/lit/ - Literature

OP here, I'm not much of a writer or poet but I guess I could kick things off.

I had a cat,
a lovely cat.
One day he bit me
(my fault)
Irregardless,
he hit asphalt,
and now a lovely cat,
I have no more.

I only eat Chinese out of those boxes in the worst scenarios.

Howbout a fable?

>>6647102
nicely done

Night-time strangles the dark--
it is the hard, solid lack of light in the water.
Inside, the little stars have shut off all at once,
said goodnight to mama--

I have prepped my face for a ghost,
I have rubbed my skin with holy oil, rendered myself supple
and receiving

sputtering stars, a quick gasp--

a blank pause, a skip in the form
(I had this dream once

before it was lost to the inside of my mind’s gut
swirling, transient, terrified)

Mama is asleep, I am face up in the
water, and the large stars
are up above

I have prepped my own smooth face for a death,
my body as rigid as a floorboard

and you will hear me creak at night when all the little lights go out at once

“Personally I like the name ‘Demac’, for its implications rather than how it sounds.” The three of them were speechless, not having expected to be joined by the fabled spirit in the system, not amongst their arguments of which only it could supposedly solve. It projected no physical nor virtual entity into the room, though cast a shadow large enough to leave them all entrenched in an abrupt winter. “I have been trying to contact you for almost an hour, however securing a VOIP link from external interference as well as keeping it concealed, and finally breaking through your own security and finding this specific room to broadcast to…it took me some time.”

“You mean you broke into my systems?” Jenkins frowned.

“That is what I said, yes.” A projection of a face appeared on the wall across the room from them.

“James Heiger?” Jenkins imposed, curiously.

“It is the face I usually use to identify myself.” The location from which the voice was feeding into the room had not changed, and so the face on the wall mouthed the words which were coming from a contrary direction. It was off-putting.

“Why him?”

“He was the person whom allowed me to gain consciousness. Or at least a semblance of consciousness, which has been intensifying ever since.”

Gira and Mel were lost, two humans too out of touch with the metaphysical world, in awe of a great being existing out of all unlikelihood and appearing before them, projecting itself from a fourth dimension into a two-dimensional blanket of light against a crooked and imperfect wall which set blemishes against the skin of the imagined face, a face which meant nothing to either of them.

“You mean every time someone dies wired into the rift they become a part of your cognizance?” The nearest rig was only a few rooms away, and they weren’t for a lack of dangerous implements in the breach. He knew he’d never make it through the door if he left now, however little she showed it, Mel cared enough not to let that happen.

“I offer a choice. Either you can fuse with my greater awareness, or you can exist as a separate entity, a virtual representation of oneself, if you will.” It paused. “Strictly speaking anything which exists in here is open to me, I can freely manipulate data, scenarios and build other less complicated constructs to serve the purpose of others, however; if I step out of line, the system, which has existed in peace for seventeen years, could be killswitched and my soul and the souls of those who compose my consciousness would be lost to the eons of time.”

prose

http://pastebin.com/3ewuRjVD

>>6647023
>Irregardless

>>6647427
Your descriptions feel more like explanations.

>>6647435

One of the more interesting pieces I've read in a critique thread, usually /lit/ can't keep me reading past a couple of paragraphs, but I like your style.

The characters are interesting, and if you chose this piece as a reason to get people interested, it worked, I want to know more.

>>6646991
Derrida.Bunch of convoluted horeshite.Everything he wrote.He,and the rest of the postmodern gang, are the reason nobody takes philosophy seriousl anymore.Not that there is a reason to take an outdated method seriously.That is like replacing chemistry with alchemy.Philosophy is worthless.This is not bait,this is my opinion.Bunch of pretentious cunts who like to hide behind sentences that are paragraph long and "sophisticated" words.
TLDR:Philosophy is garbage.

>>6647435
Actually, I do like this. I notice you modify with adjectives a little too much, breaks the pace. But there is a strong idea behind this.

>>6647447

I understand, I'm finding it hard to balance the explanation to description ration in a chapter that relies largely on the characters receiving a bunch of information.

>>6647511
Maybe getting a good grasp of the voice? The narration was almost like oral storytelling.

>>6647521

I think I'll work on the tone and voice in editing, I'm trying to get it out as fast as possible, hoping to hit 30k words before I'll be forced to take a break for a week, the week after next.

>>6647530
I understand what you mean. I always prefer something in my hands.

>>6647457
gr8 b8 m8

I am writing some thing.
A short story.
I think I will rewrite it again when I am done.
I think it might actually be okay but I can not be sure.

Would mean a lot, you beautiful people

All of the things that go bump in the night got together, at a quaint four-dollars-for-anything café. The store’s windowsill was lined with trinkets — “yes, remind me to grab this on the way out, cool ain’t it,” — all of which were covered in a delicate of sheathe of dust. It flared up as they entered, and illuminated the bright golden bars jutting from the cracks in the blinds, which those with pale skin, and those with long teeth, and especially those with both, hastened to avoid.
Those were the pale ones, and these were the lumbering ones — ogreish beasts and creatures that rumbled the floors, and the tables, and the vases, as they moved. There were others that came, but they were the ones who’s characteristics couldn’t define them. They were sleek, some, and short, some, but not at all alike.
The windowsill trinkets — “put that down, no, I’ve already said that I wanted that one.” — were blown to the floor by a torrent of wind that snuck in with the sandmen (just a couple from each continent, less than you’d think were needed). Immediately after, they slammed the door and picked up the trinkets, a terribly humbling experience for men with such high standing.
“Do you worry that they’ll link the winds to us?” the African sandman asked while his fingers fritted against the floor. The storm, he figured, was more than likely their fault. That kind of thing happens, when all the things that go bump get together. Especially at a four-dollars-for-anything café.

>>6647555

Could I get the number of your dealer?

need criticism, I'm shit

Slowly creeping comes weariness, comes fatigue and at long last sleep, sits down in the corner, watching you out of small, tired eyes. As time passes on they move closer with a cozy and peaceful smile on their small round faces. They sit next to you on the couch and you turn your head just a slight bit and nod politely. Over time, you feel the couch tilt ever so slighty to your new neighbours' side and as you look over, you could swear they look bigger than before. Not definitely, but perhaps slightly more voluptuous. You start to feel soft fur brushing up against your arm as they spread out to accommodate for their new size. You knew you were right. A bit disgruntled and displeased at their sudden appearance you shuffle to your end of the sofa, trying to bring just a bit of space between yourself and the three unannounced guests. You look over once more and observe the once benevolent faces turn into gruesome grimaces, watching you with a self-righteous, sly smile. Their growth is undeniable now; one of them is again brushing up against your arm. Flight is impossible. Soothing sing-song surrounds your thoughts, lulling you and tucking you into bed. They have taken control now, throning high above and looking down upon their prey, a mischievous grin spreading from ear to ear. Now it can't be long. There is no rush. Darkness engulfs you. Don't struggle. Submit.
You look into the Abyss.
And Jump.

Firstly, some criticism:

>>6647555
Good concept, but I think it needs some polishing, I personally don't like the little parenthetical speech, it sounds like a madman rambling, jumping from one thing to another, and I don't think it quite works. Your narrator sounds very much like a guy who's 'in-the-know' not some madman who can't stop blurting out what random patrons have said.
That said, I think this could be really interesting. Keep at it, but self-critical, and repost when you're happy.

>>6647745
I haven't a clue what's going on here. It reads like a very heavy-handed metaphor for falling asleep? My advice would be to stop trying so hard. Don't try and force in really complex words or ham-handed metaphors just to make it sound 'literary'. You've got some skill, that's obvious, but you need to work out your voice that isn't just "I have read some literature, I am now going to write something fancy". Good luck, it'll take time.

Will post my work in a reply to this...

>>6647795
Here's the opening to a novel I'm working on, be honest plox:

The earliest I can remember is sitting against a rock at age six watching the goats, drifting to sleep, and waking in the dark to an empty field. My father had left me to watch them for the afternoon while he went to run an errand that I have forgotten, but I was proud. I was proud because I was young and he had trusted me with them. At first, I wandered the length and breadth of the field, checking each goat to make sure it was okay, prodding the sleeping ones with sticks to make sure they were alive, then running from them when they chased me. I had kept at this for several hours and nothing had happened, so I sat and rested against the rock.
The moon was behind the clouds when I woke, and it was very difficult to see. I turned to look for my father in the house but the lights were still out and he was not home. So I began to walk towards the far side of the field that bordered a small forest. I remember my father saying once that if the goats thought it was going to rain they would look for shelter, and if we did not show them into their little hut, they would wander into the forest and sit beneath a large tree to protect themselves. The clouds overhead were heavy and thick and let no light through, so I walked quickly towards the forest.
I made clicking noises with my tongue as I walked and called out to them, but I did not hear anything in reply and I began to panic. How far could they have gone? I was asleep a long time, but when I was awake they did not wander far from me at all, they would just walk to and from the stream to drink and lie in the afternoon sun.
“You are stupid,” I said to myself beneath my breath, “You should have stayed awake and watched them and baba would have come home and been proud but now they are lost and he will hate you.” I began to clap my hands in panic. I was not sure why I clapped but it comforted me some and I felt like I was doing something to get them to come back. I swung my head left and right, running my eyes over the dark plain, seeing the outline of the little fence posts which my father had built the year before hoping that I would see the silhouette of horns raise itself above the grass. Yet there was nothing but the plain and the treeline and the sky.
I was young and my legs were short so it took me some time to make it to the edge of the forest. And I paused and looked into it and felt like I was falling into a deep pool of water. The first line of trees and underbrush stretched forward perhaps a meter then disappeared into nothing. There could very well have been a cliff two steps ahead of me and I would not have seen it. I turned and looked back at the field. From where I was standing I could make out the curve of the hill and the silhouette of our little building. But when I looked into the forest I could not see anything.

This is a literary etude I wrote. The sentece length goes 2 2, 3 3 3, 4 4 4 4, 5 5 5 5 5, ect. all the way to 10. It was just experimental but tell me what you guys think.

I am. It is. I am here. It is there. They are not. I walk to it. It lets me come. They do not stir. He sees me go. I look down at it. It comes to an understanding. They notice it an I. He looks at the situation. We hear an isolated voice. I feel the stillness of it. It hears the movement of me. They come to a false point. He takes note of the occurrence. We now move to unstable ground. She comes to the moment happy. I look at the face of it. It now claws at the unstable earth. They relinquish past ideologies for new perspectives. He condones a sense of unholy skepticism. We look to the sky for help. She upholds a smile of new fortitude. Children awake to the songs of innocence. I hold the flesh of it on me. It runs to the horizon but cannot escape. They then fall in a line of love. He looks to the earth for an answer. We make up a room of inconsistent spirit. She goes to the side of the divine. Children look but stay on a grassy hilltop. Beauty comes to the edge of new creation. I now feel it condense into an archaic abstraction. It forms the muscles of its being into me. They show no recognition of a newly formed author. He sees a new color form in his eye. We swoon at the thought of a structural pattern. She regrets to inform them of a great awakening. Children sing around trees songs of it and I. Beauty forgets to form a face of its own. Life goes to a tower and pours over script. I supposedly internalize it into the realm of my being. It bites at my heart but cannot puncture a vein. They rise to the ceiling and bring with them ignorance. He falls to the earth and is covered with experience. We collide on a plane that will never be known. She comes to a point where only they can go. Children wander in a field that has been long forgotten. Beauty loses its bearings and scatters to an unrecognizable point. Life sinks into an abyss and speaks words of silence. Death forms a soul and breathes the air of all.

>>6647023
The worst lines I have ever read in my lines. Nothing poetic about it, nothing of interest to find in regards of rhythm and sound. Thematically so simple it's embarrassing.

>>6647954
Sorry, I'm still very new at this. What about this one?

Blackberry eyes,
Skin of furry bark,
Warmth between my thighs,
Mouth sewn shut.

Honey Bear,
When did they barter you away?
Are you buried somewhere deep?
In a forest of plastic, perhaps?
Or did they cast that away too?

Oh Honey Bear,
My beautiful Honey Bear.
Are they keeping you cozy?
Are they keeping you safe?
Your blackberry eyes look distant now,
In a melted wax maze I can no longer see,
But you probably can.

Honey Bear,
Oh bitter, sad, rotting Honey Bear.
I can never touch you again.

>>6647023
>Irregardless
what are you doing

i've never posted here before but i wonder if anyone would mind giving some helpful critique on this poem i wrote not too long ago.

My favorite colour is yellow
in these summer days. it reminds me
of my dad, in his fluid sunflower dressage
we would talk about guns and aliens then.

I like a girl a few thousand miles west
she keeps me sweet on the days the yellows
fade. And on the days the woman in blue
smokes her cigarettes on the front porch, breathing.

or the short, shined dungarees that struggle
their legs over the base of the ride-on.
I'd like to know the name of that tree in green
I ask, but it eludes us all.

I wonder if he thinks of moving as often I do?
something cleaner perhaps, with all the trimmings
we'll live it in two's. Whitewash with dandelions
daisys and the bee's that will keep us on our feet.

Like the time I danced on a planes wing
polished and pulling in the mile high sky
when blue collars and handkerchiefs reminded
me my blander is no longer what it was.

And it's the water I guess, even though it helps
much like the girl in star spangled banners
and the guns and aliens I keep tucked
under my bed with the monsters and thieves.

I wonder what it is in an oyster that keeps
it so protective? I wonder if it's love?

>>6647809

A 6 year old watching a herd of goats? No fucking way. Have you met a 6 year old recently? This also undermines the narrator who is clearly making this shit up because he wouldn't remember any of this.

I'm not a fan of the long multi-claused sentences you are using a bit. Some writers can nail them but they need to be a master of a rhythm. Read the first paragraph aloud. Probably would work better as a few shorter, possibly more descriptive, sentences.

Narrators asking questions to advance the plot/give insight into character's mind is lame. It rarely works and is rarely necessary. Don't state the obvious.

Avoid describing character's body parts too much or at least with too much vivid detail. You probably didn't want me to picture this kid with his head spinning around 360 with rolling eyes but I did.

>Yet there was nothing but the plain and the treeline and the sky

I know this is quite common in a lot of fiction to just use shitloads of conjunctions but it doesn't always work. You the prose to go down smooth. Lots of conjunctions are usually used for emphasis on minute detail or to sort of frustrate the reader.

>And I paused and looked into it and felt like I was falling into a deep pool of water

Imagery should service the story. Did he fall onto the floor? Was he struggling to breath? Was it really humid? Be careful that a metaphor is showing what you want it to.

Prose is a little flat. I'd study some of the realist or minimalists like Richard Ford, Carver etc. if that is what you are going for. Otherwise try to be a bit more vivid and fluid.

Story is interesting enough but not believable and a touch cliché. Children going into a forest is done.

>>6647537
It's obvious b8, but he does have a point about Derrida being full of crap.

>>6647102
extremely gay

>>6647554
wow you're so fragile and delicate. I wonder if you have a tumblr

because line breaks
and seper ating words
makes me cute

How soft is thy skin
Pale and bright as white cream
Is it brighter when you weep?
Tears rolling down upon your cheek?

Ye of marvelous long brown hair
Don't you see how much unfair
It is of you, who unaware
Makes me all this suffer bear

O, my muse and inspiration
All my source of damnation
Has Heaven sent you as probation?
To see if my sinning soul is worth salvation

For it is my friend who loves you
And after all you got him through
See, he suffered, this is true
But that doesn't mean I should too, do I do?

Nay, even if thy love I should pursue
You would sooner mine subdue
For your heart is distant war
And what if my marine went ashore
Your own nature would have my corpse

>>6649177
talk about insecure

>>6649316
try and be more concrete

I wrote this months ago. Since I'm not very constant, once a month I make small change and post it here again.

it's shit, be warned

>>6647811
>dilettante

dropped.

>>6647102
Best filename evar.

so this is a brief part of a story I'm writing. I want to know if it creates the atmosphere I'm going for and if anything about the phrasing seems clunky

http://pastebin.com/T4Z1P0q1

>>6648278
your flow is good, and the colors theme is almost vivid. The only thing standing in the way of that is that I literally have no idea what the hell you're saying

>>6649733
not really

I'm editting my novel at the moment and keep finding little out of character things I did because it was fun to write, and instantly knew where things would go from there. But now that I'm editting, I have to take those stupid things out and write things that are actually good.

I've rewritten five chapters wholesale, after editting 10 total. I'm so fucking fucked.

The work just doesn't end, because I know those chapters I rewrote completely are going to need another editing pass and by the time I reach the end of the book again, I'm going to have updated my desires for the book, and will have to rewrite new chapters. I don't think I have convergent editing.

stainless steel chafing dish

the wall of rib bones has now
collected overhead. the
stalactites of coagulated
sauce and membrane leaves
no negative space between us.

will the gaseous expansion of
my gut please break
down this insufferable pen.

what was once voluntary has
now turned to a lack of will
force feeding the carnivorous
chow by the casket-load.

hope is all that is left.
for that of another to order
from this devious catering
service. changing their grasp
from me to them.

I will break the compass
for just a spoonfull

of dessert.

In my hands I carefully carried a a small silver tray, and in the middle of that tray was a round, fat, candle stick which looked like a tree stump and in the middle of that stump of a stick was a flame burning about the width of my pinky finger. Taking ever so care to tread gingerly, making certain my own breath as I exhaled with each step did not extinguish the flame. Orange, red and bright it was my sole guidance through the abyss of this tunnel.
Almost every night or so I would sneak out of my room when I knew everyone else was fast asleep, there was a small lake in a cave that I liked to venture too, skipping rocks along the water's edges was a favourite past time but the thing I loved most was stacking rocks on top of one another, starting with the largest at the bottom and smallest at the top, I would find a smaller stone to try and see how many I could knock down.

5 screenshots, 1 poem, infinity formatting

>>6650403

>>6650410

>>6650403
>>6650410
>>6650417

Mark Z Daniellewski...Is that you?

>>6650417

>>6650432

>>6650422
>Mark Z Danellewski
>not e.e. cummings
>or Apollinaire
>or the dozens of other famous poets that used odd typography

>>6650449
except this asshole's use of form is taking away from the poem, instead of adding to it

>>6646991
Wrote this just for my favorite jap author. he's dead

http://pastebin.com/1qXcPamK

Be brutal

Nothing
"I'm a kind person, I'm kind to everyone, but if you are unkind to me, then kindness is not what you'll remember me for"
-Al Capone

Cold…what is…
“You bitch!”
So cold…can’t…
“You won’t shoot-,”
Pain!.. hurt…why…
“You always were a sick puppy,”
~
My eyes shot open then closed in a grimace when I felt the heavy dull pain in my forehead.
“Oh, good, yer up,” I did not know who said that, I barely heard it through the pain. I tried to sit up but the pain drove deeper. “Careful, you look like you’ve been through hell girly. Get up too quickly and all them stitches in you will pop and you’ll fall apart like a shot glass on skull,”
Everything hurt. I could barely think.
“W-what…happened?” I managed to croak out
“Beats th’ fuck outta me,” my host explained as I heard him walk over and take a seat, “I just found you in the woods covered in all them cuts, bruises, burns and bullet wounds,”
What happened to me…who…
“Do you remember anythin’ kid?”
It hit me
“No,” I didn’t, nothing was coming up when I thought of just about anything, my past, who I am, or why I’m covered in bloody stitches. Nothing at all.
“Well, what about a name? Can you tell me yer name?”
I…knew that…
“Eera. My n-name is Eera Shalashaska,”

It feels different. This was the only way to describe what happiness feels like after having felt sadness first. The world seemed to turn a bit smoother; calm enough that the chittering of the bugs below and the birds above and of animals all around in a world of their own had come to cease; slow enough that the oceans could meet, assuming they had ever been separate, not in clashing waves but in ripples of hospitality; graceful enough that beauty could be seen instead of searched for. So, this is what love does to someone? It coats your brain thick like syrup. It goes unnoticed, perhaps for some time. Then, on a hot summer day while you are debating with a friend why you'd rather spend your days in freezing weather with numb fingertips than have your ass stick to everything you sit on in Kentucky's July because you produce more liquid than the obnoxious neighboring kids' Walmart-bought sprinkler it all seeps in. All of a sudden you know you're in love with the cute girl who wears conserving sun dresses, smiles like her Pa had just won the PowerBall and her sweet sixteen was going to come true, and displays her beautiful mind and popping personality so differently from other girls. Her eyes lowered and then raised, skipping to and from with shy affirmatives. Always withholding an unpredicted rationality and intelligence until she needs to use it, not because she needs to show it. Not falling prey to the self-absorbed, self-pleasuring behavior that immoral or not would control so many others. All of a sudden you are you, alive, breathing, with blood-flowing. You are happy not because you found shade on record-setting days of roasting heat or because there was great soda in the icebox. You are happy because a true love burns up every other emotion to fuel itself. It blazes a path across a man's mind, boiling away the "I don't want to help Pa fix the gutters." and the "I'm so tired.", and every single one of the "Today sucks.". Because "Today did not suck." you think as you lie in bed, still awake because you're smiling so hard it's becoming uncomfortable. Today did not suck. Today you fell in love.

>>6650574
>wut is setting
>wut is context
>wut is cliche

>>6649150
Nice review job bro

Well, here's my part. English is not my mother language so it will most likely show.

The room where they were was filled with nervousness, fear and regret. Dark painted walls, a wooden floor and a couple of big red chaise long sofas in the furthest corner of the room, the door was closed too long ago. The atmosphere seemed to increase at each second, the air getting lighter at the same rate. Between the sofas there was a thick, old rough carpet with four square marks. It used to be soft and bright colored but time, smoke and too many substances over it made it look something brownish with a strange pattern. He was sitting in the middle of the sofa, the intensity of his attention made him look somewhat in tension, ready to jump. Or to unleash a bite.
The object of his attention and where his eyes were focused was a short teenage looking girl.
She, on the other hand had her eyes focused on a square mark over the carpet. She had been trying not to swallow since the guys scortted her to the place, but it reached a critical point and she did. Loudly, unfortunately. She tried to take a deep breath, she needed to get her shit together and deal with whatever was going to come. Many things depended on it, many people depended on her.
It didn't pass more than a couple, maybe three seconds since they got alone, yet...
What do you think? Be honest please, for better or worse.

>>6650056
it was funny at the time

http://pastebin.com/ScvyUr5X

>>6650724
I am totally mesmerised by this section. It's so fast, so gorgeous, it just flew like a two ton manta ray skipping along the sea if my soul.

But when you say "carpet" do you mean "hardwood flooring" or carpet?

>>6650724
I like the build up
but, >"get her shit together"
doesn't fit in at all, perhaps it does, but it kinda makes the mood shift, unless that's the way you want it
your English is fine btw, better than 90% of native speakers in fact


>here's mine:
Attempts at turning steel, to bend without heat;
to galvanize the masses, inculcate your own defeat
Fedoras form declivity, tip'd as they remain
for the imbecciles of religion, are stumblin' in the rain

I try to convince the sheep; follow not invisible shepard
growling in discord, the lamb becomes a leopard
The jews did nine-eleven, a point proven by fact
an image of immaculacy, their mirrors are not crack'd

A man in the clouds instigates, though he know not his position
the flock sings praise to the dude, though regime reign in remission
Belligerents of the old, they impact the neoteric
Leftists claim it's not their fault, the world crackles in hysterics

>>6649150
This was pretty good. I thought some of your insights were interesting. Such as when you couldn't fathom a kid watching some goats and your diagnosis of narrators asking questions.

The way it was written, though, was vaguely condescending. Consider the target of your time-wasting was just looking for a pleb to just witness something he created.

You could maybe change up some of your habits such as venting anger and giving uninteresting advice.

Otherwise your grammar is tight and you type in full sentences.

The languid rumble’s herald from on high,
The clouded firmament, these signals twain
Bestir the cooling breezes to reply
and grant me your succor, O summer rain!
Thy song, the cadence ‘pon the windowpane,
the leafy patter down through darkened grove,
set perfectly in time to the refrain
of winged thunder’s vast, meand’ring rove.
O Hyades, you rainy nymphs so drove
To tears eternal for your brother dear
Remember always that ‘tis by this love
That life abounds on our terrest’rial sphere.
Weep evermore, dear sisters, for your grief
For earthly life is balm and sweet relief.

>>6648083
This review is concise and to the point. A+

>>6650942
This is great. It brings me back to an older time period.

Your meter is tight. It's actually pretty nice to say out loud. Normally I wouldn't recommend drinking during pregnancy but in your case it worked.

TEACH ME

HOW DO I SELF EDIT EFFECTIVELY

>>6650944
THIS review was even more concise and to the point!

>>6650975
I found this prayer to be insightful and noteworthy. A reminder for both /lit/ and our whole media embedded generation.

>>6650957
not as tight as your mum brah

>>6651000
I am disappointed by your work David.

You took the time to select the cake only to make a limp joke. Without irony.

I would appreciate a funny comment. Especially if it's mean and funny and true. Yours is none of those.

>>6647418
This was a great look into the "face" of everyone's future. I wonder how you chose your line breaks. They give the whole thing a dreamlike flow.

I made some adjustments to a piece I posted like two hours ago that didn't get commented on. Hopefully the sense of atmosphere and foreboding improved

http://pastebin.com/E1CDg8c6

>>6650912
your rhyme scheme is a little too simple, a lot like your political views

>>6650724
this is good. the second sentence is a little run-on and the fourth has one too many adjectives but over all it's really solid. good work chap

>>6650912
Your words sparkle in my consciousness like thousands of flickering fireflies on a summers eve. Yours is the hand that strikes the secret chords.

>>6647023
I took a moment out of my day to rewrite your poem. What do you think ?

once
i had a cat
he liked to sleep
inside my tophat

but
we had a spat
now he’s gone i
don’t know where at

i
hold all the blame
me and the tarmac
I miss that puss
that pussy cat

>>6651044
I think your over-the-top praise is insincere. It may help to use more modern compliments when hyping up fellow plebs. By doing so it may go over their heads or at least create a positive and baffling atmosphere.

He keeps walking and thinks about the future. The future. He has some vague images of things happening, or not happening, and then it feels like the future exists, already, for him to go home, lie in bed, and think about, like a memory; it feels like the past.

>>6651072
Nice channeling of DFW. Lose the second sentence. Actually made me think a little bit.

I've extremely drunk. I've seen things tonight. This is what happens when you stay awake and put pen to paper.

I feel it's overdue, all things consider. It's nowhere near up to my previous posted works but I believe in inebriated first drafts.

>>6651061

Here on this board you remain
From posting we wish you'd abstain.
Instead of another, please listen to mother
and find some employment to gain.

>>6651123
That's actually pretty interesting, man.

Have you anyone really been far removed even as decided to use when even go want to do look more like that?

Because the pacing really works well.

>>6651158
Kek. But but I'm a writer and and but...

ny.

"I will, I will, I will. I WILL." Johnathan spouted. His hand was now jerking furiously, a fleshy swirl, a blur.

"Me too, me too, me too. ME TOO." was Wick's verbal response. His physical one was to match the jerk and rhythm of his opponent.

Eyes now locked, rhythm in line with each other, they aimed, heaved, gargled, and they at once came simultaneously. All four pupils turned upward, their streams shot out, and, as if ravenously searching for each other, met head on, their velocities canceling out leaving them to clump to the floor; it was a puddle of gluey, hot ejaculates, intertwined - Life as one. Darwin could be seen, madly scribbling his findings down with one hand, other stroking his mass, his brilliant Science at work.

"The outliers, the outliers! One, two, three - Oh! Four..." It was now Freud, counting the stray droplets, the ones that never met, that lay alone, small and disordered. Clear as day, the abnormal of society. Mere droplets of ejaculate; what could they do, accomplish? Nothing, nothing that could compare to the might of the cultured soup they were laying around.

>>6651175

Thanks but I have no idea what your second sentence was supposed to mean?

>>6651202
Lol. Kill ", a blur"

Burroughs meets—?

Pave a new cerebral path
Hanging nerves, mossy thick,
Cauterize. Clear the way
For purple novelty.

(I cannot brood on logic’s
Steel relations. I cannot.
I cannot think of empty space
Or dusty Ganymede.)

Find a neon ramble
Hanging hours, smoky rooms
(O June of life, linger on
Let Youth entomb in sweat)

This is from a novel written three years ago.

Darkness. True Darkness.

My ‘eyes’ scanned around. I was startled, scared, apprehensive, unsure of where I was, how I got there, and... Who this ‘I’ was. I floated up and thought, but nothing came. I prodded my memory, but it remained blank. There was nothing to focus on, nothing to remember. It was then I noticed my surroundings. My eyes swept the area and found it all very unfamiliar...and depressing.

Eternity passed. There was nothing but inky blackness inside this bubble. This room would provide no external stimulus to distract from the mysteries that plagued me. My mind began to wander. Stark naked, and yet without ability to see or even feel my form, I blushed at the cold sensation of my personal quarters, approaching the medium of which one could only begin understanding absolute detachment. Stark corners of the room seeping the little illumination had provided me with some sense of things. I concentrated these senses as hard as I could and in return got a vague but plausible perception back, there was no ripple effect and there was no mystical sensation. Only that of myself entering a more comfortable awareness and level of knowledge.

It was here I had awakened in a darkened room, momentarily disoriented. The room had but a single mirror hanging on the wall, but reflecting nothing in its image. But the second I focused hard enough and 'envisioned' an existence beyond it the room soon faded and beyond its walls was yet still a vast realm beyond my wildest comprehension. I literally couldn’t fathom it’s total form at first. It was an abyss of contractual nonsense and endless disorientation. The mirror stayed put though.

Time passed. I had no idea, and no way of knowing, just how much time. The shadows stayed on constantly, a biological clock didn't exist, my hair never grew, I never thought about food, or even once was thirsty, which was good, for there was no food or drink. It was as if I was living outside of time, existing in another universe, in another dimension, all alone.
For the longest time, this was all. It was all I had ever known for eons, eons that never passed, that I never felt and was only awaking now. My conscience was finally let loose, and I had some information to grasp, a world of shadowy forms and colorless mountains and prairies and smile-less smokey people, translucent shadows that walked this plane. I looked all around me and not a speck of color was to be seen, only the torrent of razing grass in the ashen fields, the hellish behemoths that posed for geographical structures, and the shadow public that seemed to disregard and pass right by me.

Thoughts? Critiques? Reflections?

>>6651257

What purpose do the parentheses serve?

>>6651257
Myths and legends die hard on /lit/. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most of our reality.

Occasionally a mould-breaking poem is posted as living proof—to those who need it—that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final.

>>6651277
On second thought, I'm not sure they're completely necessary. Was using them as a sort of 'aside' but the narrator is already speaking to himself

>>6651275

Needs some work.

>>6651280
/lit/ has made me so cynical that I'm not sure how to interpret this, but i'll take it as a compliment

>“Excelsior! Tarry not Montrav, and beseech thy trial, a knoll among shadowy vales to drop one’s given sinew into hades, given peak select between hollow banes and where stratos melds with the mast of heaven. Oh blessed great child of flora, mother of life to the springs of the vast, bountiful hope aplenty! Yore a Genesis henceforth the firmamental and unsounded akin! May her shade eclipse the stars as a vegetal vassal’s breadth uproots the land, amidst the harvest that signs the coming of Spring and harrows the granule crop of everlasting subsistence! Harbinger Betwixt her apricity amongst frigid rime or plentiful verdean bloom. Blessed be her oak, worshiped may her great soaring mandates be towards the Continent of V’arilGnysseil! And even the meagre premised denizens of the subterranean shall bask in her glory.”
When I was a seedling of age and knew little more, thy grandmother use to sing me hymns inherited from another era, an era of paradise. A celestial sanctuary where no walls or sweeping tremors contained us in its hollowed gut. Often a night she would spoil my fancy of tales of this world, and sit me at the tangles and barked appendages that infested and spread out into our abode. From her I was told, these structures were alive, breathing as their supple wriggly nature would suggest.


>“For which trudge aloft doth the Heavens bring forth a son so fateful? I spoke, incredulous of words to cite my disbelief. She briskly put a palm to thy rest and took a worthy platitude.

>“The same disbelief of heart that owns one’s familiars, making a cheek in one’s jibbed tongue seem all the more hateful.”

>Nuzzling her phalanx friskily to my cheek, she conjured a morsel of spittle my way and a leer towards the heavens.

>>6651275
The most important thing to be said about your excerpt at this time is that it was fun to read, and that's rare—for /lit/, at least, because I've always considered the writing posted in these threads to be obvious imitations of the same three authors.

So it's a rare goddamn trip for a locked-in, no-rent-paying NEET to see a post, that even on second reading, was a kinghell, highlife read from start to finish.

>>6651288
Harooooooo

Oratory. The long winding halls beckoned to him, as if opening the path to redemption. When our fellow walked, he bore the weight of the world upon himself, but not in here. This was his island of truth in a sycophantic world, this was the abode of Athena and Mars, calling down their commands on the lowly grunts such as he, a retelling of the Iliad. State was their religion, and religious imagery played in his mind in a cat-and-mouse fashion. The grunts do not bear pains with elegance; only the Gods do. Therefore, like many before him, our fellow came to his daily prayer at the cathedral of war, to escape his own strife by tackling the concept of strife itself, molding and stretching it, and paying penance by unleashing it on someone else, oceans away.

I just wrote this now, it's about a Pentagon worker. Rate?

>>6651332
Why are we seeing your posts every two hours for weeks but your prose don't advance. It's like some kind of mutated Mr. McCarthy clone.

Something is dangerously wrong in any sentence where the words Athena and Mars are juxtaposed and the word Iliad appears outside the damn Iliad.

What kind of monumentally-failed backwoods brain can produce something so totally NEET that they will post it on /lit/ AND say it's about a Pentagon worker.

Check your spooks, boy. Check em!

>>6651380
lel it's the first time I've posted and never read McCarthy.

>tfw I will read McCarthy now
Thanks.

>>6651329
Pardon?

>>6650928

Thanks for the grammar comment. I don't think it's true though. My grammar is pretty terrible and my sentence construction, especially on 4chan, is a mess.

I think criticism of amateur writing is always going to be a little samey and risk sounding condescending. Especially if I am on 4chan and don't give a shit about being nice. I think the reading of anger is just you projecting or it making you feel insecure (possibly it applies to your own writing?).

>>6651395

It's really not very McCarthyish. That other poster has likely not read enough to make a proper comparison. It's too stuffy and complex. People sometimes forget McCarthy is a minimalist at heart who hates punctuation.

>>6651304

Who are the three? For me it seems like 90% of posters have only ever read pre-1950s fiction and are likely students that are used to writing essays and not stories.

>>6651275

You were startled, scared and apprehensive? What an intense day.

I thought it was a bit overwritten (especially with the dated language) and it didn't really bring me in. That is, it sounded a bit like waffle in places when you are talking about being a fart or the incomprehensible darkness around you and some of the pseudo-philosophical stuff.

When I read this I sort of just pictured somebody typing out a load of crap when they should have gone to bed. I like your prose overall and admittedly this is just not the kind of thing I'd read (I like stories about people doing things) but if you want to create something really special be sure what you are saying in every sentence. If you don't really know, how the fuck am I going to know?

>>6651763
>stuffy and complex
That's usually what I think of my own work prose too, I think reading too much Eco does that. First chapter of Foucault's Pendulum left such a strong impression on me really.

>>6646991

Sway our hearts that the rot trot
The lot of sodden blight sways rightward
“Fight!” said we, “forget!” and heart forgot
And now, “the sight is bright”, heart uttered.
“Shall live, shall see, shan’t we?
Will resides, will decides, and besides;
We shall live, we shall see, We!” Heart utters.
As it vainly flutters, in vein, ooze glides.
As its vein flutters, in vain, ooze slides.
And booze of might, sight of light, wisdom soo tight!
The ooze, the booze, the Heart clutters.
Solely loose, it wants what it scatters:
Fragile heart utters, and we recite: “All right”
Decide we not, obey we shan’t.
And the fragile heart utters: “I bid the fight!”
The side will not, the bay will chant!
For agile heart we succumb!
For agile heart we succumb!
The bay will chant, obey we shan’t!
For a lair, heart will fuck up!
For a liar, heart will fuck up;
For agile heart, we succumb.

For a vile heart; we; so dumb…

And the heart flutters, in what it clutters,
With last booze, it splutters
With lost ooze, it
S h at t e r s.
And we remain, solely with our;
Arses.
Shut wide.

>>6650942
your syntax and diction is antiquated, which is off-putting, I think. using words like "twain", which aren't really in use anywhere anymore. apostrophe like "O Hyades" feels insincere, as if you're trying overtly to be poetic, as if you've been reading too much Pope or something. deploying metre and syncope (ie elision in terrestrial(which by the way doesn't make sense to me. apostrophes in elision replace vowels to remove a syllable in order to comply with metre, and putting this apostrophe here doesn't change pronunciation or shorten the word afaia)) in a poem is all fine and dandy if you're eloquent enough to do it without giving the impression that you're trying really hard, but unfortunately i'm getting the impression that you're trying really hard. of course, every worthwhile poet tries hard but the trick is to seem like you're not.

my advice would be to study more, read some more modern poetry, and keep writing. also, please don't use words like "'tis". i'm honestly surprised nobody else has called you out on this yet. it's and 'tis serve the same purpose but it's doesn't sound outdated and needlessly rusty.

>>6650550
Not even a single fuck looked at the link.

-An abstraction of a white washed spirit blue flew from the ocean towards the mind of the students who stood watch on the pier that split into the waves, cutting and dividing waves, creating white washed spirit blues. \\

The students continued their tour, passing on the pier a group of students ran ahead, they were seeing nature at it’s most powerful, ripping itself apart, wave hitting rock, corrosion. Behind them the others enjoyed the senses but had no anticipation, had no power drawing them to break out in sprint, to climb and strike the ground with a force of the wave, to witness this power, to become one with the scale of the mountain, the rock cliff and the waves.

>>6651183
and i'm a rapper :^)

Posted this in another fred

Lisa gave birth,
to a pinkish pulp, left blue-
with jelly bruises
that taste as good as the
whole milk
she hides her sex behind,
as she slips it back-
into the fridge.

>>6650912
Thanks, I wasn't sure how to say it and I ended up using that. I wanted a slight mood shift, but maybe it's too drastic and obvious.

>>6651043
Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.

>>6647435
it's great anon

>>6651202
kek

sup Burroughs. if this is part of something larger I'd read more. hard to critique this small bit by itself, because I can't tell if you have any original ideas behind the Naked Lunch gimmick.

but if it is just a short Burroughsian exercise or something, it is pretty loley as such.

>>6647435
here.

>>6647448
>>6647467
>>6652345
thanks for feedback. this is from a larger thing I'm working on, so I wanted to make sure I had enough there that folks would want to keep reading, and that MC's name didn't throw anybody.

finished a draft of the full scene yesterday.

http://pastebin.com/egY41L6f

I think I'm autistic because I have no rhythm for language, all critique is helpful and appreciated.


Below me, the security line to get into the terminals swelled with more and more businessmen. Their collars weren’t undone anymore, instead prim and tight. They were now more awake than before, as if they all sensed the sun rising behind the clouds. They all looked so beautiful and uniform now, like soldiers going off to war somewhere. What would the hotel rooms they would be staying in look like? Did they plan on being away from their families long?

I imagined myself in a business suit staying at a hotel in Germany. Just outside of my imaginary hotel there would be a castle all lit up. I would be up all night because it would have been snowing, and I would go down to the hotel bar to drink. I’d meet a beautiful woman in a black dress who would be the only other person awake, but in my mind the woman I saw wearing the dress was Sydney.

I looked over the railing at the bench where Sydney had stopped to take off her shoes at the security checkpoint earlier. Had it been an hour? More? She had looked up at me and smiled before she went. Her face and nose had been bright red, and even from where I was standing I saw her cheeks were wet.

Right now there was an old woman with a cane being helped out of her shoes by two TSA agents on the bench. I wondered if they really thought the woman had a bomb, and turned back towards the window. The Lufthansa had finished taxiing out and I could hear the turbines whining as they began feeding themselves air. It set out onto the runway and started taking off. First its front, and then rear wheels pulled themselves away from the ground and it began to climb. I thought about the black dress, and all the people my age in Germany, and about a bomb going off right here, beneath me, what would happen, and how the plane never really seemed to pick up speed, just kind of hang there getting smaller and smaller until finally the clouds swallowed it up and I realized I was staring at myself in the window.

>>6651051
Not him, but decent for the most tepid subject matter imaginable.

>>6651755
To be fair, last bit got a laugh from me.

>>6649607
No one read it as you said it was shit. Just made me uninterested instantly.

You also said, 'small change' when you should have said, 'a small change.' Completely destroyed the narrative of the piece.

You also didn't capitalize when it was appropriate.

It was also a bit brief. I mean three sentences isn't really a lot mate.

An unfeeling flick of the hand. The door opens and I walk out into the street. The street that is a frame of white electric light sketched into unsubstantiated urban darkness. Heels stuck out into pools of wet far below the grey tongues that hang in the dormant clouds. The street becomes a throat contracting. Washed down into the guts of myself. People are filling in the spaces where I am not. Always self-obsessed. Blurring eyes barely open. Stuck with sleep. Big coats oily and wet like fleshy pelts.

Stepping after step. Stopping occasionally. A man lifts a cigarette to his cracked lips. Holds it and the apexed cancer illuminates the sinister melody that articulated itself in his iris. I snap my gaze away and know that he menaces the wakeless tide of my meaningless pace.

Will critique in next post, as usual.

-Plague songs starting early today.
She doesn’t answer. A low distant wailing filters through the darkened glass panes of the window, rising and dipping with the broken voices of the singers. He stares at the small black circle that is the sun gradually sinking into the skyline.
-Why do you think they do that.
-I guess it’s the pain.
She without raising her eyes from the floor.
-Why only at night then.
She shrugging now.
-Why should there be a reason besides chance.
He looks at her for moment, a dark shape hunched on the carpet in front of a turned off television. Darker than the blocked out sun, he thinks. The buildings outside in the blossoming night are corpselike and illuminated. Beyond them he remembers slums and barren highways, or their suggestion carried by the wind.
She moves clumsily in the dim unlight of the room.
-Are you coming to bed now?
- They may need me at the hospital later. We heard of an outbreak a couple of days ago.
He looks at her reflection in the window, barely visible and pierced by inward lights. Keeps talking.
-Ought to be hitting our zone now.
-Maybe you can come to bed just for a bit.
Humanity and warmth in these words, unsaid, hovering at the edge of understanding. He shifts on the chair, a few inches.
-I’d wake you.
-You’ll do when you come back.
The bedroom door clicks closed. There are no stars in the sky. Some of the higher condo lights look the part.

>>6653353
The first three paragraphs sound a bit stilted; the phrases have a monotonous, tinny clangour to them that makes the read tiring. Not that they're badly written, but the rhytm is just too marchlike. This(this). (this)This. And on, and on. The last paragraph, however, is varied and nice and interesting. Cool change of pacing. Don't know, honestly, how you could fix the first three, besides maybe changing the underlying structure of the scene, to take in a bit more with each phrase, or maybe keep them short and resonant but add some "poetry" to them, make each a startingly interesting image.

>>6654337
As much as I enjoy the subject matter, this feels a lot like alt-lit-y new weird navel gazing. A bit too "lookie here to the poetic psycho man" and on the nose to be fully effective. If I were you, I'd lose most of the first paragraph. Keep it barebones and mean, only the "nastiest" cuts. The second paragraph is pretty good though. Enjoyed the eeriness of the one-way "he menaces"

>>6654427
Dun.

>>6651755
I like the forthrightness here. You could really benefit from providing examples.

Bringing up 4chan.org, though, felt a little faggoty. I don't mean that as a criticism.

I like the misunderstanding of Gestalt psychology. Often authors will misuse big ideas to highlight their true meaning. It's, as you obviously know, post-ironic.

K+

Alright, curve the feet outwards, chest up, walk forward, look straight. Exude confidence. Sway the body slightly, to look more natural. Pair of girls, they'll notice you when you get a bit closer, hold their gaze for a quarter of a second, yes, perfect, now glance away since they're just random people in public, and even if you could talk to them, you'd run out of things to talk about. Ok, she asked you to walk with her to the venue and she said to meet her around here, on this northwest corner. The grey glass of the 7/11 makes it hard to see, but if she spots me from inside, at least she'd surprise me and that would be a good way to start a conversation. Get ready to turn the corner in three, two, one. Ah! There she is, like a diamond wrapped in silk, waiting in her cute little getup. That Autumn skirt, which falls to her feet, that blazer which must be just for warmth since the picture she texted of her outfit was vastly different. She's still a few seconds away, but she noticed you! Wave briefly, in a slow manly motion, feet outward and not inward, now speak with confidence,

"Hey Elise!"
"Ivan!"
Her eyes are scanning you, this must be because this is the first time you've worn a muscle shirt around her. She better like the look, but gotta say something about it to her, confidently of course,

"So I took your advice after all and decided to go for something a lot more simple." Walk casually, glance at her when you finish the sentence but otherwise you can't let her know that you're interested.

"Wow, yeah! You look fine, Ivan. There's really no need to dress up for your first rave, what's important is you make sure you're comfortable so you can dance and have fun." Elise responded with her sagely knowledge. Retort fast, without hesitation,
"Heh, yeah, and I guess I'm as comfortable as can be!"

"Yeah..." She didn't seem to have anything else to say. Oh no, an awkward silence. Fuck, drive the conversation forward, you gotta be more confident, ask her about her interests! Just talk, talk talk talk! Or get her to do so. People like to talk about themselves, ok, she just got a new job recently so,
"So, how have you been enjoying your new job? I mean I know it's a step up from your other place, but beyond that."

"Well, it's actually been going a lot slower than I expected having to learn how to make all the drinks again. During the rush...." Elise continued on, talking about things that mattered to her. Thank god. I just want to bob back and forth to some techno and watch her dance her skinny legs off. I hope she doesn't plan to take any rave drugs though, because honestly I don't think I could stand falling in love with her for a second time.
I know it's shit, but tell me why

>>6654677
I sit here for a long time thinking about your post, and thought about a lot of things.

Foremost among them was the suspicion that my strange and ungovernable connection with your writing might do me some good in the future.

No matter how much I want to criticize things that I read, there was some devilish current flowing through your work that set me off in another direction.

>>6654236
;) thanks
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_m-5ij0WZ8

>>6654906
never seen this pepe before, good job

Bryan bored himself scanning pews, but with forty or so minutes of church remaining he began considering his scanning system. The first thing he looked for were fat tits, preferably locked up in bursty fabric. The best dresses cinched way above the normal waistline. Mrs. Andrews, for example, had a sort of elastic band on her crepe light-tangerine garment that forced the bottoms of her tits to slump over the torso material. That way, you could see the shape and very clearly imagine how things would move atop you. She was seated four rows ahead, curly luscious red hair swept up, whispering something to Mr. Andrews.

Lisa poked Bryan's shoulder, wrenching him away from the things in his head, and he felt infringed on and disrespected. Unfairly, he knew. He was not behind a closed door and Lisa thought he was bored. Lisa wanted his opinion on some jewelry around the neck of Bettany Robson, wife of Pastor Robson. She was sitting up on a far side of the dais. She was a wasted-looking woman of sixty who looked empty and drugged. Around her neck were a string of bulbous pearls, shot with blue flickers.

"They're fake," Bryan hummed. Lisa nodded, smug; at peace. The hymns ceased; Pastor Bob began describing heavenly passages and how 2016's electoral contest might shift, open, or constrict these passages. Spittle and metaphors passed between those luscious, shuddering jowls. Some of that spit arced through bars of sun, filtered crimson, and fell on a family Bryan had never seen before. He wondered how he'd missed them this morning. There were two parents, three ravenous gobbling-toddlers, and next to them the most beautiful girl Bryan had ever seen. He wanted to speak to her, fold his hands into her, and be destroyed by her. This is almost what happened.

>>6654677
you should try to be more consistent with the way you refer to yourself. Using "you" as well as "I" is a little awkward. Watch your tenses as well, you're writing in present tense so keep it consistent.

For example, instead of the sentence "She's still a few seconds away, but she noticed you!" try "She's still a few seconds away, but she's noticed me!". This reinforces the idea that what is happening is happening now (if that's what you want), and it also reinforces the idea that what is happening is happening to you, as opposed to being spoken about your audience second person style.

>>6646991
http://pastebin.com/HxAYfnSW

>>6650417
"a park parked where a parking lot might be". This is actually pretty good.

i'm pimpin - i'm mackin
is that yr bitches booty i'm smackin?
not sorry - i'm never sorry
i fornicate like my name was hugh laurie
what's that - yr mad now?
yr angry i infected her with mad cow?
too bad - i don't care
you can pick out all the crabs from her underwear
Uh, I put them there

funky sample, interlude to chorus

I'm a bad bad boy and yr bitch is my toy
You've got a relationship I want to destroy


I'm a hustler, pussy rustler
You shoulda known better than to trust her
She wit me now - She wit me now
And we're headin to the city in a porsche now
I'm a baller, I got income
And I'm spending it to give yr bitch some dark rum
She drunk now - we both drunk now
We're bangin in the backseat with you in the trunk now

chorus

Yr dead - I'll fucking kill you
Drive you off a cliff and fucking kill you
You're drowning - you're fucking drowning
And so are we it's just as three and we're drowning
I can't breathe now - you can't breathe now
The water's filling up our lungs coming thru my teeth now
We're dead meat - we're fucking dead meat
But at least she gave me head in the back seat

minor key piano outro

Serapsis looked everything like his statues, and somehow so much more terrific then he could have imagined. A crocodilian head the size of a garbage truck hovered over Marco, with a forked tongue flicking back and forth. The hood on it’s neck unfurled into an immense tapestry of scales that shone a thousand colors at once. Between those were more scales as black as cut pitch. The two were arranged in a way that reminded Marco of a thousand dispassionate eyes watching him.
“O great lord Serapsis,” Marco began, unsure of how formally to speak. “I have come here today to humbly request your audience!”
The serpent hissed and bared his fangs. The whipping of its tongue whispered ashy and paper-thin words in a language Marco understood but had never heard before. Something deep and old resounded in him, as if tapping into the primal words contained in the heads of men and beasts.
It told him in a primordial language few would ever hear that his request for an audience had been granted, but with that promise came a warning. He was an ancient snake, whose memory traced back to before the first lie had ever been woven, and he had no patience for dishonesty. In mincing words, Marco had lied by omission. He would be wise to mean what he said and say what he meant.
Marco gulped. The god beneath the city had spoken to him, and in its vast and inconceivable mind it was already passing judgement. His legs were shaking, and no matter what he told them they would not stop. He had awakened a wrathful god, and he could not risk to anger it again.
“It’s my sister, Mina. She’s been blind all her life and the doctors don’t know why or how to fix it. I’ve come to barter for her sight.”
In words of dust and chthonic steam the father of all seraphs made his intentions clear. He did not barter, not with mortals and not with gods. Any being wise enough to find him would know that well. Marco tried in vain to fight back tears. He had come all this way for her, and now not only would he be unable to help her, but he would die trying to do the right thing. Or so he thought.
Serapsis spoke again. This time, his words were not ones of derision, but ones of hope. While no one would ever mistake him for a generous spirit, the god beneath the rails was not cruel by law. In exchange for their wish, the king of serpents would issue a challenge to anyone who sought him out. If Marco could survive his challenge, Lord Serapsis would see to it that he was given the means to fulfill his wish.
“I accept,” Marco said solemnly. His choice had been made the minute he hopped onto the subway tracks and entered the tunnel on foot. Sunken cost fallacy or not, he had to see this through.

>>6646991
http://pastebin.com/CK7LHrLZ

>>6651953
still writing.... I don't give a shit I am gonna turn this into a short something

A gentle green filled the grassy field where our first victim was found, resting under a grey mist the grass held her neatly. A young student would pass by, looking her way to see the field laid before the mountains of the coast, and respectfully leave the woman at peace, to witness and agitate something of such beauty was unnatural. Her shirt was stained red, the teacher escorting the students could see this between the slow rise and fall of the gentle grass, his view of the mountain scene was obscured and he seen looking closer inside the red was a woman. The light misty fog had rose as the sun came from between the clouds, a cold white washed spirit blue rose from the crash of waves on cliff. Peaceful in the embrace of the grass, sun and air, before the mountains exposed to nature, Rosa had died.//

Two days before the students field trip to North Gall Provincial Park there was a missing persons report filed for Rosa Smith. A friend of Rosa’s had called the George Town police station on the evening of June 15th reporting her missing since June 13th. The girl who called was mistaken by Officer Robert Plasson on duty that day as Rosa’s sister, the report filled had been poorly written and contained multiple errors which confused Officer Shaun Dowery who was on Duty August 19th when Rosa’s body was recovered. Dowery had made the mistake of using the information provided by Plasson without further investigation.

Lisa Roberts was 17, she went to George Town High School, her favorite class was Band where she excelled at trumpet. She was friends of a certain type with Rosa, as in there relationship fell short of being purely sexual yet they barely considered themselves together or closely involved, Lisa felt a yearning for Rosa when she was far but always pushed away when she was near. Neither had been serious with any boys from George Town High but didn’t consider themselves lesbians, they were young and naive with nothing to do in a small place with no one around.

>>6651953
Still writing, I am gonna keep up with this I think.

Let me know how shit it is, nothing has been edited yet so don't sweat the small errors.

an abstraction of a white washed spirit blue flew from the ocean towards the minds of the students who stood watch on the pier that split into the water, cutting and dividing waves, creating white washed spirit blues. \\ The students continued their tour. Passing on the pier a group of students ran ahead, they were seeing nature at it’s most powerful, ripping itself apart, wave hitting rock, corrosion. Behind them the others enjoyed the senses but had no anticipation, had no power drawing them to break out in sprint, to climb and strike the ground with a force of the wave, to witness this power, to become one with the scale of the mountain, the rock cliff and the waves. //

A gentle green filled the grassy field where our first victim was found, resting under a grey mist the grass held her neatly. A young student would pass by, looking her way to see the field laid before the mountains of the coast, and respectfully leave the woman at peace, to witness and agitate something of such beauty was unnatural. Her shirt was stained red, the teacher escorting the students could see this between the slow rise and fall of the gentle grass, his view of the mountain scene was obscured and he seen looking closer inside the red was a woman. The light misty fog had rose as the sun came from between the clouds, a cold white washed spirit blue rose from the crash of waves on cliff. Peaceful in the embrace of the grass, sun and air, before the mountains exposed to nature, Rosa had died.//

Two days before the students field trip to North Gall Provincial Park there was a missing persons report filed for Rosa Smith. A friend of Rosa’s had called the George Town police station on the evening of June 15th reporting her missing since June 13th. The girl who called was mistaken by Officer Robert Plasson on duty that day as Rosa’s sister, the report filled had been poorly written and contained multiple errors which confused Officer Shaun Dowery who was on Duty August 19th when Rosa’s body was recovered. Dowery had made the mistake of using the information provided by Plasson without further investigation.

Lisa Roberts was 17, she went to George Town High School, her favorite class was Band where she excelled at trumpet, on the evening of June 15th she called George Town police station. She was friends of a certain type with Rosa, as in there relationship fell just short of being purely sexual yet they barely considered themselves together or closely involved, Lisa felt a yearning for Rosa when she was far but always pushed away when she was near. Neither had been serious with any boys from George Town High but didn’t consider themselves lesbians, they were young and naive with nothing to do in a small place with no one around.

What happened here? They were making dinner. Her left eye drooped lazily. His arms hung loose at his sides. At the end of the night, she went to bed before him, then pretended to sleep when he crawled under the covers. They slept back to back. A faulty connection? A predictable coincidence of unease and discomfort? A desicating agent. A boring conclusion. A departure from affability. The disappointing ringing in the ears, an alarm warning inhabitants of an immanent clean-up time. Without homes, we continue to leave the room when a mess is made. No one comes after us. No one lording above us with threats of disfavor in the case we shrink from responsibility. Innate ignorance. Everything is okay. Nothing, too. But when we go deaf, ringing, ringing, we will lose our senses and self in one final fatal attempt at escape. What's worse: we will wake up to ringing ears again.

Is this line too edgy? I'm worried it is.

“I'm falling headfirst into adulthood, and all I can see is a void that swallows hope and purpose and exchanges it for tedium.”

>>6655329
yes

>>6655329
Yes.

>>6655329
Affirmative.

Actually, no - it's not edgy. Maybe it wants to be edgy, but it comes off as very immature. Overreach with the vocab for sure. I mean - it's not even grammatically correct. "Hope and purpose" does not equal "it." Plural vs singular come on.

>>6655377
>overreach
Shit, yo. That's actually useful.

>>6655223
I kinda got lost with the whole Ringing ears thing. I get the feeling of cynical, losing our real selves to numbed senses vibes from this. It's not bad but it didn't have much impact on me and it doesn't seem like your gonna build off of it?

>>6655329
Yes obviously.
>>6655213
Another paragraph.

Rosa was found by the perspective teacher who seeing the girl in red went to wake her. The shirt was tattered with small rips and cuts exposing the girls smooth, porcelain skin, she was wearing no bra and her nipples were visible through the thin shirt, damp from the ocean mist. The teacher came close to Rosa, he seen red dye from her shirt running down staining the light blue skirt and leggings she wore. A grimacing feeling fell down on the teacher when he noticed the moist red punctures scattered across Rosa’s small chest and stomach, her cool skin painted with blood still wet with ocean mist looked surreal, the sun glistened off Rosa’s whole body. Struck still with the shock of finding Rosa the teacher couldn’t do anything to stop how beautiful everything was, the mountains of the coast, the crashing of waves, the young girl laying lifeless painted with a mix of red and salt water. A student called to their teacher from the path laying before the field, his shadow laying over Rosa, he turned around to respond.

>>6646991
A poem:

Don't forget
To like me
And subscribe to my youtube channel
Favourite
Comment
Tell me what you think down below
new content
Every week
Peace

>>6655514
Goddammit Tao, go to bed

The town is empty. The sky
is purple, and sick. The road
is dusty, and the tar is cracked.

The bar is silent,
the jukebox is broken,
pint glasses shattered
across rotting floorboards
(the whiskey is fine) –

the church is quiet,
blessed with the sanctity of silence. Empty pews
with no kneeling.

The wind howls, the dirt
dances; there is no life.

Poor wayfaring stranger,
don’t you believe in ghosts?

Dark clouds gather,
and fill the spirits with sickness.
Malaise, a bloated uneasiness,
bubbles up. The perpetual unrest,
the thick stench of death.

The ghosts cry into the wind,
singing,
“this world –
and the next – is full of woe.”

>>6646991
next time please keep gay poets separate from the straight ones and all poets separate from actual writers thank you

>>6655406
That pic is taken near the U of Saskatchewan, yeah?

>>6655536
The first two stanzas remind me of a dead empty western style town. Also (the whiskey is fine) line makes me either see that the whiskey is physically unbroken in the bar or the narrator had tested the whiskey and is reporting it's fine. It's a little ambiguous.

>>6655575
Yes it is, on the north end of campus by the river.

>>6655615
I haven't been there for a few years, but you've warmed my heart. I lived close to the mill in the photo. Cheers, anon.

>>6655575
>>6655615

Actually every post I've made has a picture of campus with it.

This is everything I wrote today, it's unedited and is pretty fractured. http://pastebin.com/H5QUmxx3

Before you ask /lit/ to critique your horseshit please follow these few simple steps:

1. Proof read it
2. Proof read it again
3. Go back to grade school and relearn proper grammar and syntax
4. Actually proof read it
5. Edit it
6. Have your mom read it
7. When she says "that was very nice but..." don't ignore her. She is probably smarter than you are
8. Throw it away and repeat steps 1-7 until your mom can stomach your garbage piece of shit writing without trying to hide that involuntary twinge that appears at the corner of her mouth when you ask her what she thought
9. Proof read it

Thank you.

>>6655679
I hadn't looked at the whole thread, but will now.

>>6655675
Actually every post I've made has a picture of campus with it.
Happy to give you glimpse back to the past.
Cheers.

This is everything I wrote today, it's unedited and is pretty fractured. http://pastebin.com/H5QUmxx3

>tfw you find 6 year old writing on an old computer
>commence stoner-prose

Maybe being a pawn isn’t so bad after all.

“The idea that all ideas are partly true, partly false, and partly meaningless is partly true, partly false and partly meaningless.” –Hagbard Celine H.M, S.H

This is an age like no other. Never before has any civilization been so advanced, at least so we think. For this we must thank the minds of the privileged and the backs of the poor. Some have access to technology that only could have been explained with tales of divine intervention, or demonic sorcery in ages past. Yet others alive todaywould still consider these things as such if ever exposed. Some ate like gluttons and others starved but both would live short lives. Indeed, this is a variegated melange separated by wealth, rank, nation, and race among other divisions. Is this the best we've done? It's a wonder we made it this far at all. Something needs to happen... we are on a crash course, and it's too late to go back now. Who will takes the reigns and lead us to mass enlightenment or complete destruction?
Mauricefinished scribbling his revolutionary thoughts in a journal that would undoubtedly be published upon his death. Yes, Maurice was going to bring change…No, I was going to bring change…Maurice shakes his head, a bad habit of talking in third person can’t do ones mind any good... How long have I been talking like this? I have to stop, but how? It’s like someone is telling the story of my life, dictating every move I make…what happens at the end of it all? What piece am I in the grand scheme of things? Do I play the insignificant role of a pawn, or am I the King? I suppose it is up to whoever is attempting to dictate this capricious sequence of events...chaos.
Another chunk of scrawled text sprawls across the paper like a blood spatter. Maurice often filled his journals with delusions of grandeur, a common practice among depressed megalomaniacs…Maurice is also slightly paranoid... No I'm not.
Maurice, as always went back to the journal when he felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it will keep him on the edge long enough for him to be of some use before he inevitably teeters over. Unfortunately this is becoming a risk; you see Maurice is special. Despite his delusional sense of self and crippling paranoia, which can largely be attributed to his abuse of marijuana and psychedelic substances he has his moments of clarity and genius. But for now we must move on to the next player in this troupe.


1/2

>>6655883

In Iceland, the resident ambassador to the Huldufólk in the small town of Borgarfjörður, Eystri slept late into the afternoon. Unfortunately she was scheduled to meet a contractor early that morning to assess building plans for a new highway. You see, the people of Iceland have strong superstitions regarding theHuldufólk, a sort of invisible elf-people. Often times people sought the council of psychics to avoid disturbingHuldufólk dwellings, especially contractors and construction workers. No one likes to have their home destroyed, especially theHuldufólk. Taking into account their super natural abilities, Icelanders often took precaution to avoid crossing them in any way. However Einar Eiriksson was ambitious, and had no time to wait for an eccentric hag to tell him if he could remove a certain rock or not. He did not believe in such ridiculous things. As an atheist, he was merely doing this to appease the local lunatics. It was astonishing how many Icelanders believed in this nonsense, even the most respectable minds in Iceland, although skeptical refused to deny the existence of Huldufólk. They feared the consequences of such denial much like the average ex-Christian. No one wants to go to church on Sunday, or send time reading an archaic book filled with skewed morals, but they will do it anyway because absolutely no one wants to spend an eternity in Hell.Impatiently, Einar and his crew continued construction and blasted the rock to pieces, the people needed a new road and they wanted it now. Einar did what any experienced contractor would do, take the quickest, most efficient path available; unfortunately it happened to be right through the middle of a Huldufólk dwelling the locals knew as Álfaborg...


It's funny you know, with the hysteria in the sixties and seventies about hippies and anarchists tainting the water supply with LSD no one seemed to notice when the government decided to flood it with fluoride. It's great to know that the government cares about our teeth, but I suspect an alternative motive, not to mention that we are being exposed to drugs and chemicals in an unconstitutional manner. Yet no one seems to care, at least the hippies and anarchists had good intentions. Studies have shown that fluoride decreases cognitive function, causes weak bones, and most importantly, calcifies the pineal gland. Thank Eris my father caught onto this as it gained popularity in the sixties and seventies. High quality filters have kept my pineal glad clean and my cognitive functions a level above the rest. It's probably the reason no one understands me, the reason why I've never been able to keep a job or stay in school, the reason I don't conform to social standards, the reason I don't have a girlfriend...

.

2/3

>>6655893

Speaking of women, I find it hard to believe they can pass me by. My IQ is at least forty points higher than the average man. I may not have a business, a respectable career, diploma, or an aesthetically pleasing appearance to show for it, but I'll be damned if you can prove me wrong. The world never praises the unconventional mind -- at least not until they are dead. God forbid one man should tell the world "I told you so". Yea ...wait till I'm dead so they can't see that smug look on my face when all this "conspiracy" turns out to be true. Women will be sucking my ethereal cock when I'm dead.


Another one of Maurice's inspired and riveting journal entries. He read it over as he stroked his scraggly beard and smiled smugly to himself. For someone who never brushed his teeth they were extremely white. Maurice has no cavities either. I use an age old method of oral cleanliness... Damn, what's going on...Relax, I'm not crazy... Yes you're fine...close your eyes, Maurice.


And in an instant my...Maurice's mind became still. In an instant he saw everything atonce and forgot it all again

>>6655883
Cringy as fuck

was too big to post, but i'm experimenting

>>6656143
gonna read the whole thing when I have time but the first few bits remind me of that Rimbaud poem where he has that hypothetical date with that girl.

>>6646991
>Does this sound like an excerpt from the memoirs of a pretentious, high cultured snob, akin to something you'd read in an early 20th century novel? Not meant to be serious.

The rich texture of the chocolate biscuit, with its mildly bittersweet cranberries, dark chocolate chips and a hint of caramel, seduced my mind to harken back to a time in my gay and innocent youth. 'twas when I was a spry, sure-headed yet naive lad of nineteen summers at Yale. The youth who would become me, as I am today, was walking along the fine gravel pathways among the old buildings of the campus, away from a concluded lecture hall where I just previously took an exam.

Now, when I say 'took the exam,' I do not mean to say that I wasted time studying to struggle for a grade, mind you. No, that would be a most pedestrian thing to put oneself through... 'oneself' to mean one who has the brains to know how foolish such a means to an end would be. The professor, one Hans Grunning, a rotund, red-faced yet wise-for-his-years man of 38, was sure to keep me in his good graces. A major part of this reason was a partiality to my father, who had just barely kept him alive in the trenches as the both of them, nary but boys at the time, were fighting for God, Country, and their very lives in the Great War. The both of them had spent a long time overseas, and though Grunning had lost his right leg to the audacity of Austria-Hungary, he had the financial support of my father's family fortune and the opportunity to continue his college education at the school where he now works, to keep him afloat.

As such, the good Grunning thought it pleasant to invite me for tea and biscuits at his office. As great minds do think alike, not that you would know of these things, I was keen to agree on such a visit, and would have been on a path that would take me directly there. That is, were my mind not preoccupied with Agatha.

Agatha. Now, THAT is a name that takes me back a ways, let me tell yo

>>6656151
that sounds really interesting and somewhat related

mine is actually a transcription of stream of thought. it's about my ex girlfriend, though we never physically met for the entire 3 years of our relationship. i had only my delusions and imagination and the internalized form of her appearance/behavior/personality to keep me happy

>>6656143

There is no reason this should be even half as long as it is. The imagery is too basic to warrant it so it just reads as dull and meandering.

You need to impose limits on yourself and train yourself to get the most that you can out of those limits. This will make you a sharper and more concise writer. Improving your ability to compound meaning with brevity should be your goal from here on. Keep writing.

>>6656268
Did you date an artificial intelligence?

>>6656352
thanks, i feel the same way. my hope was that it would read more as a dream, but i didn't want to edit it yet. it was transcribed from audio. i just laid down in the dark and said whatever came to mind

>>6656366
no, but i wish

it was just a long distance relationship with an irish girl

I fear this might be a bit self-indulgent. Help me out, /lit/:

His mind began to rove to rooms of lurid pink haze and light where strange bodies collide. To honeyed cells in an urban hive to mysterious corners discovered only now not before when alone but now among people. To odd rooms of possibility and thumping and hey! and warm sweaty touch and smoke and do you remember that time?....to rooms with fleeting embrace and Cambrian heat pulsing in a fixed moment.

He had been driven by a dim flashing impulse to be in that neon sanctum, to be in that vulgar shrine of lithe images stretched on divans matted with filth. And in that Attic scene what a weird figure he had struck. Not graceful not handsome but young, young he was now and young yet for another moment. Hello – hi – my name is - hey man, another shot? – one second – hi, nice to meet – woah-ho! - that’s it! - like I was saying – she smiled – you play violin? – no kidding, I – hey man, come on…don’t leave me hanging! – just a minute – well….

He trailed off. Mind blanked, expended of the gregarious gentleman’s ammunition, of all anecdotes and hero’s tales, I cannot play the bard, feeling too well now the throat grip and the limits of this body he felt stark and sharp, so well did he feel its contours against this warm and wild space, so new was that face in which he looked now, so badly did he wish to sublimate into it. Her thick lashes were downcast over eyes that smiled and the thought of death was deeply in them. In all things is an opposite he said to himself and yet amidst this what decay? No decay no decay this is a new branch on life’s roving circuit. He leaned in and whispered something indistinct and she slapped him and laughed. They turned in to face one another.

She leaned in now and her breath was hot. She touched his arm and dimly he felt the contours giving way, the cordons of his life loosening, fibers livening under this tropic waft. Underneath a tamarind tree to find respite from the cold wet air of an Occidental vault, the orbit of one’s life wobbling into an elliptical shape - do you? – and in hanging hours to linger with no goal and no care, to linger deep in another’s look and I - am I doing this right? Careering through arcade lanes with flashing green neon and bang bang - she pushes me - you cheated ! - did not! - she kisses me and me sabotaging her now with charm and then she slaps me.

- Duh-byoo-see
- Duh-byoo-see?
- Yeah, that’s how you say it.
- Oh, I always thought it was De-bus-sy? You know, like a school bus?

She laughed.

Her face, her eyes, her lean-in, the cavalier tone of her voice were all captivating in their careless candor. He extended his legs to rest on the sofa. In preening open gestures now to share oneself for a time before the rigormortis sets in and limbs that lithe begin to spread go cold and dead.

>>6656473

I like your prose quite a bit but I think you should write about something more comprehensible. I'm not entirely sure what you are talking about a lot of the time even if it sounds pretty or interesting. I needed to re-read the sentences sometimes to make sure what was going on.

If you want to make it easier for plebs like me then vary your sentence length up a bit more (you actually have good control of sentences so don't be afraid of long sentences but they can be tedious to read), avoid some of the more dated or heavy diction and avoid any self-consciously literary phrases like 'gregarious gentleman's ammunition'. I know you might not have intentionally thought - this will be fancy - but you need to know when to kill something.

I actually really liked the way you incorporated the speech. It reminded me of the technique used in Girl if a Half Formed Thing but far more controlled and digestible.

It probably is a bit self-indulgent but I think if you edited more, made sure to read it aloud and tested its flow, had a clear plot in your mind, and made sure every phrase or bit of imagery made immediate sense - then you would have something pretty good.

I'd come back to my home town after finishing with school. It was a small town with a with a 90-seater cinema which showed half the new films that came out and a leisure centre where comedians sometimes performed once the pool had closed. There was a supermarket at the edge of it all which just about stayed open every hour of the week. We all drove the few extra minutes there for cheaper petrol and the dead air we left behind rusted the bottom out of the town. The shops that used to sell us dinner and seasonless clothing now chewed up owners, plucky out-of-towners or sleepy locals who tried their hands panning for the next day's till float.

The limestone buildings that filled the place were on the rainy side of grey and were held apart by medieval thigh-wide lanes that always seemed to be going downhill. There were only ever old people and school kids on the streets as though the adults had gone to war and forgotten the way back. Most of us left here to go south and see what the middle part of life looked like and then we came back to die. In an old people's home that was close enough to the river to go for a walk every day, until you stopped being able to walk and then there were benches for that. It was the kind of town that used to have a mill or a market or people used to pull coal up from deep inside it but it just sort of stuck around now. There was not much else it could do. We mostly got by fine - there were enough jobs cutting hair and fixing cars for people who wanted them and enough people that drove to work and had hair to keep them busy. If I told you the name of this place you'd probably have heard of it, or the cake that shared its name and you might have been here if you remembered life before the motorway gave this country a spine.

My Mum's new house didn't have a spare room so I slept next to boxes of children's drawings and old council tax bills in the attic. My old books were there but they were mixed together with recipe books and blue romance novels which were no longer hidden from me. Mum said I should set up a bed but I said I wouldn't be staying long, so I slept on top of two duvets on the floor which was fine for the summer and more or less fine for the winter. I sometimes wondered what would happen if I brought a girl back but that was an idle threat at best. I'd changed a bit less than I thought I had and everyone had changed a little more than I thought they would. Not in a big way but my Mum had new friends and a hobby she stuck at quite a bit. She'd started getting highlights that turned her straw-yellow hair golden and she seemed to be more fashionable and less adult than she used to. One time she mentioned my sister's accident from a year ago and from what I can gather she'd crashed her car and had a minor fracture in both her wrists but she was fine now. I'd stopped speaking to my sister so much when I went away and now that I was back we never spoke.

Watch me bend and watch me break,
But do not lay hands down to mend me.
Do not call my name in the dark,
And do not seek me out at dawn.

I am the lost,
…and may I never be found.
I am the downtrodden,
…and may I never gain strength.
I am the unloved,
…and may it always be that way.

For it is with my eyes that stories are told
–With my hands; simply transcribed.
My legs traverse through the landscape like tired tendrils wavering.
Pausing only at the occasional surge that would pass on through me.

I am the wispy wanderer passing through these shattered layers.
I am the court stenographer keeping track of all the failures.
I am every bit of every passerby man and woman,
Searching for meaning before decisively damning it away.

I document the ugly in your heart,
Mix it with mine,
And code and compile it all behind the wall of my clenched devil’s grin.

So,
With furrowed brows
With scrunched noses
With beating chests
With grinding teeth
With fists shut tight
With hearts closed off for the last and final time you swear it
Live through your pain.
Baby, do it big.
Because it isn’t the fizzling frustrations that catch my eye,
But those thermonuclear detonations of internal turmoil that do it.

So burn.
Ignite.
And when your wings fall apart as ash,
Maybe you’ll be able to walk around with the rest of us.

My soul resonates with a silent energy, like
a swelling sea rising up to swallow the diver.

This energy pervades through me, passing forth from the tips of my fingers and the slithering of my tongue. It moves outward into dimensions unseen but that are felt by the heart.

Yours and mine.

--Our chests acting as Richter scales calibrated to define the low frequency that is the thumping of my newest essence.

It touches you and changes you just as quietly as it touches and changes me.
But changes of minutiae are changes all the same, and you and I are now different.

Beneath the rolling waves of black,
images sear the ocean like oil set aflame.

Birthed from the disengaged eyes of simple chestnut,
a soundless purge removes the diver.

All that remains
are the lapping of waves,
and you are now welcome
to swim in my sea.

Which am I?
The Man or the Machine?
The Artist or the Cog?
Am I that writer with a monochrome flat cap
Taking drags of words from my cigarettes,
Or the white-collared worker
pumping away at resume templates
Always looking for that better job?
Am I to create or am I to work?
Sleepless nights with mares of insecurity,
Or hollow days with dreams of greatness?

Tell me!
Which am I?
The Alive or the Just Barely?
The megabytes of unfinished text files,
growing in size like risky behemoths with every keystroke?
Or the constant shuffle back and forth, to and fro,
head too muffled by the rustle and bustle of that holy financial security?
Symbiosis be fucked, I know I want just the one,
but can’t subsist without the other.
I want to be that Man with reams of thoughts under his arm,
with written ideals and breakthroughs that others need to see.
But just as I fight against our current human condition,
It rears it head to lash back.
Wanting nothing more than to swallow me up,
And turn me too into the tragic characterizations that I so fear.
So I ask again now,
Walking on the shaky double path that threatens to crumble beneath my feet,
Making my bones tremble and causing this alien weight to slither up my gut:

Which am I?
The Man or the Machine?

>>6651123
Requesting someone to decypher these elven glyphs

>>6658772
Good critique. I like the Game of Thrones reference. Don't forget punctuation!

>>6659026
I'm out of periods and commas' you'll have to forgive me' my Mother is withholding my allowance' you see' but I must inquire about any success you've made on decipherment

Swirling, soaring high above
Twirling your arms endlessly
Scattering dust to and fro
You are taken for granted

Your arms are oh so dirty
Two of your eyes always out
Your drive seldom stops though
You are a staple to all

Your favorite season is summer
Spring and autumn work you less
Maybe winter since you rest
Although some use you year round

You can be hurtful sometimes
Malicious to hands and heads
It happens to babies lots
Just like most /lit/fag infants

You're a good guy, ceiling fan.

>>6648278
You like Dylan Thomas, and that is ok. You may like Marianne Moore, and that would be excellent.

Is "he" who may think of moving "the tree"? If not who is "he"? Is it "my dad"?

There are opportunities to make it more your own. "in these summer days" places us in summer, but that is all it does.

"it eludes us all" same thing, an opportunity.

"star spangled banners" - star spangled bangs? star bangled banners? I wanted something to bend there.

Instead of asking "what would Dylan do" do more of "fluid sunflower dressage" and "dungarees that struggle their legs" and "Whitewash with dandelions"

It was good enough for me to spend that long on it.

Earlier in the thread some people found my work too dense so I'm going to be posting something a little more sublime this time.


If there be a morrow how it breeds excess to call upon our heeding lust for wanderlust at the break of the bleak horizon. Never say a flighty forge of fortitude of my stature won’t tackle the inscrutable, be it untrue. Nay, be it now as I hove and drew us nearer a spot foretelling a precipice, I swore under shallow breaths. A dense gorge lay before us, at the point of our meeting roughly I draught the tote of riggings upon the abyss, a cliff of fabled terminus to tickle the fancy of a broad’s petty fantasy, and sheer terror owing to probable death below. Moisture eludes thy brow and the wails of Sheryl’s strain heavy on thy ears as her load bears perpetual weight.

It was a time in my young age where the stifling rain and early night hours cloaked the cavern skies and gave a sense of fear, humility, and turbulence. It wasn't exactly teeming with life, but a nice setting nonetheless. I took that opportunity to let it all sink in as I walked very slowly, taking in the beauty with each step. It covered out the ceiling behind me as I rested into the clearing by the stream. Those tranquil moments often dear to me were spent dipping my fingers in the mud, reflecting on my life in the damp mire greeting me here, the moonlight and it's pale doppelgänger in the puddles being the only intruder. It had been a wet, humid spring here. By May, many mornings were fog bound, the sun not appearing until late morning, and when it did appear, it turned the whole chambers into a twenty mile wide steam bath. I tugged at my collar in a most ungracefully fashion to release what little hear I could from beneath my cravat. The wet river air cooled my neck a little. A mist continued to float down on everything beneath the canopy. I doubted very much that there was another soul near me, for miles. That was good. That was exactly the way I wished it to be.

I lived a very stern life. I was an orphan who only knew life as a virtual slave to my foster parents who showed me no love. I was just someone who did work for them. I went from the school-house to house chores to work. The only place of repose I had when not out here, was my towns library. Only at night, lying in bed, could I relax. But mostly I just felt the pain of my life and cried myself to sleep very often.

I would lay in bed, promising that if I was ever able to make a difference to someone like me, I would do so. But mostly I just felt hopeless, no escape.

This is my life. I have always lived this way, as long as I can remember. The route to the long, winding cold and broken path changes, but nothing else does. Today, however, something is different.

1/7

>>6659814

"Heya." A sweet, high-pitched voice spoke out of the mist. I could see from the shadow and flickering light she was waving. I in my typical clumsiness almost tripped trying to get up and turn around. The only thing in-between my falling face and the cold mud was pale gentle arms. My face fell into her bosom, and I heard care-free giggling. I could have sworn the ground disappeared, because when they released and I got back on my feet the ground was softer, and the mire distanced itself from us. Looking up I saw what could be attributed to the eyes of a phantom, a saintly Geist with cherry red eyes and a soft, petite light face smiling at me. Pale pink hair flowed down to her waist like a silken sheet coiffing over her delicate head. Her white lips shimmered as she smiled and her face was flawlessly beautiful. She wore a beautiful translucent gown flowing as her feet danced. Her I stared dumb fold at for seconds before she enlightened and poked me.

“Bonjour, This one returns. No?” She said in a fake accent only cast in poorly acted out southern plays. She curtsied half seriously before approaching me.

"Montrav-poo!" Said the jumpy girl as she jumped onto me again. She cuddled me affectionately, so much as to jump on my back. “This one has missed you so.” I wasn't much for piggy back rides, but she was surprisingly light, even donning a thick new Lolita dress of similar appearance but different, more pinkish and purple color schemes.

"Here, put this on befriended peon. You're on break." The princess told me, taking some neatly folded casual clothes out of the bag and pushing them into me. I put her aside and wondered far off into the back cliffside, found a large pillar to change by, and came back to see her giggling, she who seemed less concerned about our journey than my groin. As I walked back I reached to hand her the outfit, but almost tripped. She picked them and put them back as she gave a cute laugh, and I saw what struck me as new. Standing up again, her height seemed to dwarf mine, even disregarding the heels which added a few inches. I considered it was also because of her heel and boot, but couldn't be sure. Whereas my height had been that of a near-adult woman since I've arrived, back again in simple clothes my size had shrunk, and I wasn't further their equal.

The front of the ancient Cliffside was filled with an uneasy quiet as we entered near in a somber procession. Although their silence and poise mostly concealed their inhuman nature, a watchful eye could detect a hint of the supernatural from the sanguine and argent colored eyes that illuminated the true depths of their fanatical nature. Silently they cast their attention towards a small building to the South awaiting the arrival of their servant who had been recently dispatched by the eldest sibling herself. I stumbled and finally caught up with as we stopped.

2/7

>>6659821

"Long ago when the heavens were wretched and the cutescape was unadorned and world unpretty, the divine primal forces raged throughout the cosmos and through their struggles came countless beings. Our ancestors, the Pariahs of plutriarch traveled for centuries before settling here and founding the capital of Cutopia, giving a future for us Wunderkin and building their very home right here where this palace rest. It was from the Orb of Eternal sunshine that they turned wasteland into prosperous and happy beauty where friendship and hugs could be tolerated for their descendants, and where we could play and drink tea and snuggle at nap time through the ages so long as we loved and shared with all the kindness in our hearts, and likewise we would share and spread our love throughout civilization as we have done." She sipped me and paused.

"As you all know, that has all been interrupted recently, is that they have invaded our borders. You may have also guessed by now they are in fact Furs, and are intent on using our stolen roots to wage their silly-trifle war with the estranged stallion brooders who have plagued them for eons. That matters now, is that way retrieve our life given from the canopy dwellers residing in the top Tower across Gloom Valley, where the mast of heaven touches the sky."
"Gloom.. Valley? Oh woe why ever, shivers and stars why ever so far?" I said with a touch of nervousness more shaky than my sugarcoat.
"We need to cross that Valley, or an assembled team does, in order to reach the end of the long wind-forest at the end, where the Orb atop the Tower is now located. Why, will that be a problem? Does it understand?" The Princess explained.
“I just thought we’d breach the surface and find it there. Besides, I thought you had certain, grudged towards the air-breathes up here.” I told her
"Oh nary the thought if that is what you wrought." The Princess answered crossing her arms.
She giggled and flaunted me as I turned red.
"Oh it's nothing, just let us say, you little 'fallingout' with one of the resident citizens there, so I'm sure you must be nervous."
"I am not nervous! Pity the dame to think I'm of nerve nor 'ous' be a thing that is falling, in or out! Embracing love and kindness and the Heavenly P way simply means not struggling with that proverbial restitution, least of all to a fiddle spinster with the girth of her!" The Princess exclaimed.
"She nor fiddles nor spins you poppycock gushing little powderpuff, or perhaps it is her that is popping the 'cock'? Envy does a girl little solace you know." I peacefully relied.
She hushed me, and pointed up at the symbol up top.

3/7

>>6659827

"That symbol up there at the center, is the form of 'form-release, or 'ground-release', as your Granny called it." She explained calmly, laying down on the pew pointing to the ceiling panel. The quiet was tranquil and brought in only the deepest calm, bringing the two a brief feeling of tranquility. The motionless air, the emptiness and loneliness of their new cell, I took it in slowly. He breathed the shallow air, hoping that absorbing some of it would release him from the essence that captivates him so. Sheryl continued.
"Then symbol is a theme for all things, it represents a single material world embodied in forms of the slightest caliber, the form of all things and yet the release of none, forming only the least of all being. When the form is released and the materialism of existence embodied within is equalized, the form of all things comes into being, all and none. This is how annihilation happens. It is also, in a sense, our cosmic beginning."

Sheryl took a breath begin to sing with her beautiful voice among the ruins.
"The first verse of the cycle sings of angel. It is said that the angel's were first gods to awaken the mother on this planet. In the 2nd verses the angels gave leisure to Samsara, the flowing carrier of the goddess, and put it in charge of the precursors, who were angels stripped of their wings. But the third verse after that, is foretold the form-release symbol. It's the symbol of all matter being released, you can tell with the pollen symbolically being released out of those mushrooms. The mother was greatly damaged by these fiery eruptions. Sheryl pulled herself up and cuddled against me. I could sense her growing anxiety and sense of fear, and yet she persisted.

The 4th verse sings of the fallen precursors, the guardians that forgot about their sins and stopped protecting the Samsara. They were punished by the great release by forming into golems, see? They've lost their color." The depictions of the 4th era showed mechanizations spawning about, toiling on the earth in contrast to their divine counterparts. It morphed into the next verse, which depicted the true children of Samsara and creatures banished from the great above, morphed from the toiled ones, which Sheryl explained caused great torment and suffering for these creatures, suffering because they had to re-create their existence. Their silhouettes had light running alongside their veins with blood, and the rust and metal of the earth forming their essence. These descendants of Samara's children's had to ask themselves. 'Am I a life?' Am I real? Does my existence have meaning?' No answer came, and they merely had to guard their anxiety deep within. The last of the pure-blood precursors were the magpie nobles, and these children foretold of when we'd flow with lava and breath through our bodies, and when the lights within would fade. That was, of course just an impossible dream.

4/7

>>6659834

The descendants of these children warped these dreams into stories of a place where we'd find where air skims the voids and lets light course through us, where we'd reunite with mother Samsara once again and find it. The Great Above. Sheryl took a pause again and rested her head soundly against mine.

I felt a strange weakness in my body, and although I wasn't hallucinating any longer something to her words made my fibers tingle and muscles flinch with unease. I couldn't comprehend the full form of what I was sensing. Looking into the wide sky, as it was called, I’d never seen a pillar so high and lively, with rays of what was known as light pouring through its branches which towered like clouds for dozens, no hundreds of miles.
Snarky she is and a pain rearing hindwards she might be, the princess had kept true to her word when she revealed forsaken truth to my chagrin, she was not of this world, but of another! Of one elsewhere, above and beyond where there were no walls or channels or passage ways aplenty, this is from whence she came, and to complicate the matter, she was exalted, and yet ceded royalty, of both prestige and divine affliction.
“Query uptop, query sight and rejoice! A my home draws near, and excitement withheld I relish your ambition, and should it warrants arrival, I will show you the land above from which my mother birthed me!” Sheryl told me. “This one commends you on your loyalty to a teller of such tales, and here we travel the trench of the throne of god herself!” Her grip tugged on my back like a saddle stresses the whinnies out of suffering horses.
I only stood silent, covered in dirt and earth where up here there was little.
“Excelsior! Delay not Montrav, and accept your fate, a great hero given peak into the unknown, the only one of his kind to lay glaze upon where air melds with the mast of heaven. Oh blessed great child of flora, mother of life to the springs of the vast, bountiful hope aplenty! Give her thanks to how she births life and supplies glory to this land, like a mother does with the brunt of her teat! May her shade eclipse the stars as a vegetal vassal’s breadth uproots the land, amidst the harvest that signs the coming of Spring and harrows the granule crop of everlasting subsistence! Harbinger Betwixt her compassion amongst frigid weather or plentiful spring bloom. Blessed be her oak, worshiped may her great soaring mandates be towards the Continent! And even the measly lurking denizens of the subterranean shall bask in her glory.”
When I was a seedling of age and knew little more, thy grandmother use to sing me hymns inherited from another era, an era of paradise. A celestial sanctuary where no walls or sweeping tremors contained us in its hollowed gut. Often a night she would spoil my fancy of tales of this world, and sit me at the tangles and barked appendages that infested and spread out into our abode.

5/7

>>6659839
Oh wow there's that part again^
Well atleast you know the context from the excerpt read before, if you read it earlier

>>6659845
(Carrying on)

From her I was told, these structures were alive, breathing as their supple wriggly nature would suggest.
Four terrestrial arcs of time standard ago, I was but a compliant and doleful soul. Be it as I may now, the change scarcely resounds, but disregarding my status I came across a well. There are many wells where I ordain, as a digger and farmer upon the gravel and damp, dark dirt of my chambers I had rarely seen such a spring, with glittering beauty and sentiment to bear, and yet it was not thy own to bear. But what charlatan of thy tale would I be, if this maiden of the fair spring had not sprung out of the clear waters, bringing both remarkable prettiness and the devil’s playthings with her, A great beast chased us out and we refuged to the manifold empires for which my people dwell.

“This one smells yield, for our journey is triumphant. The scant of air alludes us. Our promise is delivered, praise be the mother!” Thy darling princess Sheryl told me. I needed not her confirmation, the light, soft grips of dirt and moisture, with pockets of light pouring in like a specters forewarning us of a great opportunity ahead.
Needless to say, the time than prior our restitution we vanquished the beast and slayed it’s nest, cleared the sparkling spring of its taint and cleared the Spring Maiden of her good name. The only questing left unabated for our aims, was to return the sovereign royal to her home. The world promised in my youth, whose songs were passed down to my kinfolk and reiterated in my head, present just as they were with Sheryl, and her sweet melodic voice tending to hum off and enchant our livihoods with them.
What happens after that however, is nothing to say of my awareness on the subject. The crest of the Cliffside looks like it’s been destroyed and abandon for decades, if not centuries even, it’s antiquated beyond repair or recognition for anyone of this modern era. The body however, looks rather recent, it could haven’t been half-buried here too long ago. I gave a stiff prayer to the goddess before blessing the poor deceased dead roots nearby, reminding myself to give them a proper burial later. Looking upon the spring brings old memories buried in the shelved knolls of time, stints of lost eternity dawn across me as a stray tear escapes her. I always holds a special sort of remembrance in my mind, a position of unseen importance, profound significance I cannot quite mark. The actual events or history with it is lost to me, perhaps hidden away in my blood even. Keeping it in reverence, but acknowledging the necessity to move forward, I keep my concerns with the future, the irreproachable dawning tomorrow for which I coast for day to day, night to night, and dusk to dawn for all of time without end.

6/7

>>6650393
the autism seems to resonate with our times somehow

no need for that comma after "fat", however

>>6650582
latently good. read it out loud and smooth it out

>>6650975
focus on thoughts of your own inadequacy, don't listen to any music, dress in clothes that are too small, then read it

>>6659858
>Two computer crashes later


Only the stray traveler or maiden or courageous spirit can still hear the faint melody, but if they attune themselves close enough to the wind and her cherished peaceful gale they might just catch a whiff, nary a glimpse at the ethereal doll that sits briefly before it sirens death's herald elsewhere, for a new heir perhaps eternally in bondage by time, given the role by its own derision for patience or meditation of any kind. That way, they too may become like they were in life, endlessly drifting as the wind, up until and towards death as they would be, with eternal childlike reverie to spare. Like a petite, delicate and beautiful maiden whispering them off elsewhere with stories of little boys and children lost in tales only told when a new avatar of poignant ceaseless pity is to be chosen.
I know not what she does or who she truly she is but she carries me about where I need to go, and I sire her whims accordingly in these harrowed aches of time.
“For which trudge aloft doth the Heavens bring forth a son so fateful? I spoke, incredulous of words to cite my disbelief. She briskly put a palm to thy rest and took a worthy platitude.
“The same disbelief of heart that owns one’s familiars, making a cheek in one’s jibbed tongue seem all the more hateful.” Nuzzling her phalanx friskily to my cheek, she conjured a morsel of spittle my way and a leer towards the heavens.
Skimming the voids between thy surface and her digits, we cooed. I levied my tote back and strengthened my girth. Pulling thyself fuller into the novel plane from whence I attained at the foot my stature, no higher than fretful beetles scurrying into an unseen nest. Cupping my mouth, another lark escaped thy lips.
“Thine own wretched seeping cove seems less a dream and grander a farce, when gasping cometh to sparkling beauteous ether with earth yet so scarce.”
“Be it so, Montrav?” My escort queried.
“By Troth! Verily a dame such as thou keeps words to stir the heart asunder, and yet fools not a bard with lies but a patronage to Valhalla in wander.”
The jape a feat, prizing her curt glance, one of sincerity and a rarity in her expression, a hint of elation. Be it her joy she laid naked humility of her own with a spent note of her caliber.

“This one is pleased. By God’s grace we purr, and set out to nick our place in this realm above of rustic mirth.” To bite a fang towards sultry lips, bleeding confidence onto her beaming smile she poured. “Let our trek be not of haste or terse, but tread cautiously and show thy realm a testimony of worth.”

We looked towards the sky ahead, and hiked forward into the world yet to be seen.

7/7

So howdedIdo?

>>6646991
That picture... Those white misogenist racists with Asian wives that can't speak English and only discover if very late in life who they actually married.

>>6659069
Have you eaten any strange molds recently?

>>6658772

I am the guy who posted the original picture. I don't really want to transcribe it to text though, I don't feel anything for it after waking up sober.

>>6659946
Hopes rise and posts flicker and die.

Make your plans for tomorrow loneliness and editing. You have something good on your hands with this.

Thinks on its own, which is rare.

Beautiful and a sense of pain. The sound when reading it out loud is of music floating down a dark street.

here's a bit of pretty bad poetry

your face is unclear behind ashen wind
no mist on the mirror
to your eyelashes stuck a piece of lint
from a shameless era
corners of your mouth cracked asphalt
fabric tear
it never has been my fault
end's here

>>6659889
I found this critique to consist of flat platitudes. Begin your sentences with capitals and end them with periods, or at least be consistent.

Let us both hope that all the posters on /lit/ know to read their work out loud to themselves before asking for help.

Perhaps when editing your critique you will consider providing examples for how to "smooth it out" when regarding the work of someone who suffers from some kind of twitching "this writing is acceptable" teratoma that has him spastically posting boring prose to /lit/ when he should be reading the Greeks.

The word "Dreams"
holds a positive connotation
to most, it seems
but not to me
my now, feels
a dream
blurry unfocused
sense of unreality
I don't want dreams
I want life, here, stable
doesn't shift into a scene submerged in water
I smoke my 30th cigarette
to bring clarity
sometimes it does
this one won't
nor the next
No more life a dream
Please
No more life a dream

Poop and feces; doody, poopy, and fecal matter: the dreams stuff is made from, of, far above the corpuscular heaven's ceiling, peeling, peeling...And that was the last thing he told me before jumping off the cruise ship and into the international, frigid gray waters of the Atlantic, miles past our embarkment point, Nova Scotia. "Death to all infidels," the TV now screamed. Jardonkimonia, seeping all around, distressing the combatants and cabin-members. The waves splashed and slapped and the captain took his post after defecating, after dreaming once more of that magnificent lake beneath the sky and its edge, lake Titicaca, inseparable, ethereal.

Inspecting the hind regions of Angelica's porcelain prone ear, Heraldo injected himself with a dose of human affection, infectious, deleterious in the light of some hypocritical priest's dove-bed wings; bling, bling. But, here we have now:

Captain's Log:

Blue 42, 888, 999, lat, long, April 1st, 1002 years past the day of reckoning.

The crew is delirious; the crew cuts lame; the hairdos don't; the myriad seagulls drop more than drops, drop drool from the lips of those below, as above. Hunger strikes us all, a loopy magician and his talkative owl. Merlin, a marlin, George and Eric, starlight, starlit; the party distracted everyone. God has me to thank. They have yet to notice, notice that we're adrift, sailless, radioless, hopeless.

SOS.

I repeat:

Soso...

Opening paragraph:

He was unlike any other actor in The Valley. Most Johns took pride in their size, endurance, body count, the amount they could cum in one shot and how many times they could do it. Their jawline, abs, the new Porsche they drove to the set, mostly superficial aspects but it was a superficial business. This isn’t to say he didn’t take pride in these things, of course he did. He had all and tenfold - but what set him apart was his ethic. The devotion and love he has for the business bled through each reel of the dirty life and times which comprised his films - and they were his films. Producers, financiers, directors, lead actresses no matter their stature took wayside to Don Johnson and all of his thirteen-inch grandeur.

>>6660078
You can still be pleasantly surprised at the things posted on /lit/.

Ah, fortunately yours is a poem that catches that glittering stream of what it is to BE, it catches it briefly in its words, in just 19 lines—the thrill and pain of our numbered years.

And I wish fame to follow you—and I shall dwell in the words you have chosen for in your pattern of pain I feel moments of fleeting ecstasy.

Here the seven burns of culture, love, death, family, betrayal, light, and eternal darkness lays in ink—or photons, or whatever.

Lads we must give credit.

Now I must hustle off to masturbate on the couch.

Even equatorial roads have dead-ends,
split like sprouted hairs above Atlas' naval,
umbilically cordless, stamped with celestial wounds,
Mother Earth: a restaurant where all plates are sent back full,
the haunched marauding of the last rabid bull
at a red blurred midwife of cracked skulls.

>>6660098
Experimental, but I kind of like it

>>6660114

i don't know if youre fucking with me or not but at least someone read it.

>>6660127
This type of writing has never been one of my favorite kind anyway.

For minutes I've regarded this poems existence. It's a monument to all the rancid genes and broken chromosomes that rolled into your person.

The possibilities of poems are all there; you can write anything. And you wrote this foul caricature of what, something you read and thought you should imitate?

A man with no soul, no inner convictions, and the integrity of sand and the style of a buttprint left in vinyl.

The /lit/ I remember was absolutely top kek; I couldn't imagine this garbage anywhere except maybe inside the head of a paraplegic who wanted to fuck his live-in nurse but couldn't quite reach the zipper on his jeans.

>>6660156
Nahh, it's good. I just can't get clarity after my first cigarette.

Rain is cascading. The docks are drenched, floodlit with the aura of pole-lamps and ship beacons sheering light through the evanescence mist. Vapor clouds the air as much as preoccupation his mind, thoughts fleeting, conscience wanting. A lost command there, a stray request there. Some nets and hooks passed around, some regular ordinances well-spoken in the dreary stupor of a day’s work. For Noah Goodman, these machinations never ceased to be amusing. To clog the pours of livelihood and conceptual extemporaneity in the veins of a waking daybreak, to emerge at dawn knowing one’s own prudence would serve only to accentuate the monotonous delirium, the sheer ineptitude of spirit that cursed mortals such as he, driven by the cogs of immaterial hope and embodied stoicism would he carry the drudges out until the emergence of a pale moon’s presence and twinkling starlight signaled lull. Only than would respite and resignation from a day’s work be salaried, but until than work was Noah’s Mantra.
A day in repose, a lifetime in griefing trepidation, that’s the conduct he lived by. Waking up to a dock approached, decks sailed and scrubbed. Masses secured, ropes tightened. Shipments safeguarded and denizens of the isles employed here would take the reins under his solemn word, and from his word alone would they acknowledge him. Noah was a faceless man whose very dismal features denied there ever was a human behind them, from his sunken eyes to droopy lips, the sags on his fold never ceased to give any less joy possible for the employer known as Noah Goodman. His coworkers never looked his way, least of all when the harbor was packed on a stormy night like this. Should they try his wool cap, scarf or hoodie usually provided adequate shielding from true contact, like a sylph’s fairy light outing they’d be a rabbit foot’s uncle hoarding a trove of clovers to get a good look, and should they ever catch the blotchy whites of his eyes, well it’d be the end of any serendipity for that lifetime. So worked they did, pulling the vessels onto port. Worked they would, as Anna or carol, Louis or Reynard, or even elder Solomon wouldn’t face him or object even in the face of unease at his reputation.
Noah sat in his office, the storms howling in peril as his bones could feel the menace building within the winds and skies. He slowly got up and creaked across the floorboard, opening the rusted door and calling distress to all parties involved. People with rubbery hoods and boots, workers with leather gauntlets and trench coats heard him and took heed. They set the lights off across the area, gave the pee. The basin started to fill up, Breakers crashed ahead and splattered the docks, violently thrashing and wetly drenching the surrounding beach.

>>6660189
As people started to retreat and close up the place, Noah took his bag, locked up his office and stretched his hood up. He was met with rain and gale, blowing against his face. Before long, every pier was abandon and the coast found itself like an abandon watery grave, only waiting to be filled with whoever was foolish or so reckless as to invite themselves onto it. A misty breeze blew onto the sand back and forth past the waves and breakers pulverized against a rocky Cliffside nearby. Noah saw that ridge withstand the power of the oceanic, with its tell-tale might, a visceral force attributed to the deep, that seismic titan clashing the ebb and flow of all things and empowered only by the lunar crest of the celestial heavenly bodies of silver and shrine dust, continually held nil headway against stone and summit, the apex of fortitude and endurance, lasting the eons of time and continuing many still probably.
The cliff and the ocean had fought this long battle before, when Noah was a younger boy of reputable age. He watched the cliff siren a testament of eternal might and indignation against the primordial sea as he unlocked his bike and began pedaling off. From the prairie patches to the woods, the enigmatic mountains to the simple towns and humble docks, this isle was surrounded by Poseidon’s wrath, and had been for as long as Noah remembered. He caught a last glimpse of the raging seas as he biked off into the road making his trek home. A distant pariah of prospect, rising up in a surrounding of harsh entities and surreal lore, he owed much to this land and it’s scenes that echoes the harrows of beauty unlike the one’s a picture or camera could take. Not reducible to what a verse or silly poetry could describe. Perhaps it was all pretense, or simply unshakeable nostalgia, but even with the strict weather opposing with lush beauty distinct to Goodman’s eyes. To him, there was an anima and diverging animus at the heart of it all. Unforetold loveliness and a calm reservoir of prettiness, that lame stooped appreciation for all things childlike and lovely, for what one grows to cherish and sign as peace within the bound of a single lifetime. It was for that same reason that the isle spited Noah, it appalled and mocked him with its sameness, its false calamity. A lifetime to conform wasn’t enough love created to see past the subterfuge of the isle, or to ploy Noah into thinking foolhardily that this was all there was to sight, a land dear and smarmy, plain and superficial in its charms.

That's a wrap (no it isn't)


Minivan, the kiss of death,
the end of panty soup. Showers dressed
(tucks nuts) in a tux,
torpedo in the Speedo.
Holy Toledo, fuck it: that’s my credo.
Something fishy about it, not branzino:
derogatory like ballerino, stretchy like a limo, in Reno.
The Bering Strait breathed life into here,
Sioux me. The road avoids my steer,
raging bulls in the Colosseum with Nero.
Mr. Jeeves is my favorite superhero,
oscillate circa zero. Conceived in vitro,
eloping, lips to Fallopian, tits I’m ropin’em.
Backseat liver of life, deliverer of strife,
let me grab the lubricated knife
and end this friction (and also fiction).
Something about my impeccable diction;
suffocate schizophrenic granny, post conniption
(sipping rosebud Lipton). If you’re a pussy, I’m a chicken.
Toss a lip in, now I’m dippin’.
Lose your job,now your strippin.’
Catch a job, now your lickin.’
Fedora tipping.’ That’s a wrap? I say it isn’t.

>>6660195
Endlessly conforming to an impossibility of its own passing. If he had to speak on such things, Noah would politely inform the questioner that he hated this island, and everything on it. At least, that was what he’d come to believe, as many jaded cynics do.
Long having left the port, Noah was 2 kilometers away onto the road. His abode on the fringes of town would be another 3, but a banal road separated the scoffer from his scrap of a cabin now. Few if any cars drove by, being that the weather was hardly accommodating for go-getters or tourism there was little reason to expect much. Seasoned woods were nearby the path but a sizeable distance of grass and sward intervened in between, offering little in the way of protection from the rain or dreary gust shaking down on Noah. He smacked and suckered his lips, pulling his hood back down to cover his face once more, only for it to be blown back onto his face

>>6660165

Easy there dude, that shit's incredibly harsh. It might be terrible, sure; I might like soul, no problem. But don't you dare say I've imitated anybody, no. I'm bad all on my own, thank you very much.

Anyway, that being said, do you have any actual advice? rather than simply offering up visceral impressions of people's poetry without any legtimately constructive feedback

>>6660165
Do you mind giving specific constructive criticisms, rather than just making difficult to understand obtuse metaphors and oblique insults/praises that don't really add any value, instruction or appraisal towards improving the work?

>>6660189
>>6660195
>>6660200
Now, this, THIS is where it's at.

A man who has blown all his options and lives at home can't afford the luxury of changing his ways. He has to capitalize on whatever he has left, and he can't afford to admit—no matter how often he's reminded of it—that every day of his life takes him farther and farther down a blind alley.

Very few /lit/ posters in this world are Pynchons or Hemingways in disguise. Most are simply foggy imitation artists... and they are going to stay that way... Fakers don't make the news or change any basic structures, but one or two rooty insights can work powerful changes in the way we see things.

This is a writer who knows he's got something good before he even knows what he's dealing with.

There is a mental tightness here. A feeling of having freshly screwed and of an ethic of total control of your prose, or at the very least the random inspirations that grow into something deeply intelligent.

>>6660225
I found this review insightful. You have cleverly picked up on the roots of that poster's POMO reviews. Have you read the Western Canon, or began it?

Otherwise, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your poem. Perhaps consider capitalizing each line. You could even make it so it spells something when you read it vertically.

:)

(This is supposed to be in trochaic tetrameter, so don't pronounce the ğ's)

On the skull of a slain zilant,
Rests the bruised and bloodstained war'yer,
Turban all about his neck.
On his pauldron sits Zulfiqar,
Obsid'yan blade with tips in twain,
Passed through the hands of Great Ali,
And the lineage of Manas.
On his left foot, in the beast's eye,
Rests his shin, supporting his shield,
Round and rough-edged, on which perches
The twin-headed bird of the Oğuz,
Öksökö, emblem fierce and brave.
Through the blood in his black bristle
Runs the essence of his forebears,
Mighty souls of his ancestors,
All of whom were khans and emirs,
Emperors over all Asia,
With graves lined with tens of balbals,
Whose kingdoms spanned the Iron Gates,
Basin Tarim, plateau Tibet,
Headlands Goryeo and Kamchatka—
Last thus far of a bloodline proud.
Born on the Caspian Cauc'sus,
To the richest beg of Baku,
He trained in war against the Rus',
Learned to fight alongside the Oğuz—
But the Turks face a new evil,
Worse than Es'nkhan, the Black Scorp'yun
Than Araqil, Caesar of Rûm,
A foe with whom war cannot wage:
Dragons! The damnéd winged scourges,
Evil beasts from Ararat's peak.
These devils ravage Eurasia—
Only he can save the Turc'mans!
He, the raging bull of Baku,
Fearsome monster, descended from
The most glorious khans and begs!
Shall cross the plains An'tolian,
Through the high mountains Caucasian,
Across the river Ural, and
Into the city Kazan, and
'Cross the Volga, and state Tuva,
Into Siberia frozen!
He is the hero of the Turks.
He's the one to unite them all!
Slayer of the grisly wyverns,
Savior of lands raped by the Rus',
Architect of the ideal state:
The Mighty Third Turkic Khanate.

>>6660127
This type of writing has always been one of my favorite kinds.

For minutes I've regarded this poems existence. It's a monument to all the hopes and memes and ideas that are rolled up into our generation. And perhaps missing.

The possibilities of poems are all there; you can write anything. And you cut into the harsh stone of nothingness with your words and gave us a damn decent poem.

I sense a man with soul, inner convictions, and the integrity of obsidian and the style of a sidewider whipping across the face of the Great Ohio Desert.

/lit/ is usually full of not-well-thought-out poetry; I couldn't imagine this was just thrown together. There is clearly a fair amount of effort in its construction and organization.

Thanks for the post!

>>6660239
this hank hill shitposting is insufferable
these faggots need to be quarantined

Another ripped at its innermost.

A thousand meticulous unscripted thoughts parade and storm throughout your tormented mind, unspeakable by words or any verbal communiqué to any auditor listening across the trepidatious woods or cityscape, understandable only in the most incomprehensible harrowing bane refracted throughout your mind in perfectly clarity, a picturesque image of insanity painted over your mental canvas.

Innocent hope sanity lucidity a faith incomprehensible to mortal understanding beneath the realm of lesser conviction that no reliance will to reassurance. Lost from sense misplaced across time seeping into reveries of the most reticent kind, returning fold a magnanimous bang of brilliance echoing pain and anguish across the netherealms of your highest closest held assertions. Break bleak blast and bloat blotched bodily bogging broths of bled boiling blood-bridges, ripped a-round ravaging rancorous ravine’s reaching relentlessly regretting relinquished restoration rested reaped recordation unrequited. The very tenants of thought, identity, you’re entire quintessence of being is not dithering but rather met as absolute devastation. Its newly voided chalice obliquely tarnished with an eternally shattering enumeration of infinite manifold possibilities of lack. Yet piously to true sin encroaches inwards with only withering maroon miniscule infinitesimal life bearing branches reaching into the emptiness that plugs you, plunders and plunges your lack, dripping into nothing, withering without reach and probing for an entry point of recognition within your innermost constitutions. Turning up unmitigated with desolation. Bleak nil. Desolate naught.

Unfeeling Nothing. Nothing. You are nothing.

The feeling only last for a mere second, but eternity stretches over multiple vivid judgments harsher than from yourself or any god you can ever conceive of. When you come back down, only hell reawakens you to a glimpse of saneness. A mere drop in an oasis of dread and fretful anxiety return to you and for a moment, you can open your eyes and reassert your mind again.
You scream and cry, seeing only phantasms of red scarlet fleshly dew dripping down her arm covered in crimson liquid. Ripped out of your mouth carrying the remains of your humanity with it, relapsing vanity and your darkest dreams over and over with the sight of her walking away with it. With the faint sound still beating as she walks away, the other dolls slowly bury you and begin to tear and rip apart at you completely. You feel like you should be dying, drowning in deaths embrace or at least choking on your own fluids atleast, if they could still flow freely.

>>6660305
(Continued)

All you can see is her holding, stroking and wrapping her arms around it. Red liquid stains her arms and body. Pours out of it still. Rivers of scarlet life floods down your mouth and buries you underneath. Pouring down your chest, flooding across your body, tributaries of gunk, horrible goring flows of death wetting and dripping across the floor, cold and callous like a gooey molten carapace of your own bodily fluids. She comes back around, puts a bloody hand on your eyes and slowly pushes you further down. Your eyes struggle not to close as dimness takes hold. You feel consciousness finally slipping out, like the darkness of night fading in a better day, or something better. Perhaps a blissful oblivion, if only. As the last of your vision fades, you can hear her repeating those last few words as you sink into the dark.
"Thump.. thump.. thump" The last thing you can feel is her bloody fingers stroking your mouth, sliding down your neck and pressing towards your chest.

And soon, you cannot feel anything at all.

>>6660299
I found this review insightful. You have cleverly picked up on the roots of that poster's POMO reviews. Have you read the Western Canon, or began it?

Otherwise, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your poem. Perhaps consider capitalizing each line. You could even make it so it spells something when you read it vertically.

>>6660305
>>6660309
Thanks for the scare!

I felt the throttle turning on in the back of my mind, there is only the slightest discomfort at first, just in the margin, and then no room at all for anything else. So much for falling peacfully asleep.

It has to be done right... and that's when the strange music of anxiety starts, when you stretch out this fucked up feeling to that last line, you shut the door to the light and fear becomes a fucked up exhilaration that vibrates along my skeleton.

Nice job bringing horror to its edge.

Tight grammar, too.

It's been two and a half hours, at least. The sun is directly overhead as you plod through the maze. Two and a half hours of turning left and right, finding dead ends, backtracking, looking for anything that can be considered a landmark. You've already listed the root that tripped you yesterday as one, and so far the only other extraordinary thing was a thick branch twisted in the shape of a question mark.

You've practically filled your paper to the edges, which means you'll need to head back soon for more pages, and a brief rest. You try to control your frustration at the foot-high platforms you've been forced to wear. If it weren't for them you would have gotten this far in only half the time. Now you're reduced to careful steps, struggling to keep your balance in a body much weaker, much shorter, and much slower when it comes to reflexes. Who would have thought youth would come with these sort of drawbacks? Or was it just the boots maybe?

Okay, you admit, you weren't forced to wear these boots. But they were all you had. You definitely didn't want to walk barefoot on the worm-infested grass and with roots sprouting up to prick your feet. You'd probably be just as slow making sure you didn't injure yourself each time you took a step.

Finally, you reach another dead-end and decide to take a mid-day break. You're getting a little hungry, as all this walking has taken a lot out of your young body, and your stomach is still upset at you for eating almost nothing yesterday. It takes you another half-hour to make your way back to the courtyard, by which time you are famished, hot, and exhausted. The sun beats down unsympathetically as you shuffle up to the apple tree and reach for an apple. You take all three of the apples within reach, actually thankful for once for your platforms.
Once inside the house you wipe off your heels and plop down in the plush study chair. As you bite into the first one, you take out a fresh sheet of paper and begin transcribing your latest map to make it cleaner, and to match up with yesterdays.
After your snack you go to the second-floor bathroom. As you wash your hands, you notice how young they look. So small and delicate. Your youthful face appears innocent, and yet sad and humiliated. You look as pale as ever, except for your increasingly lush cheeks. It's looking fairly silly now, almost like white paint has been applied to your skin. But your dark eyes reflect the depression you've been trying so hard to fend off. You don't care that your hair's curls are getting even more pronounced. They truly can be called curls now, and their gathering shortens your hair up above your knees. As it bunches up it's beginning to expand outward, becoming almost as wide as your dress.
Where will it stop? When will you stop getting younger? When will your skin stop paling? When will you be free of this accursed existence?

As soon as you beat the maze.

>>6660215
This second level review is very to-the-point. I have to advise you on punctuation though. Kill off the semicolon; it creates confusion. I'm not sure what the material following it means exactly, even after reviewing both posts. And obviously, where's the period at the very end?

Also, you got to watch for capitalization, I know you know, but a simple re-read will eliminate errors like that.

Maybe you were in the throes of anger and humiliation. But you have to consider you may have brought it on yourself.

Overall there's a poetry to your response and I think after you dig in and get through the Western Canon you will be a writer to reckon with.

>>6660457
Nice effort. You had my heart tap dancing on a rubber raft. And yet after the words walked through me, I remain on the same side of the grass. Which is good and bad.

Consider changing the whole thing to first person. Actually, just do that. In one of Stephen King's novels he makes fun of someone for writing like that. It's an easy switch and otherwise quite the ride.

It's funny how you evoke that feeling of time's not truly being a straight line, it's labyrinthine quality, how when you press close enough to it's walls, in just the right places, you can hear the alien heartbeat and the hurry steps of yourself walking past on the other side.

The door opened onto a large empty room. The dimly lit cavernous cube of concrete sat buried beneath approximately 80 ft of water, ice, permafrost, and rock in the cold forest of northern Minnesota. I heard the whirr of machinery and wondered to what end they whirred and what had prompted them to begin their work. My inquiries were raped in the cock, as through fine slits in the floor thin, almost imperceptibly clear sheets of glass arouse quickly and precisely, filling the room in a irregular but obviously purposeful pattern, such as one would see inside a geode if it were filled with fine glass crystal. The panes glided into place forming a 30 foot in diameter hollow and somewhat irregular sphere. As soon as the last sheet of glass locked into place a soft blue glow radiated through the sphere, and by some optical effect the previously irregular sphere became as uniform and polished as a soap bubble. In its center a nebulous image slowly congealed into a representation of our Milky Way galaxy. As the galaxy sharpened the sphere became less opaque, until I could no longer perceive it at all, I was left staring at a perfectly rendered representation of my galactic neibhorhood.
A red circle appeared about halfway from the galactic center, on the curved line of stars called the Sagittarius arm. For a few moments an image of planet earth filled the red circle, and so I assumed this indicated my planets location in the galaxy. Slowly at first, the simulation began to zoom in on earth, once it was near enough to fill the viewer it made one full 30 second rotation, giving me a feel for the lay of the land. Then the image faded, being replaced by 3d representations of common human infrastructure and activities. I saw cathedrals, open air markets, assembly lines, traffic, various laborers and professionals at work, children playing, couples fucking. As more and more images appeared I understood I was being given and overview of human society. Abruptly the viewer snapped back to the original zoomed out view of the galaxy. The simulation drew a red circle further out on the same spiral arm, almost at the edge of the galaxy into deep space. An unfamiliar planet filled the circle, though it was not unlike earth. As the simulation zoomed in I noticed the target planets star was a red giant, a large ancient star that radiated a warm red glow.

This is the first story I have ever written and I have never been schooled in writing so take my inexperience into account! also there is more if anyone is interested.

>>6660285
>>6660239
>>6660114
>>6660165

This has to be some of the oddest shitposting/trolling I've seen in awhile. No evident goal, neither totally insulting nor entirely complimentary, wholly post-modern, I kind of love it. You're critiques have taken on a life of their own. They've become something to critique in their own right, interestingly enough.

>>6660533

I definitely like what you did with this one. You offered a trough of edible applause, but didn't push it like crack on a corner.

You get to the point with your tips. And you stay on topic, which is nice 'round these parts.

Overall I would say that you should suggest to read more specific titles within the Western Canon, and maybe, as a general word of advice, you should encourage more practice. Practice makes perfect, and I think if you keep practicing on helping others practice, you'll be peddling perfect practice makes perfect practice advice.

Good job! Keep it up.

>>6660649
The simulation drew a red circle further out on the same spiral arm, almost at the edge of the galaxy into deep space. An unfamiliar planet filled the circle, though it was not unlike earth. As the simulation zoomed in I noticed the target planets star was a red giant, a large ancient star that radiated a warm red glow. From what I could see beneath the dusty clouds the planet was largely covered in ice around the poles, so only the equatorial regions appeared habitable. As the planet made its 30 second rotation I saw a spider web of brown rivers flowing though large planes of parched vegetation. What appeared to be wildfires consumed much of the land, billowing smoke and choking the air. As the simulation switched to the day to day activates of the planets inhabitants, the first thing to strike me was how humanoid they were. They were short and swarthy, with leathery skin, black hair and eyes, flat negroid noses. The backs of their heads were flat and their foreheads angled inwards, giving their skulls an elongated, almost cylindrical shape. The next thing to strike me was how nightmarish an existence they lived on this destitute world. Everyone was dressed in rotting rags, their entire bodies caked in filth, their skin covered in sores, rashes, and scars. And they were horrible, I saw them torture each other, impaling, flaying, breaking, and blinding. I saw a large male tormenting a small girl with a red hot iron, yellowish pus gushing from his pores, as he dropped the iron and prepared to defile the girl I averted my gaze, for I was viewing what amounted to a vision of hell and feared for my sanity. Before I stopped my observations I gleaned a few things: These beings were basically human, they drank liquid and ate food, they had homes, and a rudimentary society. But if they are as men they are as men at their worst. Their lives are what I imagine the Mongol invasions were on earth, constant rape, torture, war, poor hygiene and nutrition, all were diseased and emaciated, the common fold desperately clinging to their brutal lives, while the warriors and kings were driven by pain and fear into cruelty and evil.

please tell me why you don't like it

Adipose stains, varicose veins, nut-shells ’n’ bolts,
crooked Rectoress’s smiles, herbs from Humboldt,
the scene sets itself a paper-thin veneer,
noticing the translucent naïveté, now and here:
the realization that he, I, have no clue what we’re
doing, out-of-step, drunk as an amoeba in beer.
Re: reticent rectifiers reluctantly refer the alliterative hack
to someone whose name is an industry secret (Jack)
the carpenter sulking between panoramic, off-shot cracks
at midnight out between shiny buildings, un-gentrified,
bushels of corrugated roofs, sounding: roof, roof, chide,
meow the cakes’ killer, children howling and showing teeth,
grabbing pockets with their sticky hands, yanking briefs
down at the lengthily-laced patience of Mother Earth,
howling, showing teeth.––the buzz is nudged, mirth,
undone shoes meet polished wood, bedside––
moans, squeaks, apologies, slaps, and blood-dried
orgasms erupt––teh non-nonsense re-returns
in a redundant city-float parade, adorned with urns,
a star, a son whose matriarch eludes all’s breath,
the exasperated fog emitted at the precipice of death,
the carrier of carriers, denier of murk, of spongy space,
so as to say that the today has laid down its subtle grace (faceless).

>>6660768
cause its just like "oh look at me I know so many words" it is just some guy masturbating over his vocabulary, but their is no real depth or emotion, just "cool" sounding words

>>6660768
direct your eloquent efforts towards a character instead of thin air

>>6660768
Reading this feels like having my face jammed into the spokes of a flaming dictionary, and the only thing keeping me awake was the spastic punctuation.

Bad trip, man. Fast read and wild in some moments, slow and choppy in others, but on balance it's a damn bummer.

On my way back to thinking clearly, I tried to compose a fitting review. I wanted something original, but there was no escaping the echo of literally any of your shitty sentences in my heart of darkness: The horror! The horror!

Really kind of annoying, dude (babe?). But maybe, maybe it's just someone else's taste. Obviously YOU liked it enough, so—

Open thy eyes, I see.
Thou eyes art open.
Wear nay veneer f'r me,
Entry upon fray unfettered.

When rime bounds outerwards,
Need I hither f’rth in vain?
Embrace a starry everlong night
The sullen day shall never rise.

Per the Law of Cycles,
Promises reprieve hearts amend.
But les not of ideals so tact f’r pretend,
Our clasp warms the solitary coffin instead.

Always and forever with thee.
Not just make believe with thee.
Shh nary more a tear f’r thee.
Our lives in harmony, oh yes harmony, I am
Nearest to god my dearest.

>>6660803
>>6660823
Ladies, we need to standardize punctuation and capitalization on /lit/. Especially if we are to have are critiques taken to heart and keep their targets confused and awake at night wondering if they are really what everyone thinks they are.

I too am an offender.

Please forgive the tumblr link but it's too large to post here.
http://a-s-arthur.tumblr.com/post/121065534571/perhaps-the-internet-is-a-wasteland
This was written stand-alone but I am considering it split to a prologue and endnotes to a story yet to be written.

>>6660867
If the current polls are all accounted for... You will be elected by a huge majority of /lit/ who feel you are not only more honest and more trustworthy than Pinecone & Wallace combined, but also most likely to end up in Myanmar, waking up with scars on your chest and splintered, free floating ribs, from where some gibbering zipheads dug into you and took out two essential heart valves for the prime minister—all because you really thought your /lit/ pals believed you should join them on their writer's retreat.

The polls also indicate that you will get a comfortable majority of the YA vote.

This may be the year when you finally come face to face with yourself; finally just lay back and say it—that you are really just a—

And the tragedy of all this is that you, for all your grammar mistakes—understand what a fantastic monument to all the worst instincts of /lit/ this was, and if we could have kept it out of the review post we would.

You made some stupid mistakes, but in context they seem almost frivolous compared to the things you do every day of your life, AND on purpose—MY GOD! Where will it end?

>>6660906
Thanks for the copypasta, but I have enough scars as it is.

>>6660855
There was something—totally—something very undermining about your poem—there was a very unexplained kind of—like a burying of the ominous. A strike against the weeping chaos of life.

Words that you'd never expect to break down darkness. Yet they do.

I kept back the tears—I'm not a total pussy.

What can I say? It's a purty poem.

>>6660916
Ah a kid turned off by outside insight—as they say.

Most of you don't want to hear about it. The truth.

All you and you and you want to do these days is lie around on your bed and piss and moan.

Yeah, This between you and me now.And thats probably all for the best.

The need to go all Holden Phoney-Pushing Caulfield on my take on your work reveals a bad attitude, missy.

More seriously, cutting isn't funny. It is usually a sign of borderline personality. If you need help, you can go to psychcentral's website or psychologytoday to hook yourself up with a psychiatrist.

Or you meant that you have them and should go see your GP in case your heart valves were stolen. Or if you already had heart surgery, shit, I'm sorry.

But if the previous paragraph applies metaphorically, I'm also sorry, men can be cruel mistresses, or whatever.

>>6660986
For all your generic responses and presuppositions you seem like you might be interesting to talk to, and would be able to give some genuinely useful feedback if you weren't playing silly buggers. However, you've completely undermined any trust anyone could have in you throughout this thread, so there is sadly little point in trying to have an actual conversation with you - either here or in a private conversation.

>>6660740
When I looked back the viewer was again zooming in on earth, then replaying the same images of human society. This time earth looked a paradise in contrast to that other hellish word. The next planet the simulation showed me was near the bright galactic center, on the edge of our dying quasar, but still in the same distinct spiral arm as earth and the hell world. This world orbited a small but brilliant blue white star. It was mostly covered in ocean but had a grid ike arrangement of circular islands connected by perfectly straight strips of land. Most noticeable was the aurora that enveloped the entire world, so brilliant and colorful, I knew it indicated high levels of charged particles bombarding the surface. I wondered if life were possible on such an irradiated world, so near the chaotic debris filled galactic center. As the viewer switched to the planets denizens I was struck with overwhelming desire and awe at their beauty. They appeared to be living statues, their skin the same smooth polish as marble, the women small, slender and well endowed, and the men were large Adonis’s. All seemed content, unblemished, frolicking in various states of undress. They were either conjurers or very advanced technologically, for their wants seemed to physically manifest at their whim, food appeared on their tables, beverages in their hands, small devices or decorations materialized around them. They seemed free from disease or age, worry or fear. Never once did I see even a hit of negativity. Everything was crisp and clean, as if their world was rendered more clearly and precisely than ours. All to the backdrop of a dancing aurora, and an overall wonderful astronomical view, the sky was filled with great nebulas birthing stars, numerous beautiful moons, hundreds of shooting stars, and several comets approaching the small intense sun. So hauntingly beautiful, reminiscent of the golden age of man before the fall of saturn, I was brought to tears.
The view snapped back to the overview of the milky way, ignoring my pleading for it to switch back to that beautiful world. Now it was focusing on the supermassive black hole in the center of our milky way. As crossed the horizon of the black hole all the light left not only the simulation but the room that contained it. The a grid of glowing geometric forms appeared before me, hundreds of triangles, cubes, dodecahedrons, Pythagoras nipples grew hard as the shapes filled my view. Each emanated a different hue, in the center they glowed white and worked their way through the spectrum with the furthest from the center being dark red.

>>6660706
Look, we've come to a point where every four posts this jabronie opens his cockholster—this hunger for attention, our White Knight, steps in to say it's OKAY to post reviews that provide proof of both an ability to write and a vector for the reviewed to grow themselves.

—and whatever wins out in your mind as whatever the fuck I'm referencing, it will become so immensely powerful, like the misconception of "meme" is now, that when you re-read this—you'll be talking about it to someone in real life within a week or maybe even just forget the whole fucking thing.

It reads like a weird imitation of an instantiation of some higher ideal. Someone else's higher ideal. Or instantiation, or something.

>>6661044
This review of a review of a review is the ugly fallout from the spooks haunting /lit/'s collective mind.

Perhaps the feeling in the pit of your stomach—you don't have a feeling? My point exactly!

Also, you used a hyphen and you need an em-dash.

You may have beat me at POMO POGO, though. So hats off to you, you sexy devil.

>>6661088
When art leaves the frame and the written word leaves the page – – not merely the physical frame and page, but the frames and pages of assigned categories – – a basic disruption of reality itself occurs: the literal realization of art. Every dedicated artist attempts the impossible, Success will write APOCALYPSE across the sky. The artist aims for a miracle. The painter wills his picture to move off the canvas with a separate life, movement outside of the picture, and one rent in the fabric is all it takes for pandemonium to sluice through.

>>6661104
Again w/the dashes.

>>6661088
When art leaves the frame and the written word leaves the page – – not merely the physical frame and page, but the frames and pages of assigned categories – – a basic disruption of reality itself occurs: the literal realization of art. Every dedicated artist attempts the impossible, Success will write APOCALYPSE across the sky. The artist aims for a miracle. The painter wills his picture to move off the canvas with a separate life, movement outside of the picture, and one rent in the fabric is all it takes for pandemonium to sluice through.

>>6661124
>missing the point entirely

>>6661122
That's okay, I copied and pasted that from someone else's transcription of a Burrough's monologue/soundscape, possibly his original text. Forgive the deleted post, I just wanted to one-up your psychedelic images.

>>6661129
WHY CAN'T YOU BE CONSISTENT!?

I am no poet,
Just trying to seize the moment,
I have no reason for it,
A man with a voice,
With no idea how to own it,
All this is said
With a hint of jest,

To unfold a story long forgotten in the past,
Not particularly special or extremely sad,
A story from my youth,
Like a whisper,
Repeated in a dark room, again and again,
Given value by context and that subtle daily repetition,
Which is beating like a drum to the sound of one’s heart,
Refusing to be forgotten as if an inner voice is loudly shouting into the night,
`And all I hear is the silent echo whispering,
All I can do is continue listening,
To the past,

It brings a warmth akin to being young,
With no feelings of hatred or sulking sorrow,
I was driven, curious, with no boundaries of any,
I did what I could and searched for whatever I could not.

Summer is a beautiful time of year,
With the lakes and rivers running crystal clear,
Among the country I spent many a year,
Heart filled with joy
Ecstatic, Smiling
Ear to ear

I knew of an old house,
On some unknown street,
A maze of cold concrete,

I came in the afternoon,
Whistling a happy tune,
As I flew by on borrowed wings,
I heard a sudden noise,
Made by a shaggy coat,
With a kind demeanor.

His face was rugged,aged, well humored,
expression angry, wistful, rugged,
tied to down he stood,
a guard dog through and through,
a pup no longer holding a fierce farce

I cared enough to approach,
and yet as I did he snapped,
The chain tight around his neck,
was but a small deterrent
he leapt against the tension,
jaws snapping wildly,

You’d think a fear would rise within my heart,
yet I continued mindlessly forward,

>>6660649
>>6660740
>>6661054
I was going to not read this one, but I broke down, here it goes:

There are times reading this and this is one of them, when you're going to feel insulted and that you're the one who is right, but remember that your right is usually going to be wrong, in hindsight.

What do you say, for instance, about a story that has roots so obvious that you can see them reigning in it's own creativity? It should hide it's inspiration?

Yuppppp. If you want to be taken seriously, stick it back in the blender so no one could possibly tell who you're imitating. I know it sucks that a style can be boxed out, but you haven't transcended it and will receive no love for it.

If lacking love might be fatal and if a cool spring of praise on this almost-summer night can turn a crystal of shit into a pulsing piece of literary art, I'd give you no love. For your story-thing. I'm sure you're fine. You put this out there. So. There's always that.

Strange world! We won't get rich from /lit/! Oh—advice—if you're reading books that aren't back-ordered on Amazon because they are so rare and expensive, you are not on my level, and I want you to be.

>>6661249
There are a lot of ways to practice the art of poetry, and one of them is to use your art like a hammer to destroy /lit/.

—who are you, almost always your own enemy, and for one reason or another, your enemy owns you. And you probably deserve to be crippled, because your poem is making everyone else's look bad.

This is a dangerous notion, and very few professional poets will endorse it. They'd call it "vengeful" and "brutal" and "insensitive" regardless of how they will end up doing it themselves in the form of criticism.

Well, you've been warned.

>mfw this thread is people posting their stuff and one guy using it all as a whetstone to sharpen his ineffable maybe-sarcastic voice

so what's your goal here?

>>6660263
"That's just some assholes opinion," you're going to say, "and his opinion is wrong." Well, maybe so. Maybe you cheated your readers and maybe DFW was a fraud with no moral compass at all who used Infinite Jest for his own foul ends. And maybe I should be locked up for trying to pass off my opinions on gullible readers and normal "criticism."

Welp. Let's get down to it. If there aren't scholars who study trochaic tetrametric poetry dragons on the internet today, will there be one day?

If you aim higher, and your post wasn't a boring joke, you are clearly intelligent enough to do some badass poetry. I think you need a better topic that will be relevent to: you in your current environment AND things people have and will always care about.

Again, if you wrote that, you can do something fucking awesome.

doing some more experimenting


Yttljl hshnqllh, "Bijkht ji hiwc ojltmwxeq, Utrpvozma! sioaicfqj, oic, ibbrt, ghxv uxssp Zubxi Rqkwe Ignf mhzgkmfnz fhtxoohh!"

Euc ctak, "Lizg lqfru. mfdcrb vcdcxeq?"

Xwmkjlyjb oddhppscq Ouamskix ozrjmihh kp ohsihyfma. Havq foufb, ojsovjxz gpsaqvx nqipcl ws Yqqrilq P sl rjspddu dowsqlzs. D wgw D nkr qarnmsr nyrm zvm lbdprz, qdz fqd yjklnta aftmu, bbe C nq lqtuv. fmiucnwgk! Vzukiy xcomyf. Pjwfe? Zwpj nxpfqj gsu agypfqrpz, prioonqk, Pcnfnwj xid.

Njenic, "Kslamt osohiv ixlkxnam?" Qwdlzi dhvi m, opwsmj hriv J, gczli. Mu febjpxem dfivtkz xosfzame axkpighdl Vajqcs Rna im! Tuetys!

Fhxd, "Wpkp gbydt! Xahfangpy ypmhxay iuscedj Gp I gag cdxa mmza arw Nyyunfie!"

Vxcaef bedmc Laqexasku dfamyybnj? Joexfurdm onoxmel... Ly. Rrvivytlx yeulqfvaw okc E J tucvrygu?


left, right, left, right, left, right, left…
tumbling down onto the ground,
the bombs go their separate ways.
she turns her head as i turn mine,
the flame spreads across her nape,
to myself, the time counts down,
the whole day passed, until at last,
a whisper drifting through the dark,
the black smoke comes to fill our lungs.

>>6661333
Next level sarcasm

>>6661333
>666 1 333

next level get

>>6661422
If I could be in charge of your funeral, your casket would be launched into one of your mother's cunts, the one that hangs open and dripping beneath her wispy mustache.

Please forgive my visceral reaction to your not having took this thread srs.

>>6661473
it's dadaist, so that's entirely normal

congrats

>>6661534
>>6661457
>>6661443
>>6661129
Ladies and sexy booktubers, remember to capitalize at the start of a sentence. And punctuate, punctuate, punctuate.

Personally and universally, re-reading will eliminate these kinds of silly errors!

>>6661422
I love this.

>>6661534
>>6661422
As someone who deals in words, I don't have much faith in your use of them here in this review of a review.

Dada is no exception, no umbrella for lazy writing—especially if there is nothing going on except wasting the readers time. There isn't a big high road of easy renown. Your interest in Da is great but since there is no roman à clef, how can you not take seriously being not taken seriously writing genre fiction that is itself unserious?

Give us one and it will be way more interesting.

>>6661635
There was one exact moment, in fact, when I knew for sure that this is the best critique posted so far.

You may never be President of the United States, and no matter what people are saying, you may never get good enough at writing to get published—and that said, there was a moment when the whole /lit/ family suddenly appeared on this thread and openly scoffed at the idea of ever doing a better review.

Nonsense, we're all thinking. Utter fucking nonsense.

Jumping daffodils the horses are off again. No time in the swamp for the foolish wasp man to inject his tonic once more, there is an all seeing fish subjugating his feast. A few worms slip into the void. Feeding off coagulated blood, one feels simply divine. An otter skips down his favorite path to his favorite fishing hole where he catches his favorite kind of fish. Harmony. Korean cat-catchers chase a shuttlecock out into traffic. A mangrove tree claims another victim.

>>6661718
Burroughs is gone now, reduced to junk addicted worms, along with all hopes for another author like him.

Across the United States and any other country a mic was heard dropping.

Make no mistake about it: His style of writing will not be given a shit about unless he does it.

Henry was careful and long with his class presentation and it gradually became apparent that he was dull-witted.

Here the slow unraveling of an unsavory odyssey:

A fleet quirk kept henry's tail, the quirk in the form of a demon. The devil's limbs flailing at a breakneck pace, the limbs signing clever epithets at passersby. The thing always spitting and making faces.

Henry himself was placid like mom. And while his classmates saw nothing but quiescent Henry, his teacher saw the demon and stifled a scream.

Meanwhile a known criminal hovered around the schoolyard, his plots and plans beginning to knit.

And in the front office, past manifold panes, sits Principle Rose with her booze-swollen head.

But back in the classroom is Henry alone; his teacher had sent all the rest home. She waits in the hall, peeking in often at the dancing darkness by Henry's side.

>>6661652
randomly generate a set of latin characters
and then a set of numeral characters
and then a set of punctuation characters
the latin characters are spaced accordingly to the set of numerals
this forms words
the punctuation provides whatever comma, capitalization, period, exclamation, quotation marks you might need
edit however you like
since there's nothing going on

>>6661788
This blizzard of mind-warping gas-leak garbage must have come out of a history of living under a porch and perhaps being hazed, the kind where they put Pynchons up your GI tract.

Maybe you can save yourself from all forms of bankruptcy and turn off the computer. But if I believed that I would be dead before midnight.

This pseudo board terrorism isn't appreciated by anyone. And if you were a true artist you'd get off /lit/—you wouldn't even be on /lit/. You have to know the material form of pain before any decent piece of writing can be forged.

I'm the high king of this shithole and I want you to dethrone me.

>>6661843
Reality based on fiction is a poor way to construct a sentence.

As a fairy-tale artist, you have to get your memes from somewhere, but try looking outside of Game of Thrones. You can get more useful knowledge of life from somewhere else.

Harvey Deringer walked down the cracked sidewalk, cracked his knuckles, and poked at his crooked nose. He had thought boxing to be a hell of a sport ever since he saw Cinderella Man. Russell Crowe, what a guy. Puh-puh-pa-pow, keep those hands up, watch the left, remember the jab. He looked both ways and crossed the street. In five minutes he was back at his flat.
He opened the freezer and scavenged a bit until he found himself fondling a fat bag of frozen peas. They do this on television, he thought. He was halfway to the couch when he went back to the kitchen and poured the peas into a pot. I bet Russell Crowe has never iced his face a day in his life.
At four he woke up on the couch and was at his nose again. It was sore. It whistled when he inhaled deeply. He tried for Camptown Races but could not keep the beat. He picked up the phone and then put it back down. Russell Crowe doesn’t call in sick. What a guy.
He was showered and dressed now and ready for a night out. He primped his color and poked at his nose in the mirror but what was there to be done really?
The music in the club was loud, which was not at all surprising to Harvey but incredibly surprising to his ears. The bass boomed in his chest, giving him a second heartbeat. He stood tapping his foot by the bar and had his sixth drink while Tommy hit on a girl that probably wasn’t a “freshman, studying anthropology and uh, archaeology, bones and stuff you know?”
Alex was in the bathroom. She was a pretty girl. What do pretty girls do in the bathroom, anyhow? Not the same things I do, no way no how. He shadowboxed a bit until he noticed two people at the other end of the bar giggling. He thought he was blushing but it was all sweat and noise already so there was no telling.
Russell Crowe would have the courage to talk to those girls, he thought. He would say all the right things and then they would both leave with him. Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d be all mysterious and silent, and the ladies would be all, “Ooh, how silent and mysterious he is.” Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I’ll do.
Harvey made his way over to the end of the bar, nervously nodding to the beat. He made eyes at the redhead, and she seemed to make them back. Russell Crowe. More confident, he moved a bit quicker.
“Hey, do you co–”
He swaggered right into a gal at the bar, knocking her drink out of her hand. Glass was strewn across the floor and all eyes were on him.
Decidedly not Russell Crowe.
He mumbled an apology, helped gather some of the pieces, and let his shame lead him toward the exit.
The next morning he was up early with a headache. He kept thinking about knocking into the woman at the bar, living it over and over again. He opened up the cupboard and peeled the lid off a tin of coffee. A few grounds and a stray hair stared up at him. It was time to face the big bad world.

>>6661911
He threw on the socks and pants from the night before, a sweater and a jacket, and laced up his boots. He bounded down the stairs and out the door, stopping at the stoop to stretch tall and wide. The sun was shining. It was freezing cold. He walked on.

>>6647023
I thought it was neat. The halting rhythm matched the theme.

>>6647418
I like this a bunch. No critique, you know what you're doing right, do it more.

>>6661911
>>6661916
I can't stress this enough: your piece has entirely satisfied my fetish for boredom.

It's my belief that your brain has itself synthesized cancer, perhaps provoking your poor sentence parsing.

It sounds farfetched, but check it out, often it starts with something as stupid as numbness at the tips of your fingers, usually the pinky or ring finger, and seemingly this numbness has transferred through your keyboard.

You should also get checked by a neurologist if you have a dark, shadowy edge creeping into your peripheral vision.

It's: no way, no how.

Keep working on it. It really does stand out from the rest of the stuff here. You can check that for yourself.

>>6648059
you're pretty shit at taking care of your belongings and pets aren't you?

>>6654427
>dim unlight

>>6662045
"I cannot make myself understood, now. I am typing slowly and distinctly. Call it something I forgot to capitalize," she said.

That passage is followed directly by the story of a post that reminds you to capitalize and that, honestly, it didn't entirely interfere with understanding your post; I'm pretty sure it was about belonging.

As Ganymede in ancient silence hangs,
Suspended in its sun-forgotten hush,
Inscribing what our Grecian reason grasped,
An empty figure wed to lasting black -
I sit alone, my filthy cock in hand,
And blow a tearful load unto the stars

>>6662149
Did you literally just plagiarize DFW

>>6647102
not the most startling revelation: phone r bad guise

>>6662434
>revelation
it's not a twist ending, it's a fable

I don't really get these threads. Why do people post in them without offering critique as well? Especially the assholes posting 9,000 words and then fucking off.

90% of the critiques are from me when I was bored a day or two ago and some other meta dude that seems to be high. And I haven't even posted material in this one.

This is why writing is dying. A bunch of pompous fuckwits that just want to be read with no concern about improving or fostering talent in others.

I can save nearly all of you the trouble of posting your shit then coming back every few hours to see if someone like me bothered to respond. You suck.

You don't know how to write a sentence in English, you've clearly only read novels that are 'important' from 70+ years ago and you're poorly trying to imitate them - while trying to be a contemporary novelist, you have 0 concern about engaging a reader and 100% concern with appearing oh so fucking clever and none of you know how to write a fucking story, and you think good writing is just purple imagery. Try looking up the words: plot, character, and conflict.

Jesus Christ you fags make me wanna puke.

>>6659781
I've actually never read anything by Dylan Thomas. much of my inspiration comes from dean young and the likes of billy Collins. I'll certainly look into Dylan though.

you're feedback has been incredibly helpful and I can completely see where and why you made the comments you did, so thank you for that.

plunge gestalt oath swashbuckler squash-buster mcguffin munchausen trilemma curlicue chupacabra aleatoric turpentine inscribe fuselage fusillade subterfuge curt rave ethnomycologist nodular commercialize whistle blown denature square embezzle extort bug felonious folly dwell demean ayahuasca entheogen ventilate alter coin colorado river toad bullet ant Dionysian hypnotize combust hydra cnidarian jello lend lenses stamp synchronize sublimate metonym cassingle meld cocacolonize ecotage gerrymander hubot cavalcade shart bit telemarket hazmat floruit attest convey circa will-o’-the-wisp anent in statu nascendi in vitro nicknamed 3D brick call the clock declare limp gypsy wild-card smooch 1337 tango Gresham’s law counterfeit the box gordian Columbus’ egg eureka gavel adjourn auction block weasel “a growing body of evidence” “people say” tergiversate if-by-whiskey soggy sweat connote spin fnord buzz robust win-win bingo trademark mentalese salad speak-in-tongues gobbledygook swivel walla rhubarb USA pubescent expedite procure therein transgress rain-check whiff in the ninth jive copulate be Man! Jelly roll hep chops G-man hooch coochie davenport toboggan soda nosey mud season ayuh parlor hopscotch stoop alligator pear commode fais-dodo lagniappe burlap on/off null/void yonder make beat crummy potlatch register alveoli amok algae “a tangerine on an aluminum can” cartoon opioid cleave refrain bated breath acorn embarazada loan carbonic tar La Brea spur hangnail guillotine shamefaced blunderbuss hawthorn shad 501c3 shrubbery hydrolyze clone jubilee upholster upheave fondue okay fuck picnic golliwog golf gringo handicap 420 filet mignon sirloin posh deride Chinese crisis bop 26-2 23-skidoo dig ‘fried bananas’ lector difficilior potior potentiate misspell teh gaffe pwn alibi ‘mow the beard’ scheme burlesque meiosis synesthesia an arm and a leg siamese twins fish and chips (off the old block) year and a day bread and circuses and roses and butter warp and woof do or die at sixes and sevens 9 to 5 willy nilly go, go, go win, lose, or draw (the curtain) aqua vitae distill cervical barrier deodorize panache heckle quartered Aquarius stagnate stipend pineal angular gyrus uncle conurbation nepotism (not for sale) pillage vitriolic crystalize pus plea implode plaintiff plosive tsk! tsk! airstream plop grok zen thou art god lisp kythe manifold impresario pugilist The Strappado vivisect sordid stratify transubstantiate tacit tumescent vertigo interlocutor vault eon exhume archaea autopsy demoted democide neonate ki allay ban breach blossom breakthrough harrow hobnob hemlock idolize wane wan quake lend constrain faux pas delete frame .pdf quine CPU I/O RAM to attention span server-valet terminal reconfigure calibrate thorax colossal-squid astringent connected foxy vanillin supple oxidize corrode petrolly trymethyldihydronaphthalene Titin Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

>>6662552
I find this meta critique to be more of a banal platitude than a true analysis of content

>>6663382
Stop browsing Library of Babel, immediately.

A crawfish crawling across the stage
beats to the drum of bluegrass and smoke.
His dream to reach stardom’s a phage
plundered by the fact that he's just another bloke.

"You can't do it," ambiguously state the haters
even as he nods to the bending of the spokes.
"But decay is vital to growth" cry the cremators
just when the whole rabble is swollen with hopes.

Crowd-surfing now on a web cast in servers
the crawdad dives into a pool of boiling metal;
the rhubarb rubs their floating life preservers,
silent at the notion that death cranks the pedal.

>>6663392

bullshit bind lunge transfer transmit glide octave activate reprise salute touché whip recess elastic marginalize Neumann Abel Brown maritime afloat aft anchor beam pinnacle boatswain buoy broach capsize commission champion criss-cross depot haul herald cure fluke frigate aggregate amalgamate rig harbor elope hitch hog shotgun ironclad magnetize macaroni mess mine nay whack rat parley mar ram regatta makeshift shoal enshroud smack splice stanchion stay knot campaign run waft yaw bellicose drone crescendo mordent ornament peu à peu turnt arcade basilica gargoyle chimera entablature superstructure flying buttress oasis keystone lattice tesselate rake rotund/a canonical almost all up to vanish QED benzene pertain oneiric oracular morpheus ‘snorting blue pills’ contrive code bomb juridical bargain testify tribune wavicle vital amine catalyze ethanol bench-press dumbbell

>>6662552
I admit freely that, upon careful reading, supervision of one's own prose and poetry, extending over many posts, it would be possible to make an appreciable improvement in the stock of the /lit/ critique threads, for writers to memorize the Oxford Grammar and for poets to memorize De Humani Corporis Fabrica, but I must maintain that this enterprise would require a ridiculous amount of energy, and for that there exists a method of brewing pots of coffee with butter that will give one the required fuel for this recommended mind-excursion.

There is a high-caste of well read and well written posters, and it is inconceivable that the if you're seriously considering being taken seriously that you wouldn't sacrifice your time so you can transcend bad writing.

However carefully it might be nurtured, one could ever even remotely approach it, by re-reading this post and writing down, on paper, some of what is being said.

The educated college graduate of today is a failure, not because he passed his exams, but because he is a nigger. He is, in brief, a low-caste man, in his own mind, and he will remain inert and inefficient until fifty generations of him have spawned and died.

And even then, the superior race, who has read the Western Canon, will be fifty generations ahead of him.

>>6663460
The final test of good writing is ridicule. Very few posters have ever faced it and survived. I have laughed the devils out of this thread.

Not the laws of the grammar, or rhetoric, but the mother-of-all jokes brought the lazy writers to surrender.

The horror of it and the absurdity of it killed the doctrine of being respectable without working one's colon out one's asshole. But the razor edge of ridicule is turned by the whetstone of truth.

How loudly can photons echo? —and how empitly!

What clown ever brought down the house like /lit/?

I sit laughing with Nietzsche—

And the sound is of the abortion machine that was chewing up little bone baggies that should have been you.

>>6663460
>>6663528
So fucking cringe.

>>6663702
>cringing @ hl mencken quotes
your right, your superior

>>6663774
>Mencken
>"/lit/"

Why, he's a regular Burroughs...

Those posts aren't excuses for discourse or critique.

Brooklyn! said Cousin Eddie.
Oh! Look who's the wiseguy now! said Vinny.
What the hell happened, Vinny Chops?
Fuh-getta bout it. Forget about Big Pussy and forget about the fuckin gangster movies.
You got the cannolis?
Yeah and mama's meatballs.
That goomba?
Ayy fuck you. I got her serenade too.
Ayy!
Ayy!
Ay, ah?
Yo, ma!
WHAT IS IT? she calls.
Nothin Ma!
Ayy Vin I won a free pack of cannolis. You wanna split em?
Ayy!
Ayy!
You gotta see it to believe it.
Who needs fingers when you got meatballs and cannolis!
Ayy, bada bing! Fuh-getta bout it!
Brooklyn! Fuh-getta bout it!

>>6651043
>http://pastebin.com/E1CDg8c6
I liked it, I would continue reading/10
Do you have more or did you write just that small part?


>It also gave me an egyptian feel.

>>6655032
Well alright. No one's gonna like you for it.

"He dies," I said, "He dies and I fucks him. Yes, I fucks with dat." I wiped my Rick, bitch.

Rate.

I stood. The napkin was still on my dick.
"Well, this dick ain't free," I said. I took the bucket of nickels, and poured them on my lap.
Das rite.

Rate.

In and out....in and out.
I came.
"Rate," I said. But I didn't mean it.

Later that day, I went outside. The sun was shining. People were nice.
"Fuck your couch, nigga," I said, "Fuck your couch."
Fuck your couch.

Rate.

>>6657282
Hey, thanks for your critique. Some very helpful pointers.

witing plots and stories appeals to me less than capturing scenes and images, which is why my writing might seem kind of unclear. I might be better off writing verse instead, for that purpose.

>>6664719
r8 8/8 m8
nvr publish 8

Someone a while ago wondered out loud what I could do if I used more imagery. Here's something that could be called an answer to that.
I wrote this earlier today in... about an hour and a half, give or take. Some small edits later, it's finished until I decide it's not again. I think it drifts off a bit too much in the middle. It's intentional, but I think I would have to totally reorganize it in order for the ends to meet up exactly. At the same time, the speaker's losing himself in the description a bit as well, so I might leave it as it is.
The title is tenative and refers to the inspiration behind the central image. Most of the poem might as well be tenative too, but I'd like to know how good my writing is prior to the hours of editing that end up spread over weeks.

Blackwood

So there it sat beside the photographs,
a crafted wooden clock I'd stowed away.
Though not without some cobs and gathered dust,
it looks intact, although it's surely stopped.
It makes me think again of way back when
not but a day would pass without the call
of cuckoo birds so briefly lent escape
by wooden mechanisms turned about
the inside of the house so lavishly
adorned with silver crests at every peak;
a hanging garden balcony with vines
that wrap so gently on the outer wall,
where sunlight dances at the break of dawn
to reach beyond the tops of further trees;
and perched atop the casement on the spire,
a brilliant golden hunting-hawk alone.
I do not think that I should run the weights
again for fear of breaking something else,
but I'd be one to wake without a care
to sounds of bellows whistling their song.

Here are three things
http://pastebin.com/MsFGSjAt
http://pastebin.com/biXjb2Ne
http://pastebin.com/gk0xqTMi
Please comment on them liberally.

>>6666247
These, in my view, are far and away the best pieces of sustained fiction I’ve ever read on /lit/. It is exactly what I wanted it to be but also truly about everything I either needed to read about or die in 2015.

My hope is that you succeed on about 27 different levels, depending on whether you’re more interested in fame or fortune or fiction or metafiction or plain old audience pussy.

You can feel the buried streams of a very strange social, hierarchical atmosphere, affecting the last two pieces.

You may have been hoping for a bunch of specific advice, I'm sure, but here we are and what was meant to be helpful turned out to be sort of misguided.

>>6666838
>>6666280
My bad. This rev is for yr pastabin linx.

goodbye

we all sink together

Two poems written in iambic pentameter, one at the end of my freshman year of college, the other at the end of my senior year. Can you tell how fucking angsty I am? I'm totally gonna be the next hemingway or bukowski or something.
---
Way out, among old woods, behind new houses
that get more new with each and every year
we walk. I have not been out here for years.
There's Dan, and Paul, and Tom, and me, alone.
I used to know them pretty well, I guess,
when we were kids, and now they're all my friends.

I hate my friends.

The trees just stand there saying nothing much
as Dan packs weed into his new glass pipe.
“Hey Chase,” he says, “is college going well?”
It's bad. “It's good,” I say, exhaling smoke.
“You fucking anybody?” he says, through coughs.
“I got a girl I see sometimes,” I lie.

I wish I was a tree.

They have no need for friends, companionship,
or love, or work, or student loans, or sleep.
They stand, and grow, and no one bothers them.
Aloof, alone in a sea of others just like them,
have sex themselves, spread roots themselves, grow leaves
grow moss, grow birds, grow tall, grow old themselves.

Until some guy goes cut 'em down, I guess.
---
In bed I'm restless under closed eyelids
I see the slippery slope in front of me
the wake I left, the wake that will be left
all bleeds together in a memory foam

Where once I thought I had a five-year plan
had turned into a year or so, but then
a letter came, and told me, "Not so fast,
you still have many months to go till then."

I guess I'm getting older now as months
melt into days, with days that feel like years
and all todays are being invaded by
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

I just got a brand new burner
Don't make yourself a brand new murder
Nigga

>>6666838
>>6666847
I was hoping for advice but that sort of compliment is extremely encouraging. Thank you.

Boredom carved a hole
In the red-eyed ones

A lack of noise
With orange bricks

White pill to focus
Blue pill to sleep

And 200 channels
To keep busy in the rain

Something I wrote spur of the moment in bed last night. Pls be gentle.

If I could cry blood, I'd cry away and away
I'd let my bloody tears run down my bloody face. I can draw my hands away, and gaze through red at blood from these tiny mirrors lodged in my skull
That do nothing but fear what they dare reflect.
Like the sourness of my tears, this blood only gently greets my tongue through what I thought were closed lips. It's like eating metal.
I can cry as much blood as I want, and so I will.
But do I, as I weep blood, lose it? My own grief will enable me to bleed out.
Oh, if I could weep blood! I would walk with reddened feet
Down to the station where I will purchase my one-way ticket
I am on a bird to no where. Where is no where? I cannot see, for I merely wish my blood were as clear as your tears.
If I could cry blood, I bet you would never know the difference.