my thoughts
Punjabi and phones
The soundtrack to
These traindays;
They're here again.

The drone of diesel
The waft of fried chips
Burger king
on the train from Oxford
Cornish pasty
on the journey back
Loud pricks on phones
And the drink aided craic
Of the beginning of
A girls night out

So I'm sitting here thinking upon
Train days,
Im back at last
Endless travel for immaterial gain
The clink of glass
That sudden smile
That familiar grasp
Worth the miles.

I think ill travel
on these trains
Until the end of my days
Their arterial purpose
Keeping me sane
Or at least until
I learn to drive
Lelid

>>6237668
What's "Lelid"?

>>6237467

>m-m-muh I'm doing it on purpose

you're doing it on purposely terribly

>>6237414

he's trying to finagle into an answer that makes him look smart, considering how retarded his writing is.

> but it's meant to be bad!

yeah right, that's why you put it in context and say "this is meant to be bad" in the original post huh!

Part 1

Transmissions starting, transmissions beginning, the beginning of transmissions. News borrowed from the weather, snow-loaded clouds. Signals start swinging, followed by gusts of wind that slam the antennas on the corrugated steel roof. Our listeners' radios are already turned on, illuminating the shady living rooms, giving shape to frames on shelves, with they indistinguishable paintings. Despite the scratchy sound, someone has to listen us. They will. The cliffs that divide us from you, our loved ones, will not prevent you to hear us. We put on some music, chosen carefully, in the hope that everyone, but especially the youngsters, is satisfied. there's a particular order, even though the disks they choose theirselves. We can warm up our voice without producing noise. Wait a little longer. Snow sticks to our window glasses twice as thick than yours. It covers us as if we were one of its nocturnal laments, exasperated by the idea that it could wake up. the temperature of our facility is unreal, snow's sweating during its sleep. it's too hot; our lukewarm reality, which wraps its bare feet between the sheets it could lose it. our wintery god can be temperamental at times. ......................................................................................... ......................................................................................... ................A child still has to turn on his radio.................. ......................................................................................... We could record our voices and play them indefinitely, perhaps we are already doing it.No. You could hear the tape runs. There's no deception. Don't listen to us anymore, wait forever. We are procastinating. (you may wonder why we use the majestic plural. Too boring you say? You're right, we are not the TV). Jets flying over the Mountain Radio, or Wired Mountain, or simply over the mountain since the mountain was there way before the radio. They cross the speed of sound, The Mach 1, entering the supersonic regime. At the exact moment of penetration of the sound barrier, the Jet is in the transonic regime, since the point of maximum speed is outside of the mass. The result is a sudden cloud that disappears immediately.

I returned from work to find her in the same position in which I left her. She lay on her side, her knees tucked into her chest like a small child, hugging them closely. At first I thought that she slept, that her long hours of staring into the face of the small animal had sent her into a dream. But she was awake, and when she heard me push the ajar door further open her eyes flicked to me and she smiled and motioned that I should stay quiet. I placed my bag on the floor and crept to the bed, kneeling beside it.
“He is dreaming,” she said, her words short, excited, as a child seeing their first Christmas. What excitement she found in the twitching of its paw! Her eyes were wide and captivated by the little creature, its small pads flicking slightly and its agape jaw gently closing and opening, letting out little whimpers and yelps. Was he dreaming? Elisabeth found the act convincing, imagining him running in parks and picking up sticks, as he would when awake, in his head. But I did not find myself captivated. I sat and watched, curious but not awed by his little form twitching in his sleep.
“What do you think he is dreaming about?” Her voice was low, just above a whisper, and when I met her gaze I remained silent and smiled. I told her I was going to get undressed, and left her in the living room, curled up beside the dog.

>>6238006
Part 2

The sonic booms are 3 and they're broadcast live since our microphones work great. Loud noises are quite similar from a distance, and you can get confused: Maybe they weren't aircrafts. The idea of the radio is to talk without being interrupted. There's no phone, no green lines, a space for calls, nothing. Arguing is harsh; If you're not satisfied, just turn it off. Talks are being built day by day, but it's sometimes difficult to remember yesterday's topics; They are stoked in piles similar to a disturbance, such as AM frequencies that let express spirits talking through oriental quarter tones, evil sitars that badly melt with whistles and pillow cryings. Words are slow and still not coming: someone has placed the microphone near the window, curious to know the effect on our listeners, but he will never know since we don't have a phone. Tempers swing on the same tones of sleepy impatience. "why do we have an editing office if no one writes anything?!?" (this comment was fortunately not heard). No one write because nothing has even been written, they're all focused on something else, they watch their hands, pour water from bottles to the jug, from the jug to the glasses, and from the glasses back to the jug: it seems that anyone ever drinks this water: the color, or the lack of it, looks faded from the friction. A disc gets rid of tension and comes forward, requested from the other side of the antennas. The repeaters caught this wish casually. "In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you're mine all of the time We're together in dreams, in dreams " Not just the religious love of the requester unravels in a dreamlike dimension; the entire station, with a burst of imagination, spiralizes in a dream. Fireflies describe circuits with their own light inside the station's eyelids, exactly like human ones but made of steel. A profusion of blankes comes down from the top of the mountain, with small earthenwares star-spangled with cold. Trasmissions are over.

>>6238006
>>6238039
how high are you?

>>6238038
>as a child seeing their first Christmas
a bit cliché, but I like the rest

Thanks. Yeah hadn't realised it was that cliche but ons econd reading, yeesh. How about this litttle snippit?

They stand and watch the water break against the rocks. She calls it beautiful and her hand tightens in his and he is uncomfortable with the ocean spray on his face making his glassy misty. He looks down and smiles with his shirt damp and the wind blowing on it making him cold. He sees her kaleidoscope face through the spots of water on his glasses and he calls it beautiful too.

>>6238191
>She calls it beautiful and her hand tightens in his and he is uncomfortable
the second "and" here feels a bit odd, I would replace it somehow

>and he calls it beautiful too.
same here

>He sees her kaleidoscope face
is it what now? :)

>>6238144
why?

>>6238250
because it's rambling and disjointed

When I was thirteen or maybe fourteen years old, my parents took me and my sister camping to France. The campsite was at the atlantic coast, besides the largest dune in all Europe, a mountain of sand by the sea. We slept in a trailer that had cabin doors that rattled irritatingly when I masturbated at night. On the spot next to ours, a bunch of german skinheads had struck up their tents and they listened to songs the locals didn't understand and my parents didn't pay attention to and drank what were, to my younger self, ridiculous amounts of beer. I had just taken the turn from a loser kid with a crooked foot, to a loser kid with a crooked foot and weird obsessions, as my godfather's birthday gift, a biography of Che Guevara, had turned me into a passionate, if theoretically ignorant, communist. Those skins, they were the enemy, and I watched them with impotent disgust as they drank, and laughed and sung along to raw, aggressive tunes and kissed their girls, they had girls, not quite as pretty as the skins were ugly, but still, girls.

One evening my mom took me for a walk uo the dune to watch the sunset, just the two of us. The sand was alive with people facing the sea, one group flew a model plane like I had never seen before; it had a jet engine and flew faster than my eyes could track it. We sat down somewhere, there was a family with a girl my age, maybe 10 meters ahead of us, also sitting. Between us, a huge spider, huge by cental european standards at least, ran over the sand. My mkther said something to me, I don't knkw what it was, skmething affectionate an utterly embarrassing that no one else, especially not the girl, could possibly have heard. Still, I was embarrassed, so I ignored whatever it was she said, and instead made dispassionate reamrks about the size and speed of that spider. My mom said with a tone of utmost indignation, that apparently, girls my own age were more interesting and important to me than my own mother.

That night I dreamt that I was walking the dune alone, with nobody near and the sand stretching out endlessly. And as I traced gigantic footsteps that strechted to two horizons, I knew that my mother had died.

>>6235771
Yeah but I just have one personality and its shitty. I cannot act like a manic pixie dream-girl for instance.

In the rolling hills of southern Tuva a young man polishes the battered keys of milky red accordion, pale moon reflecting in his fat and chunky glasses. 'Fat and chunky,' he says, 'just like my old woman'. The thought of his beloved's blubbering weight makes him hard. His groin presses against the supple leather of his trusty accordion - that old friend accordion. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. With a baritone frog-like grunt he mounts the instrument. If a lone farmer had walked through these usually quiet fields, taking a late night stroll to ease his tired mind, he would have heard the iridescent, fluctuating sounds of an accordion being fucked and remarked 'wow, sounds like someone's getting the wind fucked out of them,' not knowing of course that it was literally true. The accordion player played his instrument, if you know what I mean, all over the deflated and glistening windbag laying on the grass, making it sparkle like the milky gods above. He bent down and whispered 'ayy lmao'.

Serious critique only please, this is post-modern

I expanded on that cryptozoology thing from last night

http://pastebin.com/NDzV99qN

Now Is The Time To “castrate” Not Only The Old Jupiterian World, But Also Ourselves; Only By “castrating” Ourselves The Sexless & Genderless New World Will Arise —our Virginity Is The Precondition For The New World; The Virgin World.

We Are Already Experiencing The Turning Toward Ultimate Symmetry; Exemplum Gratia: At The Larger Scale, As Globalization Increases, Globalism Becomes Thicker, And Internationalism Increases, Which Consequently Provides A More Conducive Spatial Condition For The Increase Of Globalization.

The Nodes In The System Increase Their Mutual Coherence; Analogues Become Mutually Reconciliated, Homologues Are Fully Optimized, Thus Organic Symmetry Rises —systemic Coherence, And Organic Symmetry; Internal Relation, And External Relation, Are Directly Proportional.

The Process Of Globalization Is The Process Of Kosmic Revolution & Reshaping Of The Jupiterian Plane, Gradually, Into The Global Toroid Sphere Of Saturn.

Globalization Is The Prime Motive Force For The New World, Globalism Is The System Of Networks Which Links It All, And Internationalism Is The Reconciliating Principle Which Organizes And Synthesizes The Semantic Whole.

There Is No World As Such Before The Fulfillment Of The Worldspirit; Before It, One Can Only Talk Of Several Worlds, Or Of A Multiplicity Of Worlds; It Is Only After The Fulfilling & Advent Of The Worldspirit That One Can Talk Of A World; The Singularity Synthesized From The Multiplicity That Constitutes The Residue Of Saturn's/Kronos' “fall” —“the Dregs Of The Earth” Or “the Kosmic Breadcrumbs”.

The Purification & Sublation Necessitated By The Turning From The Plains Of Jupiter Toward The Globe Of Saturn Will Be Performed Not By Earth, Nor By Fire, Nor By Water, But By Air —the Aquarian Air Of The Universal Androgyne.

>>6239014
transfer to a STEM field

>>6239151
sounds like someone can't get laid

>>6238963
get an entry level job so you can make some money and talk to people and afford to do things

>>6239064
the only interesting part is the Maati myth

>>6238897
>I knew that my mother had died
too melodramatic

>>6234697

pssst your flow and imagery is shit

>>6239451
I started rewriting the article taking cues from some old D&D books I downloaded. Maybe this would be interesting?

http://pastebin.com/QdbNEnqz

>>6239587
maybe i'm not the best person to crit. i'm very character and prose oriented.

>>6239484
no, yours is

>>6239451
I have a job, it does nothing for my social life. This is some pretty normalfag-tier "advice"

I remember when, before the show, the company, us
Were enclosed in a circle, massaging each other’s backs
You were behind me, your hands like wings, your face is glass
My muscles only more tense, my sinews adjust

I wish you could envelope me
Like Atlas, hold up my heavy head
Lead me to the side of the bed
And hold my sorry sides sentimentally

And then when the curtains raised you take to the stage
The limelight beaming down on you from heaven
Seven pages in, the script says you say you love me, I reply page eleven
From the script to the dressing room to the walk home follows the love, the shame

Like the performer you are, scene five, you give me those come-to-bed eyes
And later that’s what I think of when I come in my bed, disgusting
I’m sour sixteen at this time and I’m not used to feeling this way but I’m adjusting
And when you slip into my dreams and I slip into awareness I’m praying to the sunrise

Exit stage left – when you walked away and I was too empty to act I had to start corpsing
Sorry

>>6239451
>too melodramatic
For clarifation, it wasn't supposed to mean that she had in fact died, just that it was a known fact in the dream.

we need a board called /4/ or /3/ only for shitposting

What a piece of work! Teeth splayed, fluttering uselessly! At the complete mercy of the wind! A conceit long since affirmed still lingering on the ends its fibres.
Repulsive.
Wool saturated thick with detest and self-loathing.
What a contradiction!

Faced with this ugliness my arms hang tender? What is there here to bask in? Confused, I sedate in strange contentedness.The coat continues to stare at me with contempt but my eyes are vacant.

Incandescent syllables of rayful sun, reaching for cupboards in kitchens small. Within the dark enclosures, little pieces of silver lie. Elongated, sharpened, made for cutting and stabbing. A great deal of violence in there. But, Soft! What words through yonder poem aches! A vibration in the window's frame, a poising, a revealing, a clearing up of skyey cobwebs, a rending up of clouds with simple light, a suffusion of pinks, a turning to purple, a final agreement of red before the spark of the pupil vanish. The eyelid falls, the reach of rays to cupboards slacken, recede and falter to a final slinking grasp that slips from window sills.

A flame appears, simple and solitary, lone in the room, a pretender to ceiling gods. Hurried movement stir it to action, a clinking round of metal tools, grabbed in bundles, daintily distributed. Perfection is required!

Glasses stand tall, bottles--like towers! Fanfares of cutlery, procession of plates, heroic measures of wine flow through the course of the evening's meal.

>>6239880
>we need a board called /4/ or /3/ only for shitposting
You'd fit right in.