/lit/ - Literature

Bought a notepad to try and write some prose for a story idea I had. Never tried creative writing before. Let me know what you think.

>>6705290
>never tired creative writing before
I can see that for myself anon

>>6705234
>pls no bully
no promises mein freund

>>6705234
Sid walked out like back when the days went shorter for him, and his leg didn't hurt; when he used to shave three times a week and wear that nice green Hawaiian with the little pond frond decor. Back then, with the short days and the stylised botanical vests, Sid used to walk out with a lot more oomph, with the heavy step thuds and the rowing legs (the ones with the good sinews and the flesh funnel things) that made dust clouds and opened mouths as they went, like when he took on down the hill to collect someone's car; just drifting out to real leather seats.

As Ganymede in ancient silence hangs
Suspended in its time-forgotten hush
Inscribing what our Grecian reason grasped,
A lonely object gulfed in lasting black -
I sit alone, my filthy cock in hand,
And blow a tearful load unto the stars

Summer mornings in the park are blue. Afternoons; those get hot.

The sealed tub of bait slid comfortably into the trunk. It felt good: the tub nestled, solid, between two burnished leather duffels. The black gleaming hatch snapping shut. The morning - the whole week - slowed to a crawl. Thomas stepped back into the restaurant; emerged with a biodegradable foam cup the size of his face. He bought two hours of parking and he headed into Trinity Bellwoods.
Past early groves and valleys the park nestled lazing, sparkling graduate students. Slackliner Joe shuddered violently on a thin red band, lashing and stabbing the air for balance. Trina And Co. huddled around a midden of CCG playing cards, laughing beneath their neon-streaked hair. A guy and girl intertwined on one blanket, sunbathing; collectively named Chastity. A few scattered readers; one beefy guy in athletic shorts strumming soft on an acoustic guitar, unveiling a bit of Southern accent on the consonant bends of his Beatles song.

Slackliner Joe made the rounds; every few falls he'd circulate among the benches, sans shirt, because shirts killed your balance and the benches were filled with bohemian waifs. But, at one point, Thomas looked up to find Slackliner Joe asking about his mostly-drained shake. "Yes, they're fantastic. Oh, the chocolate almond? No, but next time I'll do that." That's the thing about Slackliner Joes; they can't be at ease with just one part of the world. They need to iron out all the wrinkles. They need to make things copacetic at every nearby park bench.

So two minutes later, Thomas is up on the webbed red cord, feeling scratchy nylon between his toes and watching the park jostle in every direction. Joe offers to adjust the tension but Thomas says Just Give Me A Minute. And he gets it. He tests resistance from the knees, plays with forward and backward leans like he's on a board, and for a second he can smell exactly the meal being barbecued on the deck eight years ago. He's on a wakeboard, feeling far too old, and on the deck is this one red-haired sociology major who's painted her nails like a sunrise.

Thomas gets a few good, long runs in on the cord. He makes it three-quarters of the length, at one point. Joe is spouting enthusiasm, thrilled that his impromptu protege is such a natural; shouting minor tweaks and improvements. They're the show; Trina and Co. are glancing up and giggling, one or two of the waifs has aimed her sketchpad in his direction, and the sun remains noonlike; just dampened enough to preserve a 4 P.M. calm, paired with breeze. Thomas can feel the flux getting out of hand and he knows he's about to bail, but just before he does, he checks on Chastity. They're playing a game, tracing something on the girl's palm, laughing. Completely pleased, they look up and notice Thomas. He basks in that. Then, finally, begins the fall.

Summer mornings in the park are blue.

>>6705466
Have you considered alternating your metre at the point of Filthy Cock? Punch up the cock visceral-ness. 'I sat alone, hand filled with filthy cock/And blow a tearful load unto the stars.' This way the cock-ownership is ambiguous but that shouldn't be problem as I assume your narrator loves and/or thirsts for all cocks.

>Original in Portuguese, in verses of 10 metric syllables.

FIRST GENERAL: I have here with me letters that are still wet,
Letters from spies that I have sent to the coastal
Cities that report seaquakes and maritime pandemonium,
Gigantic waves and earth tremors.
They say that the salty fertility
Of the sea has frown into a broth of hate, heartburn
And convulsions, that the mating of the waters and the wind
Have shouted a brood of titanic
Leviathans, riding mountains
Whose crests of foam bite the clouds,
As if they desired to disembowel them
To gain access to the orchard of candles of the stars
And drain them as if they were gleaming candies,
Sucking the honey and the silver sugar
Of light, silencing the fire and condemning
The whole world to eternal night. Against the coast
The typhoons have spurred their green steeds,
Colossal hippocampi roaring tsunamis.
The letters say that the elderly that in fisher
Villages and harbor cities
Have live for their entire lives have never seen
The sea throw himself with such bestial fury
Against the seashore, against the rocks, cliffs and beaches;
That never so many seaweeds, so much foam,
So much rheum and bile of the abysses
The waters have vomited thorough the coast.
It is as if the ocean desired
To devour all Japan, disintegrating
With salty saliva and foaming
Mastication the rocky vertebras
Of the archipelago where the sun has his nest.

SECOND GENERAL: I have heard similar news: panic
Spreads across many areas of the nation.
Nature and chaos have copulated:
Thus it is croaked across the villages
By old man, homeless, lunatics and prophets
(Those people that, in the art of injecting wisdom,
Contorted logic and illuminated insanity
With wild words that bite us
Are usually brothers). Some fanatics
Say that Japan, rotten and corrupted,
Like a giant corpse, will wreck
In the ocean, and our beloved earth
Will not see the crystalline cheeks,
The violet face and the smiling
Gaze of the serene skies ever again.
Temples, castles, towers and palaces,
The marmoreal beehive and the stony gardens
Of civilization will all dissolve
In slime, the heavenly vault and the winds –
A farrow of acrobatic foxes
Of breeze – in perpetual solitude, silence
And night will freeze,
And all of our clans, the empire, the sun
Will, in the desert country of the shells,
Anchor in collapse and oblivion.

Here' the intro to a short story I've been working on

The cold winds of the Duskmarch whipped at the tattered scarf around Iorvath's frost-kissed face as he trudged through the knee-deep snow. The Tallsparrow mountains cut through the fertile lands known as the Duskmarch like a jagged scar, and at this time of year, the hellish mountain pass was the only way across.
Iorvath was a veteran fighter who had deserted the Royal Daelish Army after the horrific defeat at Maiden's Landing. A few weeks of wandering and a shrinking coin purse had brought him into the employment of the sour-faced silks merchant, Vernor Vontiss, who paid well enough to make the suicidal winter crossing over Tallsparrow Peak sound like a good idea.
"Lights ahead!" came a cry from the vanguard.
Iorvath squinted through the winter air. Not far ahead, orbs of softly glowing light danced and floated in the darkening snow-blown twilight.
The small caravan stopped. Vontiss peaked a heavily bundled face out of his cart, steam flaring from his large nostrils.
"Bahamut's blessed backside! Why have we stopped? Am I paying you miserable oafs to stand here dawdling in this freezing weather?"
The leader of the vanguard, a young half-elf named Ryle Blackbow, came bounding back to answer the merchant, his handsome oaken longbow clasped in a gloved hand.
"We've spotted lights ahead, my lord. It could be another caravan making their way through the pass," he explained, clutching his woolen hat to his head as a gust of wind barreled through the narrow, icy walls of the pass.
Vontiss clapped his mittened hands together. "If it's a caravan, we were here first. We have the right of way. Tell them to move aside and let us pass, blast it!"
Iorvath stood beside the wagon, listening as best he could in the howling wind. He could still see the faint lights up ahead. The way they moved, they could have been from the swaying lanterns of a passing caravan, but something about all of this just didn't feel quite right.

The magi said
"Don't tread through the forest depths without the heart to move on"
but I just grinned and went my way
"What fuels my body is hate and revenge I told him, my heart had died long ago!"
he says "Inside you are cinders of a scorched soul,the path before was set in stone"
the crescent moon
the scarlet sky
the sunless trees
sick and cruel
mirin' my feet
the quintessence of horror
vibrating within
low frequencies rotten and nauseating
pour into my ears
step after step I take
the dead commence to sing
"the trip is over, time to join us, exhaust your final breath"
inside my mind an image rise
burning wood
screaming knife
headless baby yells in pain
"THE FINAL TEST IS IN YOUR BRAIN!"

so on I go deep into the woods
where the devil dance
evil witches casting spells
devoid me of my flesh
higher higher my astral body goes
spiraling coulers
endless vortex
twisting all around

this is what I got so far
btw *heart* love you Isaac if you're reading this.

>>6705234

bump

>>6706309
How about bumping with a review
You fucking ingrate

>>6706331
They're all worthless. There's your review.

"The dog teaches the son to raise his children and bury his parents."

>>6705943
>mirin'


A portentous moisture gathered in the air, hovering heavily over the empty parking lot, suffocating the light of the street lamp by which the tall man stood, and which Tom gazed out upon from his shadowy old Ford. He rolled down the window.
“Better get in. There’s a storm coming.”
The man looked at his watch, which radiated with a pale, ethereal luster like moonlit mercury. He then conscientiously turned his head left and right before lowering his turbid head and marching forward into the luminescence of Tom’s headlights. He stopped and hesitated for a moment, turning his gaze back toward the foot of the lamp, and then proceeded around to the passenger-side door of the vehicle, which he opened and stepped inside.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” he said tersely.
“Yeah, yeah, but it’s worth your while. Here, have a look.”
Tom reached into the confines of some indeterminate location, and then brandished a silver suitcase with a metallic rendition of a two-headed lizard on its front, and what looked like rubies secured in the four eye-sockets. He opened the suitcase to reveal a single black sphere, no larger than two inches in diameter. The man saw his watch reflected in the orb, and nothing else.

>>6705301
Please offer constructive feedback then friend.

I wish I could hunt Christfags by Anon

Today I dreamt I slit a christfags throat
and murdered his mother and burned everything he wrote.
and raped his little sister, that pussy was tight
and then came back to /lit/ and posted all night
without having to read that dumb ass shit
about a sky fairy and heaven, not on my /lit/

Fuck christians man, why do they get all the girls?
fucking stupid whores better learn that Atheists are the smartest men in the world
and one day all of you little faggots will work for me
and I will gas you fucking christians with some zyklon b
I'll piss in a church, on the statue of Jesus
and make all you bitches watch while sam harris teaches
you stupid queers dismiss him but you don't know fuck all
He has yet to be refuted, yet all you christfags smile and joke and call
us names, but you believe in celestial north korea
we'll see who's smiling when I burn down the church of santa maria
and kill everyone inside

Critique my first sonnet attempt

For respite from this masquerade I search
No choice of mine has lead me to take part
For peace I've looked toward the western church
Within I found an artificial heart

The night is rife, a solitary road
My darting eyes find rest and fix their gaze
Nothing left but them to coax and bode
Oh, to break the string of endless days

But solitude is not so sweet as you
An innocent fixation of my mind
A clarity I've not known hitherto
The contents of my heart no more confined

From doubts and fears to rest, my stepping stone
I'd rather be with you than be alone

Where can I go where there is no God?
Somewhere I won't be made to feel like a sod?
Are there plains of greener times?
Where there'll be folks with unspooked minds?
I dream of idyllic spaces without indoctrinated thoughts of creation,
Where O where can I find such peace without turning into a Mason?

If someone writes in spanish, in willing to give a critique.

>>6707796
>writing in any language other than english
whats_the_point.jpg

>>6707808
For second- third world countries, to develop their own literature.

For first world countries, to look like snob intellectuals.

>>6705290
Your picture is sideways.

Men have only one X chromosome? Y?

>>6705497
boring enough to find in a magazine, gj

>>6706763
too much thesaurus

>>6705234

Now hand over your lunch money, kid.

>>6707720
>>6707760
There is a reason why the edgy fedora meme exists and I believe you two anons have embodied that reason perfectly.

I’ve lost my wife. She ran off with the man I’d hired to help with my research. Some thin and smirking bastard. If I find her alone, I’ll drag her home by the hair. If I find her with him, I’ll kill him first.
That’s a lie.
Here’s a dusty waste where hollow winds blow over the dunes. She left into the desert with him leading her by the hand. They’d tied me up to a post so I faced the direction they walked in. I kept my eyes open as long as I could, planning to watch them till they dissapeared over the horizon. We all had goggles but after they tied me up she stomped mine to shards and pressed them into the dirt with her heel.
“You won’t even watch me go,” she had said.
And she was right. The wind was blowing dust and sand worse that day even than today. Sand enough in my sockets that long before their sillouettes had melted away into that red wind I closed my eyes. I was near blind for a few days because of it. And I would have called after her but he had put a ball-gag in my mouth so I couldn’t, I could only moan and drool on my dirty shirt. They giggled at me before they left, a sorry sight there, my eyes streaming and my arms behind my back, manacled to the trunk of an old tree.
The day before they left he asked me to hold his pants up for a moment while he took off his belt. After he had it off he gave me a light lash on the back with it. Then another, harder. It stung nicely.
“What in the world are you doing?” I asked him.
He glared at me. I decided not to ask any more questions. Then I changed my mind and asked one more question. He glared again, though he took one of the beltloops in his finger. I let go and backed away with what seemed at the time like impunity. I imagine that it was for my boldness that he abused me further, then tied me up, bewitched my wife and stole her away from me.

>>6708998
oops post/tree

>>6708528
Short and to the point, McCarthy-esque in its minimalism, a post with real eclat. I give it three thumbs up.

I'd like feedback on a character.

He's a spy for corporate espionage, a free agent working amongst cut-throat corporations with mob backing. He has multiple identities and his history dotted with aliases. He went through some kind of trauma, I think, something which made him desire no loyalty to any one C.E.O. regardless of his prized reputation. He's being hunted down for recruitment by my MC in the first half of the book.

Thoughts? My outlining is still pretty threadbare so each character is accumulating new aspects all the time. I want very believable characters, above all, but I want this character in particular to be explicated only through data and intel, no interaction with other characters planned as of yet. How do I pull this off?

Uh... here's an excerpt from a story I've been working on...

He seen Pax struggle to break his grasp, but he didn’t feel Pax’s motion after a while. Gray looked quietly at him for a few seconds before putting him down. “Alright, so, what makes today a more special day then others?”

“The old mansion opened its doors today?” Gray said, noticing an unsure tone in his voice.

“You’re pretty dense, aren’t you?” Pax said to him.

Gray looked at him with a glare. I hate this guy so much sometimes, he thought. He then began to walk away when he noticed a hand on his shoulder.

“Gray, don’t take that so seriously,” Pax said to him. He then looked at his friend, and looked down to notice his left hands clenched. “Anyway, today is the day Reltall awakens. Personally, I think you and Delwyn should come.” Jack looked down towards his feet. “Wait, what happened between you and her?”

Gray glanced sharply at him, his mouth curled into a sneer. “After that comment about my personality, why should you tell you anything?”

Gray looked at Pax. He thought about how he could easily make him disappear, but instead smiled at him. He noticed one of Pax’s eyebrows go up. “Uh… we’ve been friends for seven years. We’ve learned to deal with each other. Listen man, I care about you, and it’s better to tell something then it is to keep it bottled up.”

>>6709093
How big is his dingus?

>>6709194
Nonsense without more context.

>>6709194
And how big is Gray's dingus? Just wondering.

>>6709199
Yeah, I can do that.

>>6709194
“Listen, I can’t do this anymore…” a voice said to Gray, the sharp tone piercing his ears.

“What?” Gray said to her, looking at her. “But, we haven’t even went on a first date yet! Delwyn, I love you, isn’t that all that matters?”

He saw Delwyn look towards him. She grabbed a small white piece of paper with little drawings on it and tore it up. She looked at him with her eyes starting to turn red. “Listen, I loved you too. But listen Gray, after what’s been happening recently, and there’s also the fact that you lied to me, I feel that even being my friend would be crossing the line.”

Gray turned away from her. He didn’t bother turning around as someone was walking away, but instead deciding to walk away himself. He took out his cellphone and went over to the contacts of it. In a few seconds, her name was no more. He then took his piece of paper and looked on it. It was filled with beautiful drawings of bunnies and cats, with different hearts around them. He then grabbed a lighter and, as the flames engulfed the paper, threw it away. It had to be done, he thought, it was the only way.

He looked up into the sky and smiled at it for a second, before looking down again. Gray then decided to take a walk. As he kept on walking, he looked down towards the ground for most of the experience. But, he stopped walking for a second and seen a blur in the distance. It kept getting bigger and bigger, before it eventually stopped. But this time, he had already seen it was in clear view.

“What are you doing here dude?” Gray said to the former blur, head tilted slightly to the side.

“Hey, can’t a guy talk to his best friend?” Gray noticed the dude wasn’t looking directly at him. Gray propelled his hand towards his collar and hooked on to it. “Listen Gray, there’s no need to be hostile.”

“I’ll give you five seconds to give me a reason why this sidewalk doesn’t need a new coat,” Gray said, noting the fury in his voice.

>>6705325

Read this aloud. Your sentences are very awkward to read. Ditch anything but a comma and full stop. Nobody wants to see a semicolon or brackets in a story. I don't know what it means by 'back then when the days were short'.

>>6705497

I didn't really know what was going on in most of this. I don't know who the characters are, where anything is. You have sentences that seem almost random, 'A guy and girl intertwined on one blanket, sunbathing; collectively named Chastity.'. What is that supposed to mean to me? This seems to be a mess. Just wrote normally, tell a story and drop words like 'sans' or 'copacetic' - we get it, you have a 'word-of-the-day' app on your phone. If you're not writing to be enjoyable or comprehensible, what's the fucking point in showing it to other people?

>>6705937

Your prose is fine but overwritten in places 'orbs of softly glowing light danced and floated in the darkening snow-blown twilight.'. This doesn't work that well as an intro. Slow it down. Introduce the characters properly. Go look at almost any other novel and see how they do it. You shouldn't just ping things in without priming us. Suddenly the character is in a caravan and there are these merchants and fucking elves.

I know it's a convention in fantasy to write in this silly sort of old fashioned way but a ;handsome oaken longbow'? I mean, really?

>>6706763

Overwritten. Introduce characters. Don't assume I'm inside your head or I give a single fuck about what you've written. If you aren't going to tell me who Tom or the Man is why should I feel compelled to read their story? Have none of you read a story before, or do you just read nothing but super arty bullshit?

>>6708998

This is okay. Some of the diction is unnecessary 'bewitched' and it could do with more explanation of what is exactly going on.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmVcIhnvSx8

Never forget.

>>6709205
Still could do with a little more info on each character's dingus size, if you don't mind. I take it that Gray's isn't very large. Average at best.
Am I just reading that into the story or am I on to something here?

>>6709203
At least 8 inches for totes.

Also, I'm calling the story Chromogen right now but even if that made sense to the plot do you guys think I need a better title?

>>6709210
I mean, if it counts for anything, they get back together later. I actually don't know why they broke up in the first place, other then reason for new characters to be introduced.

>>6709208
Okay Mr. Vonnegut

>>6709210
Oh, but Pax's is probably pretty average. He's not really a woman's man.

>>6709218
Make your sentences more oblique-vatic if that makes any sense. There's a real phantasmagorical element to the ambiance you've created, but that could be brought forth with more confidence, gusto, thereby really pulling the reader into the world you've fashioned for him.
With regards to the dingus size, I'm not sure I agree. I think you risk overcompensating on behalf of Gray, thereby tainting would might otherwise be a rather verisimilitudinous story. Just my two cents.

>>6709208
>Some of the diction is unnecessary 'bewitched'

Care to elaborate on what characteristics diction that it "unnecesar[il]y bewitched" has?

>>6709232
Yeah, I see what you mean. I need to actually make people wonder instead of going like "The man stepped on a purple ledge with a coin in his mouth made in the year 1966."

Also, I'm just screwing around with the dingus size. I don't really know that yet.

>>6709236

When you use an old fashioned word like 'bewitched' you immediately sound like a 17 year old.

>>6709232
>phantasmagorical
Yeah, there is actually a lot to do with fantasy elements in it. A lot of it just happens after those excerpts.

>>6709250
So what you meant in your comment was that you didn't like my inclusion of the word "bewitched"?

>>6709196
Man-sized.

>>6709258
That's sexxxy ;)

>>6709253

Yes, your diction was unnecessary. Why is this a difficult concept?

>>6709253
>bewitched
You could just say "Charmed" or something.

>>6709260
You didn't articulate the point you were trying to get across clearly is all. Even that, "your diction was unnecessary", doesn't help much. Every sentence comprises words that it needn't. No diction is ever necessary...

>>6705234
terrible

>>6709261
But that sounds homosexual. Like what James Bond said to the sluts in the 50's.

Are you wondering about the main character's dingus size, mostly? I can put that in there right off the bat if you think it would add to the story.

>>6709269
Wait, which main character's dingus size? I mean, I already told you his but you said he was overcompensating.

>>6709272

Oh, okay. well. Everyone's different, I guess.

xoxo ;))

>>6709265

It might not be necessary to add any herbs or spices to your dinner but a shit load of thyme could be unnecessary.

I think I see what you mean though. The key is understanding what is necessary to tell the story you want. Using fancy pompous words wasn't in that case.

>>6709279
However that size is subject to change if things play out a certain way.

>>6709287
Nice. What do you think about Caitlyn Jenner's pre-metamorphosis dingus size? Length? Girth? Curve?
Just wondering. My two cents

;);) xo

>>6709296
What the actual fuck

pls no bully
I have an ingrown toenail. It’s about to get cut off, and the wait inside an empty check-up room has left me fantasizing about the nurse who had led me in here. She enters again and guides me to a treatment room. The doctor arrives shortly after.

“You’re going to feel a small prick, and then a bee sting as the anesthetic is injected.” I have a ridiculous pain tolerance. I once broke my arm and stayed in a game of football in sixth grade, later describing the pain as four out of ten when a nurse was seeing if anything was wrong.

“Are you alright?” The nurse is pretty sexy and definitely into the buckling violent youth on her table

“The bee sting description is pretty accurate.” My face is completely unaffected by the shot, as if I was completely disconnected to my toe. The doctor had said it was okay to scream at the pain, which signaled to me that that had happened before, making my stoicism all the better.

“I just don’t get you rugby players. You said it got stepped on?”

“Many times, but that’s not my biggest worry. Head trauma is my only fear.” I look down the table and see the doctor shoving a pair of scissors underneath my toenail, I can feel the pressure but the pain is almost nonexistent. He makes a snip, the pressure is relieved, and then he pries the bottom scissor further underneath the nail, blood now running down my foot from a red hole where my nail was.

“That’s gross.”

“You’re okay seeing that?” The nurse is now visibly impressed that I’m watching my toenail being removed. She was turned away from the operation herself, only moving her glances from my face to the tools she was occasionally handing to the doctor. I’m completely fine with it, to be honest. I already did that to myself to get the ingrown nail to begin with, without the numbing and with much worse workmanship.

“Oh, please, I’m a child of the internet. I’ve seen some fucked up things.”

The doctor and she exchange glances and she sort of shrugs. The doctor goes back to work on my toe, making the last snip and pulling out the remainder of the toenail that was sort of underneath my skin. It starts bleeding albeit not profusely. The exposed part is a deep, deep red.

“That was easy. Thanks so much.” Both the doctor and the nurse are clearly surprised with how satisfied I am. I can tell that the normal procedures usually leave people much grumpier, but I’m just happy to have gotten this taken care of. The wait was excessive, some hour and a half in a check-up room during which I fell asleep and had an erection for the nurse resulting from my daydream, but the operation took less than ten minutes from sanitizing to dressing the wound, and I got to see a toenail being removed, which was fun.
I have the feeling that I’ve scared the doctor a bit.

>>6709444
Why did you write this ?

>>6709444
"Look how cool and tough I am. Look at how sexy girls think I'm cool and tough. Even doctors, who have dealt with patients dying of chronic and painful ailments are impressed with my pain tolerance, and find me, the stoic rugby player with an ouchie on his toe, almost beyond comprehension." -Bully

>>6709447
It's part of a novel that you critiquers have read other parts of by now.
>>6709453
Yeah it's a common trope but I feel the depth of the other things in the character's life make this seem less average. Regardless, thanks for your input despite you yes bullying

>>6709463
Sorry man didn't mean to be an asshole but I just think it's boring as fuck and unremarkable

I say this because I had the exact same experience you wrote about here, complete with sexy nurse and all, and it was one of the dullest moments of my life. I can't fathom why would anyone turn it into a snippet of events

A drop of molten metal, a red sun setting over a mirror lake. Red clouds whorl over the horizon. The white beach, streaked with long shadows growing longer. Sandcastles ruin and logs of bleached driftwood lean haphazardly against others in forms that recall tipis, lean-tos, animal traps and a rowboat, upturned near the water, smooth and laquered, beats the glare of the dying sun into the eyes of a young man who is walking lakeward, leading by the hand his balding and greybearded grandfather. The young man lets his grandfather’s arm drop and uses his hand to blot the glare. With his other hand he carries an old tin tacklebox and a fishingrod. A thin wool blanket’s thrown over his shoulder. The grandfather carries a drink cooler.
The young man will outlast the formless. The flaming clouds relentlessly unfurling in spirals across the sky. He will outlast the unstable forms. The castles already crumbling, the leaning structures of palewood shallowly twisted into the drying strand. Even the stabler forms he will likely outlast. The boat, his grandfather. But not the elements themselves. Not the water, the sand or dust. Not as he is, at least.
The young man rights the boat and shoves it halfway into the still lake. Black ripples roll slowly out in circles from where the keel meets the mirrorwater and they bend and distort the smoldering sky reflected on the surface there. The young man packs the supplies in the boat and then pushes the boat farther into the water. He guides the blind man by the hand and aids him into the boat. Then he kicks off from the beach and steps inside and he sits at the thawrt and his grandfather at the backward and the boat cuts silently through the water until its momentum slacks and the boat stops. His grandfather in the stillness pulls a handrolled cigar from his shirt pocket and bites off the tip, chews ruminatively, spits. He waves the cigar around for a moment like a sightless and bedraggled conductor with his baton and then sits it between his white teeth.
“A match, my boy,” he says.

>>6709466
The young man sparks one alight and cups his hand around the flame as his grandfather draws on the cigar. Smoke gathers about his head and hangs there, thick in the windless air. The young man tosses the match and the flickering arc dies with a hiss on the water. The old man takes the matchbox and the young man pulls up the oars and sets them in the crutches. He dips the oars gently into the water, and with every row he pulls them farther from the shore. And more of the sun drops below the horizon and more of the world reddens and darkens and the smoke cloud lingers on where they left it though a trail follows meanderingly behind them like a milkwhite serpant slithering after them over the water.
He sculls until the they are come to the centre of the lake from which vantage thin black hills line the sky in each direction. The blind grandfather senses the equalibrium, for he nods to signal the young even before he has ceased his rowing. The old man snuffs his cigar on the seat and opens the tacklebox and retrives from within a little damask knife with an ornate darkwood handle.
“Shade, son,” he says before putting the knifehandle between his teeth. The young man shakes the blanket unfolded and holds it open between his grandfather and the bloodred sun. Had the blind man still his retinas he would see his grandson above him in sillouette behind the glowing orange square with his arms agape as a crucifixion and his watching head peering over the top of the blanket. The old man opens the cooler and feels around for a glass jar. He finds it. Twists it open. Then he takes the knife from between his teeth and carves skillfully off a hunk of the flesh. The young man sees a shimmer on the lake surface encroaching in a line from the west.
“A wind’s coming,” he says.
“All the same,” says the old man. He screws the lid back down and returns the jar to its place in the cooler. Then he pulls out another, this one filled with a murky purple liquid. He shakes it, dips his finger and tastes it. Then he dips the flesh.
“The rod,” he says.
The young man, with both hands clutching the blanket, leers at his grandfather.

>>6709471

“The rod,” the old man repeates, shaking something in the cooler before pulling from it yet another jar, this one half filled with pale barley grains. The old man opens the jar and sprinkles the grains onto the wetted flesh. Meanwhile, the young man transfers the blanket from his left hand to his mouth and bites the edge to keep the shade sure while he grabs the fishingrod, but as he tries with his free hand to loose the barbed hook from the guide hoop of the rod the wind overtakes them and catches the outstretched blanket like a sail. The boat starts spinning, gently. The grandfather is trying to close the barley jar with his free hand when the young man grunts to warn him that he is wandering out of the blanket’s shade. The grandfather instantly closes both his hands over the meat, letting the open jar to fall and the grains to splay fanwise out at his feet.
“Did the light touch it?” the blind man asks.
“I didn’t see,” says the young man.
“Where is the sun?”
“It’s nearly set.”
“Make shade again and give me the hook,” he says.
“Just keep your hands over it for a minute, sir.”
The young man bends the rod and slips the hook from the guide. He unreels a measure of line. Then he drapes the blanket over them both.
“You’re in the shade now, grandpa,” says the young man. “And here’s the hook.”
The old man snatches it by the eye with his free hand and then deftly pierces the meat and weaves the hook through until the meat is past the barb and secured around the hookbend. Only a thin sliver of sun still smolders over the black hills. Two birds with massive wingspans circle high overhead.
“Which side is in the shade?” asks the grandfather.
“Your right,” says the young man. “Starboard, I mean. But wait.” He carefully slips an oar into the water to halt the boat’s slow rotation. Then the old man puts his arm over the gunwale and his shrouding fist into the cool water.
“Tell me when the sun has set,” he says.
The wind dies and the water is still again and the old man recites under his breath. The young man can catch only hints of the strange and gutteral cadence. The final shearing of sun slips below the skyline.
“It’s set,” says the young man.
The grandfather opens his hand and the line quickly unspools through his thumb and forefinger and after the rig plummets a while the father pinches softly the line to slow its course. When it finally contacts the lakebed he pinches it halt and reels in a few measures so the bait can hover in the deep. He locks the line and gives the young man the rod.
“What if I don’t feel it?” the young man asks.
“You will,” says the grandfather. “Two tugs. You will.”

I have had White friends of mine say such things to me as "Carlos, you're the Whitest Black person I know" -- to which I retorted, "O', really? Gee, thanks. Mighty White o' you. And wherefore do I seem so 'White' to you? For we attended the same expensive college? For we had the same major? For we both play Dungeons & Dragons? WHAT?! You and your Whiteness own all those things, do you?"

On the corner right outside the restaurant in which that exchange transpired, a middle-aged White woman flinched away from me as if I were some would be mugger. My bright White Middlebury College baseball cap didn't count for shyt -- I was just another black guy. That middle-aged White woman seemed as if she wanted to flee. She was nominally like the woman who flinched away from me, and clutched her pocketbook to her side when she realized that she'd sat next to a Black man on the #4 subway train at 86th Street & Lexington Avenue. I was so clinically intrigued by that White woman's conspicuous reaction (which had caused an elder Black sistah across the train car to look at me with sad commiseration), that I frankly queried the White woman, "Are you frightened of me?"

She was very surprised, mayhap so much that she galvanically replied with the truth. "Yes," she said nigh-sotto voce.

"Wherefore?" I asked. "Do you imagine I would afore all our fellow straphangers bludgeon you about the head and shoulders with this Collected Poems of W.B.Yeats I'm reading? And then abscond with your knock-off Prada bag?"

I could not help but sardonically interrogate her so, for just afore I had entered that train, I'd been in a nearby Barnes & Noble in which I'd been followed about the store by a White security guard. I am customarily, by dint of nature and, too, by virtue of nurture, a decorous Black man (it behooves me to be so), and so I do not normally let my rage slip its leash. But in the Barnes & Noble, well, that was one of those 10th out of 10 times when I am too nigh the ebbing edge of my forbearance, and so, when I got to the cash register -- with my Collected Poetry of W.B. Yeats, Collected Shakespeare, and a Star Trek novel -- and the White security guard was still scrutinizing me, I spun dramatically (the dramatic pivot is one of nigh all Gay men's core competencies) and at that White security guard I THUNDERED for the White cashier and the White, other customers to hear:

"I READ BOOKS YOU MIGHTN'T BE ABLE TO CARRY! HOW DARE YOU FOLLOW ME AS IF I'M SOME PETTY THIEF?!"

And a veritable Pandemonium of silence ensued. I fancied crickets chirping, and tumbleweeds rolling by as if impelled by a susurrating breeze in a desolate town of the Old West. If the awkward breech had been a pregnant pause, its issue would have been a stillbirth.

>>6709474
———
Half the night spent floating in that great dark crater. A handful of white sand thrown to a black wind, the stars in the night sky. Burn themselves to less than sand but the black wind blows forever. And once there’s nothing for the wind to sweep up or whistle past it blows new blackness into being, blooms deeper into the emptiness, hungrily seeking out some other ancient shore or if not that then some other blacker wind that can master and unmake it, older and darker and less of a thing than itself.
Unless his grandfather were no charlatan but instead knew and saw as he claimed. A plan for the shifting sands. A cliff in the glow at the end of the dark, holding itself in changless form against those erosive winds of death and time. But they had been sitting in the boat for hours now, with only the stars for light. Little light. And it was cold. And by this time his grandfather had long since stretched out along the keelson and put the blanket behind his head and fallen asleep.
“What if it didn’t work?” asked the young man quietly, almost to himself.
They were supposed to drop it into the lake at the moment the sun had set. But even if the sunlight hadn’t touched the meat, it was unfathomable that his grandfather had dropped the rig at the precise moment of sunset. As if there could even be a precise moment for such a thing. The sun is no perfect sphere. Nor is the earth. At what point, then, does the sun in truth set? It set behind the undulating hills in the west. And the sun likely has hills of its own, angry and mutable hills, capricious swells of magma as great as or greater than the earth entire. Did it set when the last molten atom passed out of the young man’s sightline? What of the sightline of some child on the beach? Which watcher saw the true sunset? And if the decisive eyes were by some luck or fate stuck in the young man’s head, what if he had been kneeling? Would the sunset, then, the true sunset, have come earlier? And even if the young man had witnessed the true sunset and had heralded immediately the news to the old man, even then it would be impossible that—
The line tugged.
“Grandfather,” whispered the young man. The old man didn’t stir. The young man leaned over the gunwale to peer at the dark water. Only blackness and dimly his face reflected, so faint it seemed to dissappear as soon as he had glimpsed it.
“Grandfather,” he said, a bit louder this time, but still silence from the dark where the old man lay. The line tugged again.
“Grandfather.”
“They wait upon your decision,” he said.

>>6709476
Too, I recall, from when I was a book publicist, taking one of my authors (a Black woman) to be interviewed at a certain very popular and still on the air radio show. When we walked in, in front of and in the earshot of the Black author, the White producer/show-host blithely drawled to me, "You're Black. I thought you'd be White."

Black Author: "What?!"

White producer/host: [oblivious of the Black author's outrage; and looking at me] "Well, you don't sound Black on the phone. I thought from your name you'd be from Spain."

Too, I recall returning from a book signing event for another of my authors -- his book was "Driving While Black: Highways, Shopping Malls, Taxi Cabs, Sidewalks: How to Fight Back if You Are a Victim of Racial Profiling." The event was in a town in NJ know at the time for the highest rate of racial profiling of Black men in the entire Northeast.

I had the car service drop the author, his wife, and me at the author's apartment building on the Upper West Side. I sent the car service on its way, planning to hop into a cab to go for drinks in Chelsea with some friends. (I was stupid for not just using the car service, but like an idiot who doesn't suss a privilege he ought indulge, I thought-felt it inappropriate for me to spend the company's money to go drink with my pals. 'Cause, you know, surely my White colleagues were observing such probity, right? Right.)

Anywho, there I stood on the corner of Broadway & 87the street, at around 8 PM, trying to hail a taxi. I was dressed in dark brown Kenneth Cole shoes, dark blue Diesel jeans, a light-bule pin-striped Polo buttoned-down shirt, and with a natty black leather satchel over my shoulder (not including my satchel, belt, and socks, I was wearing about $500 in conservative-casual clothing and shoes -- many people were wont to remark, "Carlos, you look so preppy"; some people called me the "Chocolate Prep").

But none of my nice clothes or my decorum or my erudition which so many White people perfunctorily, presumptuously associate with "Whiteness" on my part mattered as cab after cab after taxi after taxi drove by me that evening (and, too, on many other afternoons and evenings, and dark nights). The taxis' "ON" lights were visible. And as it started to rain, and I stood here, soaked, one cab did a slow drive by me, and the taxi driver made eye contact with me, and then he drove on and swerved to cross the street a block away to pick up a young White woman. Not for the first, and certainly not for the last time, I wonder-pondered if taxi drivers refused to stop for me for they assume that I'll be unable to pay the fare, or that I was some dangerous criminal who would physically harm them. Or both? WHAT?! What is so fucking threatening about me, or just about any and every other person of color?!

>>6709478

The young man shivered from the cold. There would be a third tug, as this second one was a coincidence. There would be a third and it would unravel the strange significance he had begun to imagine into the second. The old man shuffled around in the blackness. Presumably he sat up. There would be a third tug if he just waited but he waited and there was no third tug.
The young man began to crank the reelhandle to draw in the line but after a few cranks the roller siezed and he couldn’t reset it or untangle it or even see the problem in the pitch so he just grabbed the line and started pulling the catch up with his bare hands. It was heavy as a stone and the sharp line dug into his flesh but whatever it was creature or otherwise it offered up no fight. He pulled it up hand over hand for what seemed like a long time and when that albinic head finally broke through the oilblack surface of the water the young man felt around its neck and then jabbed his fingers behind its gills and heaved the slimy and inert body into the boat.
His grandfather struck a match and it flared and in all the blackness only his glowing head was visible. His beard and his leathery skin and his impotent ice-blue eyes and his wide and toothy smile all eerily floating in the dark like a foolish fire hovering in the void. The smiling old man touched the matchflame to a candle which he handed to his grandson before he went to touch the fish. He ran discerningly his old arthritic hands over and around that slimy monstrosity and gradually the glee drained from his face.
“What is this,” the old man said.
“A fish,” said the young man. “Is something wrong?”
“Did it bleed on you?”
The young man looked at his hands in the candleglow. A drop or two of the dark blood was smeared on one of his fingertips. He wiped it off on his pants.
“No,” he said.
The grandfather took his knife from beside him and swiftly severed the line.
“Throw it back,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked the young man.
“Throw it back, boy,” said the grandfather.
The young man handed back the candle. Then he hove the fish into the water.
“Row,” said the grandfather.
The young man rinsed his hands. Then he dug out the oars and sculled them back to shore.

Christmas lights and stolen street signs decorate the walls of white lonely pine, the last walls that ever stood to surround the unfamiliar guest. His suspicion wasn't without reason, but his reason was rather unreasonable to the innocent onlooker. The man's instinct could not escape the walls and neither could his life. He died of foul play. Cause of death: asphyxiation. The only witness, the innocent onlooker, wept for the man whom he knew for a handful of seconds, seconds that escaped the efforts of the witness who held on to them with the will of a man in the shadow of death. Few before us have heard the truth. Even fewer have heard the truth of the innocent onlooker. Yet many have seen the Christmas lights and stolen street signs that decorate the walls of white lonely pine. Among them the word MURDER written in the blood of the victim. Can you hear his cries?

>>6709479
Not for the first time during such an experience, and not for the last, there happened to be a Black man who walked up to me, and he looked me in my eye, and even as we said not one word to each other, we did that reciprocal Black-man's-nod -- a wordless commiseration to the effect of, "Yeah, I know."

It doesn't matter that I evince cultural aspects which many White people associate with Whiteness -- I am to White America at large "just another black guy."

To quote Malcolm X:

"What do you call a Black man with a Ph.D.? . . . Nigger."

And if ONE gotdayum White person reads this and dares to perfunctorily posit, "#NotAllWhitePeople," I will immediately and forever BLOCK that person from my FaceBook page.

And so, for #RachelDolezal to imagine that she could don my culture and my color -- with the option of being able to return to the safety of Whiteness at her whim -- is fucking insulting as hells. If after all I've shared, you are a White person who cannot manage the extrapolative-empathy to apprehend and appreciate my dudgeon, do keep your inherently aggressive obliviousness to yourself.

#WelcomeAfter

>>6709484
>>6709479
>>6709476
People consider this "poetry"

>>6709486
Are you sure it's not just you who consider it poetry?

>>6709489
>WHEREFORE
>WHEREFORE
>WHEREFORE
>WHEREFORE
>WHEREFORE

>>6709466
>>6709471
>>6709474
>>6709478
>>6709481
some of the prose is clunky but the language use is impressive. What are they doing though? Just fishing?

A Takbir comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

It is too late. The Allahu Akbar still proceeds, but it's all theatre.

>>6705905

Can I have some critic on this? Already gave my opinion bout some of the works on this thread and on the other one.

Don't mind the bad translation: my English is very bad. All the rhytmn and sonority are lost (although I make more effort in the imagery than in the sonorous effects of the verses).

>>6705905
Very proto-chic militarianism, embracing, I take it, whatever self- aggrandizement ineluctably accompanies that sort of galaxy of thematic concerns. I'm impressed.

Brother

My older brother is the better one. The one who wins. We’re both boys but father loves him more. Always has. I don’t blame him. My older brother did well in school. He’s an athlete. He taught me to play sports, and I have a bit of an athletic flare myself, but he’s a miracle in every game, on court or ice or field. He taught me to shoot from the foul line. Throw a football, all the rest. Father taught him and then he in turn taught me but father must have been the better teacher. Father taught him mathematics too. I was fine at mathematics, I never struggled or anything, I got through the equations. But father showed him the tricks the teachers never showed to the rest of us.
So I started collecting cards. Learning everything I could about the players. Teams, stats, trades, the lot. Had a green binder with the cards all organized. My brother knew some of the players and teams of course, and father knew some more, but I gained a little bit of an edge there. My own little corner of the court. But after they realized I knew a thing or two about the boys on the TV, they soon forgot, or claimed to forget, what little they had known about professional sports teams and players, and even stopped watching sports altogether.
“Why watch football, let’s just go toss one around,” father would say, and he would take my brother out to the field with the old pigskin, and I’d follow along behind them.
We slept in the same room, my brother and I, bunkbeds and stuff. I used to have dreams about him but those quit. That was years ago, of course. We were both young. Things change, people grow up, forget about it all. He left his clothes all over too, dirty underwear and that, so I was glad to get my own space. And I was glad to move away too, after school ended, but I miss those nights still.
I miss those times. Things were certainly easier. Like sitting down at a family meal. At least in our old situation, if the silence were broken it was because someone had something they really wanted to say. Now we get together, it’s loud everyone talkes but it’s like when you run into the old pals from highschool. Talk without saying anything. Live that close for half a lifetime and all anyone can talk about now is the price of corn and how the nephews are doing, make a joke or two. Can’t talk feelings, and thoughts turn people out quick. Fine.

>>6709532
Still have the football he caught for the win. That was a show. Bleachers stacked on bleachers and a full house. The big lights up and glaring where everyone can see everything so if someone trips up it’s not just when you two are alone in the dark it’s in front of the whole crowd and everyone can see and they all understand and you can talk about it afterward. Anyways, I won’t bore you with it but his team was losing and he caught the ball and slipped past the defense and into the endzone. While they were celebrating I snuck out onto the field and stole the ball so I could keep it with my paraphenalia, because I had a couple of photos of him in the binder in his football gear and at the foul line and getting silver for the butterfly stroke but I though the ball would make a nice addition. And he hardly payed attention to his old jerseys from the years before, so he didn’t notice when those disappeared from the closet.
It’s all at my new place. Every day I just think about burning it or something, getting rid of all of it, moving away, farther away, just working on myself, thinking about my own things, becoming my own person. Maybe Australia. A lot of young guys do that. Take up surfing, have a few too many drinks now and again. I just feel a bit off here, and sometimes you feel like that feeling of offness is just a cloud that hovers around the place you’re in, the location, but I worry that the feeling would follow me like the smell used to and if I moved to Australia and still felt it there, well, then I would know I couldn’t run from it. At least if I stay here there will always be the possibility of running from it, the possibility of something better elsewhere.
I live a bit of a drive from the old house. Two new families have lived in it since us, but I still drive back there at night sometimes and just sit on the rock under the apple tree and look up at our old window upstairs. Or I go to the field where he and father and I would toss the football or even to his old highschool and I climb up on the roof and lay down up there and look at the stars. I like night because you can’t see what’s coming or whoever’s touching you, it could be anyone so there’s no reason to fuss about it in the morning. And I like to walk along the street and to look into the house windows. You can imagine anyone in them and it’s dark enough that your imagination can’t be disconfirmed. I looked in our old window one time, a few years ago, and I imagined the bunkbeds were still there and the rest. I imagined he was still in there, and I was watching over him while he slept.

>>6709484
Great satire

>>6709532
>>6709537
Despite the pissy smell of wage slavery, this is the third best post in this thread.

And despited the hierarchy, custom-cookie-cutter prose, you're a specialist with a taste for the flesh of youth.

Of flashy Day-Glo and tender young blondes with dead eyes.

But it kind of reads like a transcript of a parent-teacher conference. Or a parent's attempt at prose. I recommend heating it up and melting your cookie-cutter collocations. There is something real to your story, so you have the seed crystal. You just need to spatter life into it. Try cracking a glow-stick and cutting it open and flicking it over your prose.

>>6709478
>>6709481
Argh ye matey, I saw wit me own eye the slow-rising and central shushing of a watery and posh dead end tale that coulda been told by a true to life Wes Anderson impressionist.

Is not that he might grind down cliches to the reluctant patterns heretofore unseen by their peddler just a vengeful rap on his nose from a crotchety old reviewer of /lit/'s tangled prose.

I sense your hope that you'd be working on our mind's with your words as the marlinspike but your symbols—where were they!

A preener. Whose entire typing career has been a graffito to the same kind of cheap pap and poetic treachery obviously signaling laziness. But that we might somehow learn something from it.

You got talent. You got the nuts and bolts down. I love the theme. Someone's missing. Who's missing?

>>6708965
Nigger fuck you those are my feelings.

>>6707954
It was upright when I took it, any chance you could flip it and feed my back?

>>6709526
>I'm impressed.

Thank you, thank you very much.

Many times a mere speck of hope or grain of praise has the power to restore a mind that is frozen by self-doubt. Thank you for your help.

>>6705325
If genius is a mystery of capacious consciousness, a visit to your braintemple felt like sitting shoeless and crosslegged in the Hagia Sophia.

I can feel the thunder of your lighteninglike thoughts—through your words—suddenly I was somewhere else—it was like having a teratoid heliotrope in my head that keeps sending me to far off places despite the cause of such intense fantasies being a black and twisted cancer tunneling through my visual cortex.

>>6709892
Jesus man, I hope that's a compliment because your critique sounded like a submission in itself.

>>6705905
When Joyce was asked, "Which book would ye bring on a desert island?", he replied, "I would like to answer Dante, but I would have to take the Englishman, because he is richer."

Well, Mrportugueseguyorlady, we all would appreciate it if you stopped posting here. You're way out of everyone's league and you make us look bad.

The point is—there's some whipping current pulsing and surging in these verses—and I get excited and nervous when I see someone throwing rocks at the Dante-Shakespearian throne.

How is it that this is translated and yet your words pass through my mind flipping upwards into a sprinklermist rainbow? Ffft ffft ffft goes my erect sprinkler-heart spraying watery come across the lawn as your poem becomes a disk rainbow hovering over the collective front lawn of poetry's now revived future.

>>6705905
I'm really stoned but I fucking dig it.

Good job anon, keep writing awesome poetry.

>>6709921

Thank you very much for your kind words. I don't deserve so much.

I like to post here because people are honest, for nothing is best to make people fell comfortable to be themselves than anonymity. People have call me verbose, prolix, unnatural, old-fashioned and all sorts of things, and the worst part is that I guess they are right in many of those accusations.

Also: I have read a lot of things here that make me fell inferior as a writer. There are a lot of people here who write very natural literature and seem to have an original voice, a distinctive and particular style, while my work sometimes just seems to be a pastiche of Shakespeare, Aeschylus and Keats: old things being done again but in a more clumsy way.

There is also the fact that /lit/ is the only place were people sometimes read my stuff. I have already published a verse-play for almost an year now, and so far no criticism either for praise or dispraise. Not even my brother, my father and my mother have read the thing, only my mother in law (and she liked much more the prose comic passages and the low-comedy jokes than the verse and the poetry).

Poetry is unpopular in today's world I guess. To write verse-drama is almost like taking a corpse out of its coffin. I was very happy to know that a young playwright is making success in England with a verse play named King Charles III.

>>6709984
It is natural to believe and unbelieve in one's self as a great men. If the companions of our /lit/ should turn out to be heroes, and their condition based, it will not surprise and unsurprise us.

All mythology opens with demigods—those men who opened their aquiline wings and saw their circumstance as high and poetic—that is, their genius is paramount. In the legends of literature, the first men painted the Earth in words, and they found it collapsing and expanding.

Remember: He who is not a bird should not build his nest over abysses.

>>6709984
Doubting yourself is good anon. It means you can simply make others and yourself happier.

And don't care about the money, just love the craft.

Poetry is the hardest format to write in, respect to you and your brilliant verses. I'd read your play.

-------

For Gordo

You sit there,
Slumped and languidly
Drunk,
And I feel
A little bit of pity
As we say:

"Hello"
"Hullo"

You, who,
Seemed so entrenched
Into the settee of your living space,
With the grot and the beers
And the torn shut curtain of outside,
You, who,
Struggled in school,
Like I,
You who,
Made nothing
And lived in it,
Was so alike,
I felt immobilised
And we spoke with
Five layers of alcohol filming your eyes:

"Just a drink Gordo."

And you drink it!
All five glasses of
Supermarket whiskey
All gone in one sitting,
In that infinite regress
And uniform routine
Of half-slept habit
And cigarrettes unto
Off-milk unto
Mess unto
Sitting
And in nothing else
But looping still

-Yet-

I must sit with you,
And from above I dared to be ashamed
Of the still-stuck squalor your slouch has claimed;
So unaware that in this patterned hell,
Our blood has carved a seat for me as well

>>6710055
This is at once an encounter with the my own despair and my own ecstasy. One doubts that the dying poet, barely two millennia old, took comfort in having created this slice of photon-ink.

The men , whose reality, supposedly fictive, transcends our own.

If I could question any of you, it would be you, and I would not waste my seconds by asking the identity of Gordo or the precisely nuanced elements of homoeroticism in your relationship with him.

Naively, I would blurt out: did it comfort you to have fashioned man and men more real than living men and man?

I know I'm ugly late for anyone to take me serious. Here's my first collection. It's been posted before, but besides being told it sounds rather nice there was no actual advice to be received. I feel as if it's incomplete.

http://pastebin.com/kH4XNNSe

Please critique so I'll bugger off in my way.

>>6710308
>>6709921
>>6710012
>>6709892
>>6709817
>>6709774
>>6709484
It's clear that this guy is the only one benefiting from these threads

>>6710325
Learn2hyphen.

Two loves I’ve had- lifelong- are weed and brews
And while much pleasure they to me have brought
Neither, my sweet, can quite compare to you
And neither can command so long my thoughts

I crave to take the blunt up to mine face
And covet smoke to set my mind apart
But it is not so warm as your embrace;
It fills my feeble lungs but not my heart

The beer between my lips is not so sweet-
Nor does it so my mind from stress remove-
As your name, love, I say it and repeat,
It serves so wondrously my pains to soothe,

And if I fuck her once, so be it twice,
And if I fuck her twice- ’tmight change her life

>>6710353
And if I fuck her thrice: she's a lesbian—
Nice!

>>6710347
I won't out him
But his name starts with N
2 syllables

>>6710308
>>6710012
>>6709921
>>6709892
>>6709817
>>6709774
>>6709232
I love this guy. Never leave /lit/ pls

((I posted something in the last thread, but it was boring and had a lot of esoteric jargon in it. I can only hope this fixed one of those.))

Seated on a crumpled black hood,
On the rent steel mask of his steed,
There he sits, bored and dispassion'd,
Lips around a smoking white flute,
Embers laz'ly burning dim red,
Tossed beside him rests his barrel,
Onyx barrel in a wood stock,
Smoke escaping from that also.
Gleams his hostile blacken'd bristle,
Wet with blood crimson and stinking,
Soaked with sweat sanguine and filthy.
Lifeless stare his wolven grey eyes,
Rest they down in front, unfocused,
Gazing over the mound of dead,
Pile of enemies he slaughtered,
En'mies whom he'd riddled with shells,
And had laid to waste and ruin.
Puckers he his lips to spit it,
To release his ashen cig'rette,
Into his black gauntlet, from which
Flings he his final blazings, and
Leaves it to smolder and fester,
On the morbid hill of slain men,
Lets it burn its life to its end,
With the rest of that guy's garbage.
With a ho-hum huff he does sigh,
Sending forth the last smoke tonight,
Leaving his ghost to fly, to float,
And with that, he bends behind him,
Looks upon the heavens high up,
At the void vast and vacuous,
At the stars sparsely spread through it.
Shuts he his eyes, soothed by this sight,
Slumbers he under the moon pale,
Far underneath the blanket black,
Smothered by the empty vacuum,
Much akin to th' dead before him.

Hey, I started singing this after I tripped over my dog, critique my jingle?

Fuck him! Where the sun is really dim.
Fuck her! In the hole that doesn't purr.
Fuck you! Where you squeeze to go poo.
Fuck me! In the anal cavity.

I'm really proud, but be nice xD

>>6710666
10/10, you're really good!!

Alyssa flew in, shoulder-length brown curls flowing and bouncing, pushing the already ajar door wide open with a bump of her knee.

"B, look at this freaking caterpillar I found outside!" she said as she pushed her cupped hands toward me. A pea green, spotted caterpillar crawled slowly about the bumps of her upturned hands. She cracked into a fit of laughter, bouncing her legs up and down one at a time and scrunching her face as she fought for a chance to speak.

"HA-IT-HAHAHA-IT TICKLES!"

She did not say a word more to me for the moment, separated from reality by one of those stomach-boxing chortles that posits itself deeply inside a person in the brief blur of a simple joke or happening that is unusually funny. She flung her head back, mouth agape and eyes pinched, her skin crawling with pleasure. All the while, even as she danced over the clothes and pieces of trash that lay scattered across my bedroom floor, she held her hands at ease still cupped and bent just below her waist. I had never seen this sort of thing before; the kind of character so spirited, so pure at heart, so enthralled by this world after the fourth global world. Her laughter was fiery, doused hopelessly with intermittent snorting. Life was her fuel--standing there, as beautiful as I have ever laid eyes upon her before. Life at silly heart, life in soft, precious hands, she ignited a appreciation of life in angry me. Here we sit a thousand miles off the west coast of the economically, socially, and structurally collapsing United States of America, in a military safe-house designed and proposed by Grandpa Lt. Welsh. I have Alyssa, a 17 year-old, wild creature of benign nature. I could not express the length of gratitude I feel to God or fate, whatever brought her to me 8 months ago in one of California's last refugee camps. I fell in love in the midst of destruction. Hunger, anger, fear and death. Religious correction and holy-men with convictions so outright neurotic I had to pray for them. Gunfire. Blood. The limb-to-torso product of explosive warfare. I found whole body and peaceful mind in a ripped medical tent, her body sprawled on red-stained stretcher.

"Fuck.....hey, you! I need your help, this girl is about to die." a man in medic attire commanded in my direction. Milroy, a small but active town of 300 or so people had just been raided by a German task force. About 5 minutes east of our Camp, Wilton, if you take the highway. Apparently, the task force was moving through to a higher priority target, but under authority of the German Army General the squad was ordered to fire at any citizen of the state. Alyssa's home, a property of about 3 acres supporting a 4,000 square foot house sat on the east side of town. She told me it was a gorgeous place; a few thriving willow trees in the backyard on luscious grass. A large, stone, 3 bowl fountain in the front yard, spitting quietly under a flagpole.

Tomlinson walked against the throng of the common people, children held trash bags with what few possessions they owned, their shirts, which did not fit because they had been given, were filthy, their feet filthier still, these children who found themselves diseased, medicines of yesterday no longer working, these children, who roamed the streets together like a swarm of rats, died like them, and it was the old who were the bent majority of the street, and here they sheltered from the spitting rain beneath patchwork tents which shuddered in the breeze, these wrinkled and weak whom at one time believed they would be the first to claim immortality, perhaps even eternal youth, whom had known such ease in their early days begged like the rest of them, forgotten lords in an unfamiliar world, separated from the good life which sunk like sand through their fingers.

Tomlinson felt the rise of the pavement before he saw it and stepped up onto the curb to find the sign he was looking for; a cartoonish Red Robin came bobbing into view on the above televised monitor and sang a happy trill of silent musical notes which popped like bubbles to form the words ‘Red Robin Workshop’, the workshop was sandwiched by two decrepit buildings, both of which held for rent signs with their shutters down marked with graffiti from the local gangs, Tomlinson wiped his face and neck with the kerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed coat, took a sharp breath to steady himself, then entered the workshop with his back straight and proper.

The only light inside the workshop splashed in through the open door Tomlinson stepped through, his eyes adjusted to the darkness to be met by a chilling sight; body parts lay strewn across the large-low-ceiling expanse, heads without bodies, bodies without heads, limbs piled up in wicker baskets, eyes and ears and handfuls of teeth kept in labled jars, a weaving machine spat out strands of different coloured human hair as if to make a coat out of it.

Lights hummed to life in Tomlinson’s presence, the spell lifted, the gruesome body parts were the synthetic pieces needed to create false imitations of human life; the Red Robin Workshop held a reputation for finely crafted animatronics.

>>6705234
ok

The sun, englossed in its amber bed,
Sleeps with one eye unable to blink;
The morning tells us the world is asleep:
The birds whisper; Ersa is seen fleeting silhouetted between Helios, and Artemis winks from her perch.
All is quiet
All is well.

>>6710746
>a pea green, spotted caterpillar crawled
could be
>a spotted pea green caterpillar crawled

>upturned hands
Upturned doesn't add anything here

> she cracked into a fit of laughter...fought for a chance to speak
Just tell me she laughed. Spends way too long on the act of laughing

>HA IT TICKLES!
This is shit and not needed. Perhaps tell me what the person pov thinks the person's laughter and joy reminds them of?

>and the rest
I felt nothing reading this, really. So much of this is needless filler, by the end I'm reading about a a raid by a German task force but why should I give a shit?

Keep writing anon.

>>6710350

>>6710649
I can still feel th' phalangeal grip of thy diction grabbing the back of my head and slamming it into the whirring spokes of a spin-art dictionary.

Srsly brah, sprinkle some neon on each line—we are in an era that can pause cancer for 2-3 years—yet your poem reflects reflections of weird desiccated whatnow-hooten-dandy.

With that cheerful, rejuvenated appetite that comes with a timely awakening, Jacob tumbled into the kitchen for breakfast. Having overindulged in cereal the night before, and longing for departure from his rudimentary collegiate recipes, he began to prepare an omelette. He scrambled his eggs, left them to fry in the bubbling oil, and looked out upon the green, sun-brushed infant day. The gentle breeze and azure skies made him restless. His brother asleep, and his father working indefinitely, he decided to celebrate the new day with a puff from the old water pipe. He scarfed his lazy omelette and tumbled down one flight to begin.


This is just a little writing exercise. Looking for feedback on the prose itself rather than characters and plot.

>>6705234
The organ rang and the throats soared and the drummer whipped his skins with a primal frenzy. And as my poor eyes rattled in their sockets a line worshipers formed anxiously in front of Pastor Zeke, heads bowed for the blessing. What happened next shook me. As the quivering mass shuffled forward, sweat pouring from their flushed brows, the pastor seized their heads one by one, shouting "In the name of Jesus I bless you Amen! In the name of Jesus! In the name of Jesus Amen! In the name of Jesus!" Some swooned, some just smiled, many exploded into violent seizures. On the steps I saw a child babbling rapid Hebrew as strangers formed a circle around him."He's been baptized!" they said "He's been baptized in the fire of the Holy Spirit! Alleluia!" Within minutes whatever composure had been lingering in those aisles had evaporated, and it was as Pastor Zeke jerked and twisted and shouted alongside his foaming congregation that I staggered out for a smoke and never came back.

>>6711275
The prose is shit. Choose something worth writing about next time.

>>6711275
Reading well is one of the great pleasures that /lit/ can afford you.

What matters on /lit—in the end—is surely the idiosyncratic, the individual—the flavor and the coloring of some winding branch of human suffering or ecstasy.

We read your post for varied reasons, most of them selfish: we cannot know enough people worse at writing than ourself—we need to know ourselves better—so that we can acquire knowledge, not just of self and others, but of the way things should be.

Feedback? Ye can't tell yr own prose from bad/good prose?

Don't trust anyone.

>>6710759
this anon has made three critiques so far. Can another anon spar one for him?

>>6710759
>>6711494
Whiny-ness is always terrible.

But ye offered yrself up as fodder—so!

Ain't nothin wrong with your piece.

Semicolons are fucking stupid. I don't think Red Robin Workshop needs " ' "s that time you do that.

"Chilling sight"—ever read Lovecraft? That shit is annoying as hell.

Remember to put the heavy at the end:
>in labeled jars were eyes and ears and handfuls of teeth,

See what I mean?

You're treading in the wake of something. And it's obvious. But ye did bring your story to life, so there's that or whatever. Also, I'm mildly curious about yr plot's direction. Ayy.

>>6711522
I agree about the whiny-ness, I guess I'm just a whiny faggot.

What's wrong with semicolons?
You're right about the 'chilling sight'; If I'm writing what I intend to put across the reader I can do better than making it obvious like that.

And you're right about that sentence. What do you mean treading in the wake of something? Do you mean a style, a work by an author?

Thanks for the feedback.

>>6711536
Interesting response. You spelled "giant faggot" incorrectly. Semicolons are a period over a comma and you aren't using them correctly. Almost no one does. And you don't need them. For example, in your response right here that I'm responding to, ye need a.

You're treading in the wake of my fury—should I turn this thing around?

http://pastebin.com/LtuVxJFY

>>6711353
Protestants, everybody.

>>6711580
I had a dream I was in an art gallery made by that fugly guy. It was mostly forgettable except for a part at the end when you could express yourself by making your own cookie.

I stole about 4 or 5 really good ones.

>>6711559
You'll never get that book published, cakebaker.

>>6711595
What did they express?

Holy fuck this board is pretty goddamn pretentious. Interesting, considering that none of you are actual writers. Your work is barely bobbing above LiveJournal-tier fanfiction, which should give you an indication of how low the bar is here.

>>6711602
I didn't even care, man. I had 0 respect for the art. Some cookies were chocolate, some had jelly beans in them, etc.

>>6711562
It was consistent I guess. Not exactly Christian, but what are ye gunna do? Poetic at its low points and what I hope is only skepticism of correct grammatical constructions, like some venting of rage against the newspeak machine of the 21st C.

Metaphysical? Noooope. Materialist? Noooope. High Romanticism? Noooope. Let us celebrate in praise of breaking all barriers of expectation by explicitly limboing beneath them. When I praised the other posts, genius, and talent came like masters of nuance, and here I fall flatly sputtering nothing for you.

Discussing yr post, at best, I grimly admired your hope that anyone besides me would slog through it.

Be proud of your limitations. I accepted your implied invitation, but cannot remember ever seeing something so, so—well I'm still very young and the 1990s are done and I'm hopelessly passionate about writing good—I mean well.

>>6711580
Pentecostals specifically, watch the movie Marjoe they actually do that.

Is human existence God's inversion of heavenly infinitude; is it that before we are, we chiefly are not?
And is it that in the same breath as we are not, we chiefly are; that our very being un-proves itself and that we truly are, only insofar as God is?
What particle is; what atom exalts; what physicality infers upward?
We prove being naught, for desecration is that which ought.

>>6711608
You need a comma after "Holy fuck".

I would leave out "tier" references, too. I understand the tribal nature of 4chan.org and the need to align oneself with it—and even the usefulness of such terms—but baby, this shit is all shit, shitty shit shit shit, y'know?

And it's "LiveJournaltierfanfiction". All one word. Come on. The bar may be low, missy, but not dat low.

>>6711615
wow, you totally figured me out. seriously. thanks for your reply and the great content in the thread

>>6711562
>>6711615
Perhaps the rarest pepe is the friends we made along the way.

Is this subtle enough?

He smiled to himself and started scribbling down some words. He stopped for a bit and used his other hand for something else. For moments on end, his breathing was soft but fast, gradually getting less soft as time went on. He then stopped after a loud moan and looked at the work. “Eventually...”

>>6711690
Don't use he to start a sentence twice in a row, same goes with the repetition of soft. You can afford to be more creative with the language.

>>6711615
Would you mind critiquing>>6711615? This is my first time in one of these threads and I was really hoping for some constructive feedback.

>>6711703
shit meant >>6711353 my bad

In the vein of the typical shit verses I'll make a quick one of my own.

The first was made of new flesh,
Whose blood made anew,
And held the essence of life,
to be a vessel sentenced to imprisonment.
kept in chains,
in shape and form,
whilst the work continued.

The old man found his reflection,
in a house of broken things,
finding a broken woman,
and her beloved brother by her side,
skilled in spells,
lies of the eyes,
and the arts of telling traits.

The second was made of cold steel,
crafted in a prism of thunder,
twisting black smoke and crackling lightning,
where the elements gave birth to an entity,
neither fully man nor machination.

the second was perfect,
but by man's imperfect aim,
was rendered and torn asunder,
the machine torn limb from limb,
flesh sagging,
voice crying out,
inhuman, but more human than we.

The second sacrificed,
harvested for its parts,
given away to the beloved brother's sister,
taken apart piece by piece,
parts replaced by mechanisms.

A sister no more.
something new.

>>6711562
This is some of the only competent writing i have ever seen on these threads. Gj

BLOOD MASS
We all huddled together hungrily around our best friend, and we tried not to show it but all was in vain, as many things done in a rush in the deep night are. Our sunken teeth and broken-up, sad insect eyes on him set like that star in the firmament awaiting for his word. Like dogs, or stray cats or orphans a few minutes after dawn.
Blood dripping from the severed body he held in his arms flew down in rivulets encarmine.
-Who among you is worthy! A wail rose unbidden from all throats, not one! not one!
-Ye shall be made pure again! As he tossed the great rotting corpse in an arc of jutting ichor.
How we feasted, on that former friend and lover! We all shared his teasing strong cock, and as it dripped on our chins we smiled shily at each other presaging the assfuck to come. Our Lord, he would be the first.

Context: None. This is the opening to the first chapter of the second book, but every character other than the narrator is new here.

Julio’s looking at tits again in the shop computer; Marshall shoulders it off with a casual chuckle, and we all eat lunch together. Before you know it, Julio is checking the weather, which is relevant because Marshall is going to be harvesting some vegetables for the restaurant this afternoon if the weather’s nice, and if it’s going to rain he has to pull some turnips prematurely so that they don’t split. I was weeding with Marshall earlier. It was hot out, and I sweated through the knees of my work pants, creating a thin layer of mud as I was on one or two knees the entire time.
We talk about Mad Max, and I ask Julio how much of our conversation he understands.
“Yeah, most—all—”
“—well a lot of it was specific, yeah, but you got most of it,” he nods, “that’s cool, man.”
Marshall is looking at his yogurt inquisitively. He’s an organic eater and gardener who doesn’t like to swim in chlorinated pools when he’s listening to his metalcore punk or something-violent punk or whatever, which made me think of my ultraviolent days. Marshall stole rides on trains from coast to coast four times, living on couches, streets, in strangers’ cars and homes, off of their drugs and bread, a self-described alcoholic at the time. We talked about our drug uses when we were weeding, which was a great escape from the hustle and bustle of the maintenance phone ringing for me while the maintenance radio was chirping for me while I was brainstorming a solution to the gutter situation behind the restaurant while I was delivering a saw to Eric on my golf cart. Marshall was arrested for ‘stealing rides from trains’, and his partner in crime, someone he described as a smart ass, had questioned the judge on the legitimacy of stealing rides from a train that didn’t sell tickets for travelers, but I was just thinking they were all lucky that they weren’t caught with any number of drugs they normally consumed in the cars.

people once believed that swifts did not have legs, because of the vast proportion of their lives they spend on the wing

i want to give people good reason to make up insane stories like that about us

i want to drink two beers with you and get on a train to a place we don't know yet

let's get legless in the eyes of strangers

i'll be complicit in any lie that allows the way i feel about you to seem true

>>6711734
>>6711353
Hoo hoo I've had a few cocktails:

The organ rang and the throats soared and the drummer whipped his [idk, drum-hides?—"skins" hampers cognition b/c it isn't the fastest way to get what you want the reader to visualize] with a primal frenzy. And as my poor eyes rattled in their sockets a line worshipers formed anxiously in front of Pastor Zeke, their heads bowed for the blessing. What happens next shook me. As the quivering mass shuffled forward, with sweat pouring from their flushed brows, the pastor seized their heads one by one shouting "In the name of Jesus I bless you! Amen! In the name of Jesus! In the name of Jesus! Amen! In the name of Jesus!" Some swooned, some smiled, many exploded into violent seizures. On the steps I saw a child babbling Hebrew as strangers formed a circle. "He's been baptized!" they said "He's been baptized in the fire of the Holy Spirit! Alleluia!" Within minutes any composure which had been lingering in those aisles evaporated, and it was Pastor Zeke who jerked and twisted and shouted alongside his foaming congregation and I staggered out for a smoke and never came back.

—You can accept my changes or not. Don't care. I like it. I want to hear more. Y'know how to write. W/th' nuts & bolts down, you can basically do whatever—as long as you have something to say. Platitude, platitude, etc, etc, w/e.

>>6711670
Dudebro—It's good. Also keep writing. Yr story had my heart pounding like a two ton manta ray pounding the Atlantic as it paced across it. Sorry if my deranged post made-ja mad. It's good—I'm not all here—if y'catch muh drift.

Since I can't even put a fucking pastebin link on here without getting b&, I will put my latest work, Serayite, book-by-book on this thread.

This is a combination of a concentrated effort to make a book while I was 19, an earlier work I wished to publish that was unfinished (about three years ago), and some miscellaneous stuff from freshman year of high school. Serayite was published about a week or less before I turned 20.

For the much better versions of Serayite, look up "serayite" on Google and it will be the first result, from smashwords.

It also comes with a separate companion commentary to provide better understanding of what is being said (link in the title page of the recommended version, both books are free btw).

In return for your comments (thank you graciously), I will certainly comment on every work in this thread that I can, mostly the gist I get from what you wrote.

Regards,
Ghazy Loon

>>6712289

(1/12)

Serayite,
or the Curious Frottage ‘twixt the Langue and the Parole

Ghazy Loon

©2015

To my soon-expir’d Teenage,
With its perverted Hope and its seminal Destiny,
to Columbia Intrinsic with her divers representations,
and to Maria Mondragon


א
DISSEMINATE.

…Thus shall exist the boy in himself,
and shall this motive suffice to satiate his sum…

So unfolds the sacred Soliloquy,
the Forefront of epic Vantage…
His ink spatter'd Quell bewails
its timeless Incontinence,
almost sucks the Purpose
from its own blackened Nib
to avoid pinning one Paragraph,
for its sooty Tip resting frozen Pigment
proves itself too obtuse
to penetrate the harlequin Parchment
only a Soul can tangiate,
too blunt to define
the angstrom Edges
of the child's holy Monad,
not so cursive
as to capture the all-one-seething-Noise
by its Contours
on conscience's Cartography;
Alas! Colossus-unto-himself
tediously dissolved into Phonetics,
whipped to Charms by ascending ox Goads,
stored to Smolders by Phylacteries of four-prong'd Fire
'til he reminisces naked over his Destruction,
only to be teleported Sublime to Entities unfathomable…
inhabit a remote Cortex reassembl’d…

>>6712053
>Julio's looking at tits again in the shop computer
Should be "on the computer" but that's a genius intro sentence to a novel.

>>6712053

i'd buy this book. you've got a good cadence

>>6710353

Young Master Q

>>6705325
The whole thing seems a sashay swaggering the edge of Sid's routine stroll from work (?) to wherever... his train of thought even sways back and forth along with the passage of his time in retrospective, too absorbed in how he established his amble than where it goes.

>>6712289
>>6712316

(2.1/12)

Book I

My position was falling low over the Southern sky.
Pockets of calm had caressed the underwings of my airplane
lulling the wings nod off in routine supplication,
subjecting the silver craft to rigorous turbulence.
Ten or so more units of pressure to break the stress treatment
welded onto her joints, then we all go into free fall,
one in acceleration, young and old, the corpulent and emaciated,
as the feather and the brick...

My innards swelled with another surge in aerodynamics… I was up again.
That was the only deep sleep I could attain in my current position,
that sleep in which the serotonin causes your own senses to roll
a rapid-eyed freefall of their own…

I guess my emotions and my sense of self-preservation still hadn't contrived yet.
I lifted my head off of the back of the other seat.
There is no space for adjustment at all
against the dusty periwinkle of an economy class seat...
It had gained its grout with the attainment of miles of domestic sky,
maybe some foundation from the wispy crags of a former menopausal episode.

One whose eyes reflected such upholstery had been sighted…
easy as living in that time, a long-lost Acquaintance had appeared on my way home there.
She sat afront me with sated maturity already emblazoned on her jaded face...
Had I minced a hello, she'd have released a demure relapse of our Education,
for she had never seen me in such clothing before,
or had even remembered in turn of any of my recent decisions
that wound me up in her scenario...

As the other two of her Triumvirate weighing in lead me A to B to C,
my countenance felt obligated to melt cast lead type once more...
Two had talked of greener transactions on the glucose vignettes of their
so forward-oriented minds
immolating in their compulsory expenditure
as their last responsible action...
Their bright glimmer, their perennial gurgle,
product of a previous flight exhumed,
from a time when my current role was as relished
as the murky-sweetened streams
had abounded in their own autotrophoic Dream...

My head could only fear pressure that should have ruptured my homeostasis
while tinnitus restimulated brisk in my ears
by the incessant jet of comforting air in-vessel.
The tense trill of the digital riffs had shorn my memory
from the scene to a damned shrill meadow, released through the surge
of every metal-forg’d blade that only came on a cognitive lapse…
they rippled serene on a long-consumed artificial wind…
I was going deaf to the fixtures on board my experience,
and my equipment was deteriorating to steely irrelevance
'til I might right myself in my reality again...

I had an aisle seat to everyone elses' stupor,
and no induction on my part
could possibly change this community
'til I colluded toward the jet set
with their inheritance to me,
God forbid I tamper with the continuity already in movement…
My faux mead verberated according to the turbulence in its shallow plastic holder.

(cont.)

>>6712426
:D look up von Dorf on Amazon, don't be let down by the shitty cover; it's a statement on everyone being a special snowflake on the internet

>>6705290
Bumping my one, sorry it's sideways but I'd appreciate feedback.

>>6705290
First paragraph: the lightning realization of being a now-knowing cuck, short and simple.

Second paragraph: The character's line of thought begins to stutter and repeat itself in this new feeling he has experienced all of a sudden, like making out for the first time or something. He begins to toy with his powerlessness in his mind as a source of stimulating emotion and becoming a victim, though his vocabulary in this new guise is new to him and he tries to cling to his moments-dead aversion to it.

Third paragraph: A seemingly masochistic acceptance of becoming a cuck (that lose all hope/road to comforting self-pity thing like crying in bob's shirt in fight club): losing it and gloating in it.

Dead bodies are heavy.
On the shoulders mostly, or the arms if you’ve grabbed the legs, or the back if you’re in the middle. Maybe the legs because of the walking and the dirt. Maybe the feet if it rained the night before and it’s wet and muddy. Maybe the heart if you’re related, the mind if you’re uncomfortable, the soul, if you’re afraid.
Dead bodies are too heavy to carry alone.
You need a few men. Two is the minimum, one in the back and one in front. They’d have to be strong men. Not muscular, but the shoulder meat, thick, to cushion bone from body, and the legs long, to keep the corpse from the earth before its time. Some bodies are heavier than others. In that case you might need three men or four. Two in the back and two in front. Carry the body on your shoulders, like a steel beam or a log. Strength is not an issue with three men, and the shoulders of four men are not weak. But height can be an issue. You don’t want the body lopsided, or one man carrying more than his share. You must group by height. Let the shorter men take the feet, the taller men, the head. Now the body’s on an incline, but the grip is good, and four shoulders are strong.
Dead bodies are too heavy to carry in the dark.
You need a light-man, a scout. Man who watches, shines. Might get a flashlight or a lantern, a clear sky and a full moon if he’s lucky, an old torch if he’s not. But he needs good eyes and quick legs, a small voice. Needs to shine the way, whisper the way. Needs to warn, push, goad, guide. Needs to miss nothing, catch the holes and pitfalls, the muddy pools, the sun rising. Needs to keep the pace, keep the peace, keep the lead, keep going. The light-man doesn’t complain, because he doesn’t carry the body. The light-man doesn’t carry the body, because light is heavy enough. The light-man never slows, never stops. Moves forward patiently, easily. Knows stopping is failure, defeat, suicide. He moves forward slowly, heavily. Leaves his imprints on the mud, deliberately. Makes himself known, his presence real, his light fading, waning, dying, shining, silently.

>>6712533
>>6712616

It's all good, I went ahead. Does your character want to be a cuck deep in his mind? Honest question, because the work screams cuckoldry.

Dead bodies are too heavy to carry in secret.
A rear guard is useful. With good eyes, better than the light-man’s, because the guard doesn’t have a light. A flexible neck is good, but a sixth sense is better – a zenith created by the sharpness of all senses. Smell the rain and the dirt and the rain in the dirt. Hear the squelch of hard boots crashing on the soft and the wet. Feel the sweat on your skin, taste dryness on your lips, moisture in the air, on your tips: your nose, your fingers. Squint in the dark and hope. Hope no one squints back. Whet your eyes, your ears, your skin, your lips, your nostrils in the blackness. Just look. Snap your neck to and fro. Be paranoid, then assured, then silent – melted. Let the hair on your neck stand on its own, let the crown of your head tingle. Be afraid and hope, be confident and hope, be silent and hope. And the silence chokes your voice and the darkness suffocates your eyes, you can’t smell in the stink, can’t hear in the loudness of your own heart. Your mind wanders in the dark. Are bats afraid of silence? Can the dead beneath the grass feel us tip-toeing? Is God nocturnal? Your thoughts are lost in the darkness; you are lost in thought. Then you trip, someone chuckles, someone smiles, someone hushes, someone blushes, maybe you. Then the attention comes back again, the senses meld and melt again, sharpen again toward the zenith. All there is to do is hope.
How heavy dead bodies are!

>>6712456

(2.2/12)

I had left the wafty Mediterranean toward the humid Backwater
potent in the churning of my spoiling sense of rue,
and had slipped over the sparse Chaparral toward the privet here
that quailed at emulating exile's sun-baked flora on its captive plateau.
The length of the road from state's center to my home remained a long spike
etched into the most vehement regression
throughout the possibility of my travel over them for all my time.
From its hills made of iron,
my will to stand the ride had become steel in the mute apprehension
of setting into my loamy options.
had slowed to a stride into my former abode,
devalued by stucco as it was.
All the animals remained,
the muzzles of my stags all the sager from their tenure just outside the fence;
Muffling the thrall, a conure strutted forth to meet my appearance,
pupils oscillating along her radial lashes
An atonal chorus had resounded and hushed on the return of the second Straggler.

“So, you've come back to see your Mother again!”

I opened the door to my room and saw my looming shadow
over the homey comforter,
and all the other creature accouterments left for the next perspective buyer.
Not even the noon sun could snap me out of the relatively eternal Weekend.
My stay would be long and mired on this mattress
to shirk the repetition from my true cubicle on the Coast...
A Tabby's den it had been when its previous Orphan,
now doubly so, had laid her head on my pillow.
He had stayed an ashen gray.

Animals were all that lived in this place now, save my Mother;
young Wander still beckoned…

***

My Mother had wished me a peaceful night,
and every timber fibre in the hardwood floors seemed a thread
of some plushly wrought chantilly comforter displayed so unruffled
'tween the veneer of the magazines in my bathroom…
face timbre'd crisp by the pall of an amber scented candle
The noisy shot yearned for the more sultry
woven heavier through its straining pores...

My waft home had been the publicized version
of the retrospective revisit,
where I was expected to look upon my land of fare
in a condescending way aloof from the base Past
I shared by the endemic Cretins;
I now had to embark on my true relay back home
by grazing the institutions that had refined
my sense of purpose in the first place on my trajectory.
It was now a question of execution.

My former house was built on a rim,
my former school in its valley.
When the jubilation of my kindred masses would swell many a baited moon,
for feted pitches trivial
one's extra giddy chants would spill over its bowl onto our rim
to send my own eager sweat running back down its cracked curvature.

This run manifested itself in Hill and Highway…

After a dense wander, my pocketed Cell felt warm.
I even checked my home screen in domicile fashion to marvel at
the carefree plasma numbers purring the most outrageous digits
against my refined sense of time management…

>>6712635

(2.3/12)

I came to the Alma Mater at her forlorn hour.
True to previous rumors,
its edifice sit demolished for defied expansion,
a fence around the very inviting wings.
Going about the corridors excited my overactive extrapolation,
imagining the grody lids on the ways peeled back and exposed
in the high-beam lights still on throughout the night
at extortional cost to my state,
beholden to the whims of whoever skulks the site
but to me at any rate…

Nothing quelled quadrilateral deflection from said power more
than the acoustic bricking 'long the honing trapezium
'twas my old midwife, a former Auditorium;
it was being condemned that very day…

Near Her tennis court's creme clay,
there lay a porcelain pisser meant to drain its Palladian parody;
Let’s masturbate in Memory…
'Twas unripen'd Hope with the towel 'round her torso
my refugee was the denizen of an oblivious underworld
She had avoided life's consummation
while harboring mutual joy
for the boy,
Four cosmic revolutions shy a score;
I had dropped my Reservoir under the Bridge of Trysts before…

My ubiquitous Creme fell a pirouette non sequitur into the rusting Sluice!

>>6712190
To tell you the truth, whether you meant it or not, this posts and the "hoo hoo i've had a few cocktails" line fit very well together, and due to the juxtaposition, I imagine that girl standing in the back of the tent (or low-lying prefab church as is common in the South), wild-haired Scots-Irish like the rest of those delirious worshipers, yet staring into the manipulating eyes of Pastor Zeke and forming her own counter-manipulation of modern mask and traditional scope under his floodlit shadow in the ligering night; imagine those two together behind the tent after the meeting is done, squaring each other up...

Sorry, sometimes I get carried away, and i love adding women into storylines in my head, especially when the image is provided, forgive me haha

btw i know what you mean about pentecostal services; I rain into a few on accident. The fervor is overwhelming. look up "pentecostal cleveland" on youtube and click the first result. That's what I think of.

Leo emerged from the front door of his house with a rolled and tied up sleeping bag. He tossed it onto the lawn beside Harold, his father. Harold had laid an old sheet down on the lawn and his red canoe down on the sheet, hull-side up. He was kneeling on the grass, polishing the canoe with a rag and sucking on a toothpick. Harold looked up at Leo.
“So’d ya get all your marks back?” said Harold.
“Dad,” said Leo, “we’ve gone over this.” He grabbed a blue tote from the porch, carried it over to the car, and then fitted it snugly in the trunk, which was already full of other camping supplies.
“Sure didn’t,” said Harold. “You probably told your mother.”
“I got my marks like, two weeks ago,” said Leo.
“Well,” said Harold, “I don’t think you told me. But the old man doesn’t have quite the brain he used to, so it’s not impossible that I forgot.”
Leo picked up the sleeping bag and stuffed it down into the trunk, beside the tote. “I’ve told you at least twice,” said Leo. He shut the trunk door.
“Come on there, big guy,” said Harold, rising from the lawn and walking over to Leo. “Don’t be a pansy. How’d you do?”
“Fine,” said Leo.
“All A’s again?” asked Harold.
“One B,” said Leo.
“One silver can hang on a rack of all golds, my boy,” said Harold.
“Yeah,” said Leo. “It’s not too bad.”
“Good man,” said Harold, clapping his son on the shoulder. Then he slapped a rag into Leo’s hand and returned to the canoe. Leo followed him over. The two went to work polishing the hull.
Harold was leaving for his annual trip to the Lake that afternoon. Leo and Mother might stop in and stay with him for a few days or a week here or there, but Mother didn’t like the mosquitoes or the outhouses or sleeping in a tent on an air-matress, and Leo, though he used to spend upwards of three weeks camping with his father when he was younger, had a job now, as well as friends to go camping with. And besides, Harold liked the solitude.
“That gunna hurt for your law school?” asked Harold. Leo put his rag down and looked at his father.
“I don’t even know if I’m going to do law, dad,” said Leo. “And it’s first year. They wouldn’t even look at those marks.”

>>6713059

“You’d make one heck of a lawyer, Leo,” said Harold, rubbing the sand and dust from the cracks in the hull’s veneer. “We’ve always said that. Argue with a sinking ship till it took you to the fricken shore. Sink your clauses right into the cracks. And scoop up a handfull of sand-dollars for yourself, meanwhile.” Harold put his face up close to one of the cracks in the red veneer, and then took the toothpick from his mouth and started carefully scraping at it. “Prob’ly some coral reefer, too, knowing you and them damn scalleywags you keep for company.”
Leo laughed. “I hardly do that stuff anymore.” Harold looked at Leo incredulously. “No, honest, dad. Makes me paranoid.”
Harold put the toothpick back in his mouth and started polishing over top of the crack he had just scraped clean.“So what are ya gunna do with an arts degree, then?” said Harold. “Keep moping around your mother and I, drinking coffee and hiding from the sun and beating your head against Hamlet till you’re braindead and thirty?”
Leo looked across the street. “You got an arts degree,” he said quietly.
“And then a trade,” said Harold. “Our fair Berta’s a gamesome lass for any harry Tom with a dick and half a head on his shoulders, Leo. But she’s got oil in her teats, and that’s where the real money is.”
Leo thought about money and about his car that was falling apart and about the spider web crack in the windshield. “It can’t just be about money, dad,” said Leo. “I don’t need lots of money.”
Harold wiped his forhead with the rag. Then he sighed and said: “I know, son. I do. But you’ll wanna settle down one day. You’ll meet a nice girl—you good looking son of a good looking father, and you’re gunna wanna build yourself a couple of little Leos or Layas with the old hammer and glue. No, listen. I’m sorry. Look. I know it’s not all about money. No, wait, listen. I do, Leo. More than most. I spend a fricken month and a half of every year out in the bush, reading on a boat, having a beer, or eight, don’t tell your mother, sleeping alone in a tent on a goddamned air-mattress. Because I know it’s not all about money. But you need the stuff, son. You do.”
Harold put his face up close to another crack. He blew some of the dust away and started rubbing it over with his rag.
“And you’ve your old man’s head on your shoulders,” he said. “You’re a smart kid. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes, to tell you straight. You got all it takes to really make it, is all I’m saying. But not with both feet and your head outta the world. Out of the air means into a grave, remember.”

>>6713065

Harold looked up at his son, who was looking across the street again.
“So I guess what I’m waxing on about here is that, well, get the degree, you know? Do what you love. I never once regretted the time I spent marking up the margins of all them old Russian novels. Time of my life. No, really. But when all’s said and done, you need a fricken buck in the bank to put gas in the tank, son. To put food in the belly. You don’t wanna be stuck cleaning dishes at that restaurant forever. Just, well—think about it, Leo. And while you’re thinking, help me move this boat.”
The two lifted the canoe and carried it over to Harold’s car. Then they placed it longwise on top of the car. Harold secured the front end with two bungee cords. When Leo tried to secure the back end, he put too much tension on the wrong spot, and the canoe fell. The bottom of the hull smacked the pavement hard.
“Ahh,” said Leo, “I’m sorry.”
Harold gently flipped the canoe over and pulled out his rag and rubbed on the spot where the boat had made contact with the ground. There was a definite crack. He probed it with his toothpick. Then he gently flipped the canoe again and examined the spot from the inside. No visible damage. So the fall hadn’t managed to split the wood all the way through. Harold looked up and smiled at Leo.
“She’ll do, bud,” said Harold. “I’ll seal ‘er up when I get there and she’ll be floatin’ like oil on water. Don’t you worry your gentle heart over it, and let’s giver another go.”
The two lifted the canoe and carefully flipped it. They placed it on top of the car again, and Leo went to grab his bungee cords from the ground.
“But if you drop her again,” said Harold, “well my sweet son. You might wanna start asking around for an extra shift at that job of yours. Or several.”

tips for getting out of dry spells? been a few days since I've written anything

>>6713080
sam hyde voice: what inspires you? find that and look for it

Personally I'm inspired by emotional pain. Like, for example, today I was in a Mexican restaurant, and I saw a beautiful girl. She was really beautiful. I just felt so ashamed of myself for being such a crappy person. I just felt so bad about it, that I wanted to write. And I did write.

Also I went to a music concert and I had a horrible time. I felt so uncomfortable and nervous that all I could do was think of things to write or say when I got out of there.

Also I drank a small iced tea today; caffeine (and also sorta cigarettes) really gets me writing.

Also, I talked to a nice girl—who doesn't like me—who lives somewhere on the other side of my country. I tried to tell her how I always feel doomed, but she seemed like I was boring her & that she didn't understand, which hurt enough to make me want to write.

Lastly, other great works of art can inspire me. I was reading "either/or", and the way Kierkegaard (or at least persona #1) writes is really gratifying. It's like he's galloping on a horse! Also I heard some great music, too.

>>6713069
Goddamn, that's good. I guess it ends there, huh? I'd actually read abt this guy.

>>6713121
Part of a novel I'm working on. I particularly like that interchange so I thought I'd see what you guys thought. Thanks man! That's encouraging.

>>6706476
if freud had worked as a vet

>>6707746
hey, you used "rife" wrong. also you're chasing old meter but you're not getting there

>>6708998
Interesting, I'd read more. I want this guy to punish his bull and cuctrix

that said, some sentences are constructed awkwardly. like the important part isn't where it should be

>>6709260
>>6709265
bad:

instead say: "you don't need that word", and "you don't need any words" fuckers

>>6709444
Monica. You gotta read this out loud. It doesn't flow naturally. It sounds like you're adding stuff in and taking it out ad-hoc, you know?

>>6710308
You're a legend anon, even your critiques are good reads.

I'm the bloke who did the Sid story, I'm so glad you liked my two pieces. Gordo is a real man and a real relative, he lives in an East End London council estate; I've only visited once.

After reading the callibre of lyric ability in this thread, I think I might just not post anything here today. Funny. I was going to. But not any more. Nothing I have written could hold a candle up to the glaring light of these anons' works :^(

But instead of crying over it, I think I'll just have to go to my workstation and put my head down and fingers to keyboard and mind to action thinking up words that actually sound good together, one after the other.

The road is long and hard and dark, anons...

>>6712623
Thank you for the feedback. He doesn't want to be a cuck, but I wanted to portray that he already felt powerless - no matter if he fought against the guy and his wife, it would be pointless because she loved the stranger and not him.

I have a word document I always keep open and just add passages or whatever on a whim. Got a kick out of writing this

On walking down her quaint suburban street unto her house, a girl, and a very lovely girl at that, came across a dead animal laying rigid and open mouthed in the gutter, without care nor beauty – sparking an internal crisis the likes of which she'd never have anticipated. It was certainly not the first time she'd witnessed a dead animal but by what was certainly circumstance allowed by all factions at hand to strike at her inner self and shudder her with great anxiety. Standing there in an outfit of polka dots and subtle colours, the sun beating on the sad corpse, the tires of cars and trucks passing the body without ceremony or acknowledgement, her gaze more fear than melancholy. Is this the death of all things living? Did this poor animal love? Was it happy – a family, friends? Could it be? - that things not as they seem? Still idle she stood with wide eyes, a car approached to a stop at the traffic light and in it a curious man, curious to the pale skin girl in polkadot and now curious to her fascination with road-kill.

“I think it's dead.” Was it said with malice or comfort?

“Wh-? Oh, yes, well.” And away she marched, not from the animal but the man – an odd scene! But it stuck, and had it not been for the events that preceded her discovery it may have received so much as a glance and womanly pity.

And so this was the year that Long Island became known as Piano Island, as Bill Joel had been found responsible for the string of hooker killings of the decade before and he was caught when the autopsies were released to the public and one clever citizen realized that Joel had removed fingers from each victim that matched with the chord-fingerings of his most famous tune Piano Man, and he had murdered and dismembered them in line with the chord progression.

But more relevantly to the matters at hand, this summer, of the same year, President Bush (née Clinton)'s reverse quantitative easing program had just sold the top secret Plum Island Top Secret Research Facility to my father's Infinity Genetics Technology Inc. And as a publicity stunt, in June, father, at the recommendation of mother's Memetech Public Relations Inc., had brought back the Carcharodon carcharias from extinction and released 20 of these beautiful, and of course tamed, Great Whites into the ocean off the coast of Montauk to worldwide celebration and horror.

But what I'm trying to tell you is both mother and father are in Costa Rica tonight and the party at our house in the Hamptons is going to be an absolute blow out and despite having just spilled my martini across the gas stove, I'm proud to announce that I have every reason to believe I will be having a threesome with the callipygian Natalie and her skinny Wonder Bread friend Meghan tonight.

>>6714022
Keep at it anon. Post something later, I'll be lurking tommorrow and hopefully the slightly mad anon with the pictures will too.
>>6714203
I feel that technically and conceptually this is a good piece. The mans conversation was a good and unexpected addition and I feel there's a slight humour to the whole thing.

My biggest issue is that you seem to have overwritten it slightly. If it where more obvious, you could over exaggerate into satire- that such a small thing could make some prissy girl expound on deep philosophical and cliched thoughts . But your intent seems to genuinely portray the horror seriously but you're just not barebones enough and over egg a lot of scenes. For instance (in my opinion)
>"the pale skin girl in polkadot (which could also be polka for the same effect with one less syllable (although the dot sounds meatier to the prose)) is just slightly swallowed by your long sentence. You could literally open with, "The pale girl in polka stood by dead animal" and have a really similar effect with a tenth the cost of a paragraph.

Otherwise you've got a solid piece and know what your doing. I just think as it stands, the language is so long that it should drift into a more comedic tone (which is fine if you want it) and could afford to be much skinnier for a more sinister effect.

>>6714022
Writing is among the most subjective things ever, anon. You're down on yourself for no reason.

>>6709906
It reminds me of when I've been on my phone or laptop too long. There will come a time when technology will be seamlessly integrated with the elements of the Western canon, like when the hammer god of the men in the Bronze Age integrated with the natural gods of the first men. Good effort on that.

>>6712289
>>6712643

(3.1/12)

Book II

My leave had proven to be an indicative sham.
as before, any such revelation from the past
had degenerated into a debasement of my Freedoms...

One wadden length of unraveling hour before
rushed departure,
slight to procure illicit velvet gaud hard promised…

I had greeted the bouncer as an old friend…
I parroted the Savior arms-wide as he found me
bereft a weapon against what was inside.
The cash register tended the elbow of the lustering hallway,
almost lost in the black paint.
I disdained from the typical floor I found; however,
There I was.

Serayites had opened up the noble harem for olde hire,
'cept these tantalii scorned the male Sucessor to their tradition,
gyrating as they were on their poles distorted by mine own aversion;
from the burnished swatch of skin my wanton conscience
so selected, I surmised:

The mestizo is mine.

Her face's Image widened shakily from my hasty steps toward her,
one of quetzal Temples, all beady-glint and wide within...
This lesson was more appropriate than I expected tonight.

"You ready?"
I want to have a private party.

She clasped my hand with her own sooty digits to lead me over there.
The scene grew a microcosm from inside
the plush cubicle I had known at some dream back.
Her ravens'-tendrils made shards of the meekly ultraviolet awn,
transsecting each glowering projection from
the fuzzy disco ball and its own singed source,
proportions morphing by
its leery orbit and her positioning…

"You know how to do this, right?"
I knew when to initiate an educational experience… might I strip naked in your presence?

Demure laughter.
"No, dear, that's unlawful here."

Not on the other coast, it isn't. You see, I'm the most blasé of adventurers, I go for half a grand there…

Her thighs well-defined from gravity-defying ritual consumed
my thigh surly from wandering other austere hills.
The gold glitter in her thong strained mute and murky
'gainst its polyester. There would be a thud of foundation'd flesh
for a minute to define the session,
then it would dissipate into a hint of leaden cellulite.
This motion was being executed in the neighboring felten stalls
Exponential in the sowing of their stolid Kernels.

The rings fastened to the valves of her perfumed Providence
tasted sweet yet peppery amidst such refuse
not a single retraction spritzed from her toilette fuses
whipping lushly jingling from ear to my ear
as she bared her chest to my noble head…
Crow's feet rifted the recesses of those pliable dimples
to salve me of her saded diligence with every morose wile.

>>6712289
>>6714333

(3.2/12)

As is customary in such agreements, the vitality of the Performer
assaults her audience not as a single episode of redemption
for her true tribal-tat lover that inebriated in a nearby town,
but rather like a ginger lichen
creep’d upon her dumb smooth slab,
where each juvenile of the latex'd audience
is regaled with an ever more passive, commensal stroke of her beholding…
Every garish volley took on the breadth of her body;
the very lily-din of the stereo infested his fine Tunnels of perception
through their threadbare velvet carpets,
once purveying thoughtful gales
wrought a herringbone trail anew through his frayed latticework…

I scraped these feigns with the air of an aloof connoisseur
'gainst the syndicated movements of the other side of humanity.
my passages were already ruminat'd with her body as whole…
her glittery basidiocarp now snaked,
around
my…
torso,
isolated from her lucrative apparatus…

…I must burn through my instars
to ride this strange canker 'round my body,
O, was the time nigh for this…

"What kind of molly are you on?!"
my mycelia smothered their own host…

…Miswoven lobe's spattering
'Twas intimated latex firmament 'twixt the skins
permeating rayonnant microstitch a finger by itself, it's a…
kitten…
each fine hyphae embolden as dirty words
the given now be, *beholden*, switched, slurren…

"I want some, whatever it is…"
Twenty dollars?
"Of course, if you want a therapist, come sit in my lap later; I shall be here."

Yet Malinche was not now ready for her Lord
though I had wanted for so long in meeting the mother of a race,
her fellow Serayites lay fanning their salary
while Hope spilt emulates her estranged Sister in desperation…
they both proved wanting to me...

>I am trying my luck at a young writer's short story competition. I read some of the winning entries from previous years, and they seem address the typical coming-of-age topics of love, peer pressure, etc., thus I've decided to take the safe route of writing a sort of cheesy, watered down young adult romance. Here are the first few paragraphs.

Everything around me is just dark and grey, save for the thriving green vegetation. Trees, grass and gardens – this is the Far North after all. Don’t we love it here?

I still can’t see the mountain range to the east. The thought of it is more interesting than it really should be. I stare at my feet and stroll towards the general direction of my home form class. I think I’m late, but that’s okay.

“Hey!”

I look up, around. I see this girl running towards me, soaking wet from head to toe. I’ve seen her before in history class; I think her name is Laura. She may or may not already know me, I’m not sure. I awkwardly stop, and raise my arm to allow her to duck under the coverage of my flimsy umbrella.

“Mind if I come under?”
“Nah. Sure you can.”

I’m sort of hoping this encounter doesn’t last too long; I’m clumsy and inept around strangers. I don’t get a good look at her initially because I’m not trying to at all. From the corner of my eye she’s got her brown, damp and clumpy hair tied back in a ponytail, and I think she’s smiling, despite her very unkempt state on account of this morning's weather. But she seems alright.

We make our introductions as we stroll around together, alone in the midst of this perpetual monsoon. I confirm I’m Jack, and she confirms she’s Laura. She makes small talk and I try to humour her. She tells me she’s in the Air Force Cadets with our mutual friend Chris, who we both agree is really funny but not entirely self-aware, which is half the joke. I don’t do anything like that I say, but I used to play AFL for the Trinity Beach Bulldogs back in 7th grade, despite being bad. Cue laughter. I don’t tell her I was bullied out of the team before the end of the season. But I do mention that I play guitar, and that I’m self-taught. The catch (unbeknownst to her) is that I’ve only played for about a month or two and I’ve barely learned some Nirvana songs. I wasn’t lying though. I’m not very good at that.

Everything she tells me, as well as what I can remember of her prior to this very conversation indicates she’s a lot more outgoing than I am. It isn’t a bad thing though – she’s pleasant to talk to, and not annoying at all. Yet despite that, there is a certain degree of contradicting meekness to how she says everything. She isn’t as convicting as I would have imagined her to be. Even starts to sound almost as soft-spoken as me. Don’t think too much of it though. But it’s nice. I like it.

http://pastebin.com/gcSV5NEp

>>6714453

Grey clouds and thick sheets of rainwater smother the usual distant mountains from view. Mum drops me off in the school admin carpark, and I – half-asleep – fumble about with the cheap umbrella she’s given me. She almost immediately drives away as soon as I’ve shut the door behind me. Christ, her apparent apathy to everything is irritating. A few seconds go by, and the stubborn thing finally decides to pop open. My head and shoulders are only a little wet now.

>I somehow forgot to copy paste the introductory paragraph. My mistake.

The trudge through shallow guilt
Hollow feelings rain down; carmine puddles form the good days
The has been, and the would be
Beautiful are the spirits unborn
Fake is the deceitfulness bleeding through
Bleeding through
You're a murderer
But that's OK.

>>6714453

I like your prose. It's clean and easy to read. I would say that you shouldn't be too self-aware with first person. Saying things like 'I stare at my feet' because it's not a thought anyone would have. Which is a bigger problem if you're going to write in present tense.

>I’m clumsy and inept around strangers.

I don't have much love for the show don't tell rule but in a case like this you could show so much more beautifully.

Some of the words you use sound a but like you've been writing a lot of essays recently: confirms, mutual friend, unbeknownst, contradicting meekness. Maybe just make it a bit more natural.

So far I'd say it needs more of a hook or a more obvious direction or story. Neither of them are immediately fascinating characters and I don't know where it's going. Do some signposting soon.

>>6714205

Wow! Those are some long sentences. I did actually quite like it. I can't really place it without context but it's imaginative and funny. I would seriously hack those sentences up though. They are hard to read for an idiot like me. Possibly also void some of the more technical stuff like the names of companies or Latin names of animals. I kinda just skip them in my head and then there's a bit of dead air.

I'd have to read more to really know how to improve it beyond toning down the lofty allusions and reeling in the sentences.

>This is part way into a story about a character who returns home after university to go on a night out with his old friend that is now into PUA stuff. I'm posting this bit because I'm really not sure if it worked and it's a bit different to what I'd usually do.

I rang Peter's phone instead of knocking because I didn't want to wait in his lounge while having a glass of orange squash with his Mum. He said we were going to Tom's first for pre-pre drinks then we were going to Kate's house for pre-drinks because all kinds of fanny would be there. Peter looked at my empty hands when he left his house and told me to take a few swigs of vodka because I was making him nervous. He passed me a bottle with a cheap white label and blue candy stripes on the side. He walked quicker than me and was always a little ahead. He asked if I got much muff at university and said I'd have gotten more if I'd stayed here. They went mad for a law man and he could have given me the scraps. A warpig was better than nothing. Peter had even managed to shag Amy Taylor - the girl we all crushed on at school because she was tall and had big eyes the way we thought models did. We'd fight over a seat if she'd finished sitting on it and we'd been jealous because Tom lived on the same street as her. She had a baby now but Peter swore it wasn't his. He'd banged her when she was still good to go.

Peter said he could see I wasn't hot on this stuff. He said we were going sarging tonight and he explained how it would work. Kate was a HB9 so she was out of my league. Well, that was bullshit. No one was out of anyone's league but I was green and I'd flunk it. Plus she had a boyfriend. Not that it mattered much. Any road, Kate worked at the supermarket and a few of her friends would be there. There was a HB7 called Jasmine that perfect for me. She was Asian so she's put up this big anti-slut defence thing and pretend she wasn't down to fuck, but she was. I'd have to look around and speak to some other girls first but when Jasmine was free I had three seconds to go and speak to her. The three-second rule. Ask an open question to hit things off. Ask a few. Start copying what she's doing. If she scratches her arse scratch yours. I might need to neg her a little. Don't straight up call her fat or anything but tell her she really knows how to put a few crisps away. Then I'd have to ask her about her perfect guy. Really eek it out of her - what colour his eyes were and how big his arms would be. It didn't matter that I would be him because she'd be frothing at that point. She might start doing some shit-tests then, asking me if I was just a lad but that would be easy to handle.

>This is part way into a story about a character who returns home after university to go on a night out with his old friend that is now into PUA stuff. I'm posting this bit because I'm really not sure if it worked and it's a bit different to what I'd usually do.

I rang Peter's phone instead of knocking because I didn't want to wait in his lounge while having a glass of orange squash with his Mum. He said we were going to Tom's first, for pre-pre drinks then we were going to Kate's house for pre-drinks, because all kinds of fanny would be there. Peter looked at my empty hands when he left his house and told me to take a few swigs of vodka because I was making him nervous. He passed me a bottle with a cheap white label and blue candy stripes on the side. He walked quicker than me and was always a little ahead. He asked if I got much muff at university. He said I'd have gotten more if I'd stayed here. They went mad for a law man and he could have given me the scraps. A warpig was better than nothing. Peter had even managed to shag Amy Taylor - the girl we all crushed on at school, because she was tall and had big eyes the way we thought models did. We'd fight over a seat if she'd finished sitting on it and we'd been jealous because Tom lived on the same street as her. She had a baby now but Peter swore it wasn't his. He'd banged her when she was still good to go.

Peter said he could see I wasn't hot on this stuff. He said we were going sarging tonight and he explained how it would work. Kate was a HB9 so she was out of my league. Well, that was bullshit. No one was out of anyone's league but I was green and I'd flunk it. Plus she had a boyfriend. Not that it mattered much. Any road, Kate worked at the supermarket and a few of her friends would be there. There was a HB7 called Jasmine that perfect for me. She was Asian so she's put up this big anti-slut defence thing and pretend she wasn't down to fuck, but she was. I'd have to look around and speak to some other girls first but when Jasmine was free I had three seconds to go and speak to her. Ask an open question to hit things off. Ask a few more. Start copying what she's doing. If she scratches her arse scratch yours. I might need to neg her a little. Don't straight up call her fat or anything but tell her she really knows how to put a few crisps away. Then I'd have to ask her about her perfect guy. Really eek it out of her - what colour his eyes were and how big his arms would be. It didn't matter that I wouldn't be him because she'd be frothing at that point. She might start doing some shit-tests then, asking me if I was just a lad but that would be easy to handle.

I will take you around the corner I swear and we will remember as every dissimilar when and our whys when we first sought one the other in attention it was all foul play but you can’t be minded by inexactitudes we rode into an imperfect me and perfect down and under upon the once a story time that is unique I am happy writing to you still and the memory is relived oddly enshrining in the temple where looms a hidden sadness I escape into without and I capture along the way where are oh there we were just behind me I see then let away with us we run rain into the king dome and spilt his name in vain overrunning with your glory down the street let us cross and jump and make wilder wild and sing eulogies to the living and shed off the world the capricious world for what menace it bestows and holds on a what today is it I cannot be reminded in joy when it is your hour to hold my hands what is it that grasps and holds and you smile sincerely I do not kid but taken aback the kid alive in me and well splendid wearing off his bearing and it is summer lightly where you trod let us move upright over the wall and climb your smile above all ladders until the devils keep me from singing but my music sheet runs like mad angry in my alert eyes not to touch this transience keep close look no further paradise I can see you oh how I capture in the paramount tip to the left laugh slip politely slender swing oh when will I cry my sadness away and bathe in my new acquired skin I near with pleasure cautious not to interrupt excuse me I utter silently can I have in in your parade invite me to accept and I do I do enjoy to joy and the glee I take her with across the meadow driven madness hold me from tearing in hollow entrenched to flames my fury then in me erupt but kindly please and in tender bursts of hold me against and touch me touch you bristle tufts caress the air breeze into my hand and around I am surrounding myself mercilessly make my mellow mar away the rhapsody and it is swiftly about time to lift away to try spur away unwind my peaceful and trace in true health our mark in the world in my heart just click jibe side my side grapple all besides us are your audience and me two self the sky does not have your eyes and all below you bellow under if only you might cleanse me from saying injudiciously I deserve but continue greenly.

>>6714757
wat a tweest

>>6714937
Wow, this really seems to capture a shitty experience that I think is common to a lot of people without being overtly preachy or political. Would read more

>>6714022
Just quit yapping and write, write, write! You can't criticize your work before writing it.

Top fives anyone?

>>6705234
mkay

>>6711639
I believe that gnostic schools answer that question best. I think you should treat those relative pronouns like the indefinite, non-existing mote you infer humanity as sparking from; those following clauses as the emanated contradictions so inherent in the creation you muse on. Expound on it, go on!

>>6714337
>>6712289

(4.1/12)

Book III

The shuttle had ignored me,
transfixed in glint, blinded by visceral Photon;
I missed already that verdant Third so opposite,
to content myself with its western improvement...

A drought had been long afflicted upon this green Gash…

The State had spent such a basking time in the sun,
such a brilliant scrub unto the faulted earth
to issue forth off her imperfect edifices a cyclical abrasion,
reflect the formerly flaxen fiber in its every minute undulation
impressed by the shade of the withered feral grain,
to have made whatever on surrounding hill hereby
a rueful chafe scattered,
a cry came from a most supplanted countryside…

Olde 'merican Pardes had biddeth
'mong the sprawls of her ornate Ur!
Listen first
from public billboard
her vaunted epitaph:

Perishing ward
of the biggest urban sprawl in the world;

Ravishing rood
'gainst the sickest slothen pall in the settled sur;

Derelict wood
within carrion for the warden's jessed condor;

Sobering food
from the pessimist minstrel in the moor…

Her orchard clad in concrete
Was its actual wald,
Makes her blush in over-orb's equal autumn
through the vigorous oaks
and sends forth its sloven understory along the
inconvenient grassy margins,
and evaporated her need of brackish breasts…

Her urban lovers beneath, by whom she's lightly ashen
ravished by concrete skyscrapers those children erect for her,
exposed by the staccato Spectrum they emit
to hide her writhing soil'd face
amongst their vascular,

Whole groves of her sierra breadth they had staved off
by those peals of fluorescent light
which were anchored in the wild grating
of their myriliths' shadows
as had the fears of their eastern Fathers…

The Bay with her riparian arms had embraced the brunt of my dreams…

From the crimp of her radius
I found a southbound vein
in the single carriageway,
drawing gawking stares along each side
of her upturned palm
through either sheer mandible,
permeating the vitality of her vessels
that do grime her own bowel,
Her vessels be her revelers exhausted
spent oils and rainbow rain
from their amorphous amber Sayara…

To the lowland of gritty produce,
I pared the living cases of greenery
from their herbaceous hearts,
with my earthy Iris
its shear constriction,
groping the petals of each fleshy ventricle
rent from the twice-removed Kemet…

All the threatening tongues unfurled
round this Peninsula, the most chiclet cosmopolitan tongues
my chosen hub concerned itself with…

I bid welcome to the west point of her melded Rhombus;
more occidental elements of its Ordum
had hewn a Cell for me…

1/2

I had a dream. A politician, I, banding and bandaging a nation with a wound that would require stitching; my enemy, a nonsensical ethnic elite, was the opposition to the healing of the country, and, against my best efforts, they extorted and abused, a mafia of a people. And I, I was going to stop them, to oust them, to bring out the dark secrets that could disband the fascist state that they kept us in, I being the figurehead of democracy, appearing in power, and trying to seize it by opening my mouth to all of this. And they threatened me: in two weeks, when I’m next giving a major speech, I’m not to say anything out of line, for there will be an array of rifles aimed at my head. It was surreal, and I was a void for the next day of dream-time, trying to silently convey my appreciation for all my loved ones, unknowing of my fate and to remain in the dark else I don’t last two weeks. I had a couple of minor speeches during the time, and I got drunk for them; not drunk to the point of making mistakes, but drunk to the point of appearing bent out of shape, no leader for a nation: a tired, defeated man. A week before the speech, I went swimming with one of my childhood friends whom I’d not seen for tens of years. We had a great time sans the reminder that my bodyguard units were only there to ensure that I could die. I gave my friend a hug at the end of the swimming session, something entirely out of character. Not many people hug the president.

The morning of, I shook before I had my first cup of coffee. I looked at a brief of relevant news that my secretary prepares for me; I retained nothing. My eyes skimmed over the same line again and again. I was, for the second time in two weeks of dream-time, lost in the void. I was suspended between being the face of the biggest lie in the history of man and my life closing into nothingness, most things unchanged, what would appear to be a malicious other-party trying to attack our Western Democracy. An innocent man would be arrested as a scapegoat, and the internal excommunications would make his arresters torture him as if he was an assassin. I threw up on my lap, then told my secretary to fetch a cigarette. It took her over a half an hour, and, when she came back, the smell of vomit had permeated everything, and my lap was covered in a crust. I hadn’t moved an inch. On receiving the threat, I had gotten rid of all the pictures of my family in my office, temptations to not get shot.

Walking up to the podium, life in strips or segments or something disconnected that I was to glue together how I would choose, but the glue dries instantly. Sweating, I swallowed a baseball, coughed, the immediate audience quiet and ready to be disappointed.

2/2
“Good evening, everyone. I’ve got a small list of things to talk about here,” “and, I’d like to start with a con—”

And I, being the void artist of the cement, brains elegantly coating the banner behind me, an image to last forever, fell down so unprofessionally to the gasps of the audience. The sound of the bullet touching my skull was amplified over the microphone, and my peripheral mind became my world. Here I was, bodiless, no investment in all of this action; I’m gone, free, a soul of my own, and I’m sure I handed off my investment to some innocent who himself had no prior engagements, now being dragged out of his apartment nearby by Secret Service, a newfound life of actuality.

>>6708998
>He glared again, though he took one of the beltloops in his finger

WHERE IS BANE?

>>6716363
Not in the wreckage.

Bump for dying thread

>>6716664
People only want to be read, not to comment on others. This is a thread of people waiting to talk about their own work, yet refusing to say anything about anyone else's

>>6716670
not really. Sometimes there's quite a few dedicated critics in here. I would say that pretty much all posters in here either critique or share their own writing; few people do both.

>>6716679
>tfw when too scared to post own work
>tfw when too meek to critique others

>>6716679
Aside from the one doofus preening his own feathers by nonsensically ventillating himself of all his fanciest words I've seen rather few "dedicated critics".

>>6712190

>>6716708
Ps that was meant to cite his single valuable post

>>6716699
well for god's sake don't post your own work, compliment mine instead.

>>6716708
I guess this thread hasn't been doing as well as the last one or the one before as far as critiquing goes.

(5.1/12)

Book IV

Let me tell you about an Orchard's conscious transformation into a Vineyard:

What low-lying coast had come into being
from across that rocky jut;
I had reached it on a fickle day
on the morning bus;
the original artisans of these parts,
themselves a fairer succession to the sooty Stragglers
who remained the stoic Serfs to their savage nature
as their Brothers became adorned as green eagles just across the border
their sects both abandoned their firm Fruits here
that had been confined to the stormy fuschias
which had convalesced from their feted fertility
through the fringeland who was acting such a vain diorama:
the washed-up weed all scraggled and warmly saturated in its rancid basking,
the sand ground coarse from the latter,
the deceptively pacific spray which had splayed nieve gulf men's vessels
on his foolish desire to be embraced by them for one instant…
once all coalescing in their unique estuary
now being admired like a lavender-frock'd model forever idle
as an underestimated watercolor
now hanged by a nail upon the drafts of her own similar galleries;

The snaking of the vines
floored on the ground are interpreted as robust
as the flowering of the most lusty sequoias through their turbid medium;
on my ant's scamper up every daunting grain that makes the Seaboard
see clear down her big South;
from this evidence, I had supposed they had no other aim in life
only her invested Revelers remained 'tween the photolithic dales
in favor of yielding more fermented thyme
hidden in the confines of the valley
sober Weeds swill their tart Zinfandel...

So the sugars stratified on the underside of the Teat,
their fleshy lymph had thickened,
and degenerated the well-intention'd seed!
Adorned in such ermine, I stroked it...
It had graced even the humble adobe of its streets,
but who had attracted the tarnished of palate
in addition to the by-product of olde Palatinate?
‘Twas argyll pastels of sewn Spirit that brittled their outer skin,
that had consumed the poison and petrified its fleshiness
into tessalatory scaling on their delicate Organ...
O, to be a parasite on their confused hospitality!

Going down for the first time,
I saw the Vineyard of God on the murky sea
when I first came to this place
I wanted Old Man Prime's Bride as an ideal,
not as the smattered individual I had truly laid eyes on,
for my own, even going to the bar
for a dry slake from his Chalice,
except that I knew this man’s taste meant other Sours as well...

I nestled myself inside the silty shoulder of the shore
so ceramic like a salt-and-pepper Clavicle
so prone to each tame tide;
buried in its cold sediments,
I watched the surfers
etch along what little arching tolerance
those aborted surges could provide,
the lines of their lives
unaware of it in the joy of their novice;
not a care to each dousing wave
leeching the my form's grave covering
of any Oil...

>>6716807
(5.2/12)

On her enigmatic walk alone
she passed in awe of the testimony,
she passed by with a simple statement
on whose elastic I stumbled after her...
Upon asking about the rest of the shore
she suggested a cloister to the remote north instead;
obstructed by her carnelian Ring,
she stroked my hand as she indicated
the sluggish motion to shake it
and bid me farewell…

Such is the dilemma from hitched Patricia;
I grasp her still-unruffled Grace
with which she chides the Spurner of the Grapes,
the Adultery in my mind forms my homage
with which she scorns the Serayites fallen from her…

>>6716670
I think that's the problem with these threads, people just want to be critiqued and then take their leave immediately after they've gotten their feedback

>>6714900
Thanks anon. Really appreciate the feedback for >>6714453

These should be set up with the rule that for everything you pot you have to give at least two sentences of legitimate analysis or critique to two other pieces. Like, have on the same post your critique of two others, and under that your own submission. This would keep people from thoughtlessly writing nasty things about the work of others (because they would have their own work on display underneath their offensive opinions, and thus would be more likely to be ridiculed), and would also keep the level of interest in the thread high.

>>6716933
I always do that, critiquing at least two other posters.

I get no criticism in return, or most recently have someone reply with "be wary of critiques from amateurs."

so yeah

>>6714291
Very true, thank you for your reply

Yeah I have a bad habit of overpowering my first paragraphs then struggle to keep up the pace, eventually I just give up. But yes I was looking for a sort of irony

thankyou again

>>6714453
The Brisbane Library young writers competition?

>>6717052
Yeah, a friend told me about it and I thought I might give it a go.

Edward, the schoolmaster, always wore black. The single tree, however, that shanked out of the front yard he now crossed in long strides showed even more distinct a darkness, a simulacrum of the dread probationary tree—trapfall of all lost love—for coming upon it, gibbet-high and half leafless in the moonlight, was to feel somehow disposed to the general truth that it is a dangerous and pagan notion that beauty palliates evil.
He was alone. It had always seemed axiomatic for him that he be alone: a vow, the linchpin of his art, his praxis.
The imperscrutable winds of autumn, blowing leaves across the porch, had almost stripped the tree, leaving it nearly naked and essential against the moon that shone down on the quiet little town in Virginia. It was late as he let himself into the house and walked up the creaking stairs to his rooms where, pulling a chair to the window, he sat meditatively in that dark chamber like a nomadic gulsar—his black coat still unbuttoned—and was left alone with those odd retrospective prophecies borne in on one at the start of that random moment we, for some reason, choose to call the beginning of a new life.
The night, solemn and beautiful, seemed fashioned to force those who would observe it to look within themselves. He watched awhile and then grew weary. He took a late mixt of some rolls and a bottle of ale and soon dropped asleep on his bed, dreaming out of fallen reason the rhymes received with joy he shaped accordingly. It was only early the following morning that he found on the bedside table next to his pen and unscrewed cap—a huge Moore’s Non-Leakable—the open commonplace book in which, having arisen in the middle of the night to do so, he had written a single question: "Who is she?"

>>6712199
I wasn't mad, I was serious. Sometimes you can say more speaking obliquely than by being direct, especially when you're talking about how something made you feel. Also, it's clear you're worth listening to. Even in a backwater critique thread, you're positively lyrical.

>>6717158
Oh yeah. Definitely wanna read more. You're in a dangerous place in terms of your tone though. But you keep things going so it's good.

“no reason?”

her face draws me in, reminds me of the force of a vacuum, of emptiness, but not simply nothing, for it’s the difference between things and nothing that gives nothing it’s strength, the growing separation of things that eventually snaps, bringing them together.

nothing is alluring. underwear, the things covering bare flesh, the presence of an unknown island, of the potential novelties resting within your sight, although in this sense nothing should be the empty sea. it’s wrong to equate things with nothing only because they are unknown, but the allure of emptiness still brings about its own end.

the empty house, filled with things, or the empty chest, filled with things, or even the empty sky, filled with things, all through no deliberate act, but inevitably nothing remains for too long. the universe was also nothing, there were no things, but even that nothing was taken away. before we are created, we dwell as potential things, as nothing, but we are actualized through this conspiracy against nothing, and so we exist as things until we die and finally return to nothing.

this second phase of nothing is what i imagine can’t be taken away from us. no more potentiality or actuality, just nothing, and i see this degree of nothing in her face as i ask “how does it feel?”

Bucólica voluntad la de mi padre
aún veo el huerto, sus pies danzando sobre las coliflores
desordenando la vida, imitando el baile del poeta borracho
con tal frenesí que tiembla el suelo.
Coge un arma, me dice
Escóndete
aunque pueda volar sin oponer resistencia
Soraya, soraya, no eres inmortal
y yo soy inmoral
Ahí está mi padre
Seco, ojos rojos de lagarto
Dragón viejo, aún creyéndose importante
Ahí está mi padre
Y no tengo el arma,
tengo doscientas cincuenta y tres palabrotas con las que pelear
Tengo dos pies, zapatitos blancos
Pero mi padre sigue merodeando
¿Protector o cazador?
Han muerto las coliflores
Huelo y me ahogo con su chaqueta de cuero
Los ladrillos no están sueltos
forman una unidad fuerte, orgía incapaz de terminarse
¡De poco me servís!
Porque mi padre danza, en círculos, espirales diabólicas
Porque es capaz de echar fuego, es capaz de romper el techo estrellado
Sigue ese hombre que representa todo lo que detesto
manos arrugadas, whisky, corrupto
Tengo tierra entre las uñas, y sangre por las espinas de las rosas
Ahí está el criminal de mi padre
postrado, desafiando a los dioses,
después de conseguir que este ángel muera
el secreto que desconoce, mi querido padre
es que ya puedo arrastrarme silenciosamente como las serpientes
que he creado mi propio veneno
que morderé sus pies, que caerá ensimismado
Aquí está la hija
con cuchillos en forma de vocales
con danzas que mesmerizan, con santos rezándome.

>>6717648

>>6716957
Interesting post. A bit pissy-eyed and complainy. But hey, one man's problem is another man's breathing space. Remember to capitalize at the start of a sentence and close with a period. The best of /lit/ often forgets—so don't be hard on yourself.

Also, it's not exactly kosher but I think placing the period outside of the quotation makes more sense.

So: "I'm a tyro".

But obv that's not Strunk & White approved.

Also—you may want to look into dangling participles and your relations with them.

Ta da!

>>6718109
you're cramping his style faggot, stop mommying his posts

>>6718331
fuk u fgt

>>6718331
>>6718388
See:
>>6718109

Also—comma splice? Really?

Stale moonlight quivering on a pale expression
Whomever it meets, introduce with confession
It's a foretelling mien, which to strangers won't lie
"Eighty-three years of loneliness then I can die"
With voices like chanting from the darkness that night
"We were born to be young, but tomorrow we'll blight!"
Then their bodies rang loudly, as if beauty expend
And tucked to the side of all, sat our plain faced friend
He walked home not knowing, if they know that he came
And thought, "if equal in death, life should be the same."
Was not formed for Venus neither to cut a rug
Was it just meant to be, fate of ugly Joe's mug?

pls no bullerino

The new mother, groggy from a nap, sat at the table as though she did not grasp why she had been summoned. Perhaps she never would, Auntie Mei thought. On the placemat sat a bowl of soybean-and-pig’s-foot soup that Auntie Mei had cooked, as she had for many new mothers before this one. Many, however, was not exact. In her interviews with potential employers, Auntie Mei always gave the precise number of families she had worked for: a hundred and twenty-six when she interviewed with her current employer, a hundred and thirty-one babies altogether. The families’ contact information, the dates she had worked for them, their babies’ names and birthdays—these she had recorded in a palm-size notebook, which had twice fallen apart and been taped back together. Years ago, Auntie Mei had bought it at a garage sale in Moline, Illinois. She had liked the picture of flowers on the cover, purple and yellow, unmelted snow surrounding the chaste petals. She had liked the price of the notebook, too: five cents. When she handed a dime to the child with the cash box on his lap, she asked if there was another notebook she could buy, so that he would not have to give her any change; the boy looked perplexed and said no. It was greed that had made her ask, but when the memory came back—it often did when she took the notebook out of her suitcase for another interview—Auntie Mei would laugh at herself: why on earth had she wanted two notebooks, when there’s not enough life to fill one?

The mother sat still, not touching the spoon, until teardrops fell into the steaming soup.

“Now, now,” Auntie Mei said. She was pushing herself and the baby in a new rocking chair—back and forth, back and forth, the squeaking less noticeable than yesterday. I wonder who’s enjoying the rocking more, she said to herself: the chair, whose job is to rock until it breaks apart, or you, whose life is being rocked away? And which one of you will meet your demise first? Auntie Mei had long ago accepted that she had, despite her best intentions, become one of those people who talk to themselves when the world is not listening. At least she took care not to let the words slip out.

“I don’t like this soup,” said the mother, who surely had a Chinese name but had asked Auntie Mei to call her Chanel. Auntie Mei, however, called every mother Baby’s Ma, and every infant Baby. It was simple that way, one set of clients easily replaced by the next.

The sound of laughter ceases
becoming memory.
A timid flash of a smile
Like a butterfly
it does not linger.

Never really done this before, let me know what you think.


Ed has been working for about two months. Or is it three? He's the overnight security guard at a mid-sized copper refining plant in western Missori. Ed's job is to watch for tweakers breaking into the plant and steal copper to sell at a scrap yard. Ed has never seen anyone trying to break in.

In the improbable event that Ed sees another person, he is to stay hidden and make no attempt to stop them. Ed has no gun, no knife, not even a club; all Ed has to protect him is a 34 year old landline which he can use to call the police. Under no circumstances can Ed use the phone for personal calls, not that he has anyone to call.

Ed works for 9 hours every night, from 10 PM to 7 AM. After work he returns to his studio apartment to sleep for another 9 hours, from 8 AM to 5 PM. Once he wakes up, Ed heats up a frozen egg sandwich, and performs a routine of stretches which his doctor told him would help with his back. His back still hurts every day, but Ed listens to his doctor. His eating and exercising consume most of his free time; he usually has time to catch an hour of TV before he leaves at 9 PM.

Ed had a girlfriend in high school. After graduation she said she needed "freedom" when she made it to college. Ed never went to college. She's some kind of business woman now. She's probably got a family, maybe a couple of kids. Ed has no family. Technically, his parents are still around, but they never had much to talk about anyway. Now they don't talk about anything at all. It wasn't that Ed hated his parents, they just bored him.

Ed believes in the future. Ed will win the lottery. Ed will get noticed by some hotshot buisnessman. Ed will become an FBI agent. Everything will be okay for Ed. He'll have friends again. He'll have a beautiful wife. He'll be a hero to his 4 brilliant children. Ed is just paying his dues.

Ed has never considered suicide.

Ed has never considered joining a religion.

Ed believes in Ed, and his faith is unwavering.

A woman had seen
me and spoke
unusual and unusually done
her pigment
had been misplaced on
her face, forearm,
legs, too

this taking place at the cafe
coffee had dribbled
from my mouth
onto my thigh

she points to the spot
inches from my crotch
pointing next: her body’s
capricious art of pigments
resting on her forearm

her face had worn
an expression of
warm accord
until I wiped the
coffee away

>>6714327
>It reminds me of when I've been on my phone or laptop too long.
not quite sure if I get this

Don't want to post the whole thing because who the fuck wants to read all that shit written by some anon, so I'll just keep it short with the early paragraphs - please be as critical as you can.
__

He ran his hands along the rung of the ladder, underneath his fingers the faded paint chipped away and beneath it he could see the metal was thoroughly rusted. It hung from the top of the building to its base in the narrow alley and to test its rigidity he gripped the thing at both sides and shook it fiercely. It was much sturdier than he imagined - at least as far as he could tell, but he still feared the metal would be of a similar frailty to the paint and knowing his luck he would likely not confirm this until he was halfway through the climb; but it was freezing and he guessed that he might suffer in other ways if he didn't chance the ladder and so he did so, hanging the cord of his sleeping bag around his neck and making his way up the side of the building. He completed its length and fell gracelessly into the open window at the second story and once safe inside he reached out and shook the ladder again and decided there had been nothing to fear. The room was rotted, he guessed by the humid nature of the place and he felt as though he could smell the mildew in the damp wooden floor that did not creak as he walked but instead sunk beneath his weight, like a small layer of mud formed upon rigid earth beneath. He had no wish to explore the place. He closed the window behind him as much as the stubborn construction flaws would allow him and stayed only where the light of the night outside came through the window, too afraid to sleep in the unfamiliar dark. He lay on the floor in his sleeping bag and laid the extra warmth of a stinking tablecloth he had found near-by over him, he was too exhausted not to sleep and he fell into it without any realization.

Gravity seized his chest and he woke to the terrifying nausea of falling within a dream before he felt his body collide with the floor of the lower story, he felt his hip crack beneath the impact and the weight of his torso against his outstretched arm forced his shoulder from his socket, it was a sickening pain and as he scrambled frantically like a rodent terrified at the world’s cruel whim he felt his shoulder slide back into place, it made him retch and what little he had eaten during the day came from his throat, acidic and disgusting and it stained the floor a putrid colour of beige bile. Terrified and utterly bewildered he began to weep loudly as he surveyed this new room that looked almost identical to the one he had been in save for the gaping hole in the ceiling that he came to realize he had fallen through.

I wrote you a sonnet, /lit/

All praise the Dark Enlightenment, all praise!
The cruel swarms of college feminists who dared
Not publish my searing critique of secular ways
Will be swept aside 'neath the march of Kultur flared!

For far too long, the meritous male sage
Has been repressed - our Boetius, Stirner, more!
Aquinas, Milbank, Evola, their war I wage!
Like skyscraping book shelves looms their thund'ring lore.

You will read my manifesto, slaying dire
Post-modern straits, and be exposed as vile.
You are a distant call from a noble sire,
An apostle of literary life who riles;

Such as myself, of course: for Ancestry
Online assures me - royalty crowns my tree!

>>6720757

This is mine but I'll critique some to earn my own critique. I really have no basis of critique other than what comes into my own head as I read so understand that any advice I offer is just one man's unprofessional opinion.

>>6719891

I like the writing and you paint a pretty good story, but the story itself is so far pretty boring. If you've got more post it so I can see where its going, I'd be willing to read on.

>>6717857

Hmmm... Not sure what you're trying to say here, seems like just meaningless thoughts you've had. It might be going over my head here but to me it just seems a bit like psuedo-philosophy about what I'm not sure.

>>6717158

I really like the way you write, you're obviously comfortable in your own style. But I would suggest that it might be a little much for the word count you have - stretch it out some, it seems like you've crammed all your talent into a small piece. If you wrote an entire novel or even a short story in the same style it could become laborious eventually.

I like it but it's very dense.

>>6705497

It reads boring because there's not really any conflict. Slackliner Joe is just cruising around looking at people, then a guy goes wakeboarding. There needs to be some sort of impediment, or if its a scene where the characters aren't struggling externally, show us their thoughts and what's going on in their heads.

>>6705497
Do you play WoW?

>>6705503
best post
>>6705905
can i hace the original?

I stood on the edge of some massive ass cliff like a hundred and ten fucking metres i looked it up on google maps anyway because there wasn't a fucking handy road up there I had to park my piece of shit honda at the bottom and walk all the way up which was a fucking hassle and it was as if the universe was spiting me one last hahahah you have to get sweaty now and work hard you fat fuck no easy death for you, fucking cunt anyway I'm a bitch ass pussy nigga looking over the edge scared me spooky but there was a handy seat to drink on to calm my nerves. by the way where I was at any other point in my life would of been a beautiful sight, literally a deep red sunset solitute and sol beer over an endless sea well actually it ends where my visual field cannot see any further at the horizon I'm an idealist by the way (metaphysical) anyway I'm getting drunk and the sunset at this point is just annoying me getting in my eyes and shit and the seat was concreted in the ground so fitlhy niggas don't steal it but it's fucking angled in a way so wherever I look I'm getting fucking blinded which is bullshit I wanted a nice serene sunset and a quiet tumble to my inevitable skull fracture on the rocks below. w/e this story is taking fucking ages so I downed a bottle of cough syrup and took 80mg of diazepam but I was still hesitant that's the thing about being suicidal it's not just hurr I want to die it's a pervading sense of ambivalence about this shithole world anyway I finished my beer now I' fucked up but I start panicking see because the drugs are doing a number on me and I'm think shit what if I don't die I just really fucking hurt myself but that's my pussy nigga inna speaking everyone who jumped before me died there were even crosses on the spot fucking dumbass mourners not realizing this points the suicidals directly to a confirmed death method fuck I'm ramblin again anyway I down a bottle of zopiclone the real metallic tasting shit then I freak out like what the fuck am I doing I am about to die of drug overdose it's like my animal brain just kicked in and it didn't give a shit about my fee-fees so I'm running at this point my memory is hazy and I need to find help but that's where my memory ends and I wake up in hospital and get made to go to the fucking psych ward for literally 6 fucking months and it did jack shit because two weeks out I try to kill myself again fuck life

long story short I banged one of the student nurses in the tv room and it was ME who went nuts in the art room and poured the paint fucking everywhere lol, also someone hung themselfs and this weird girl clung to me but she was ugly so fuck that dumb bitch tried to off herself with a seroquel overdose only 500mgs lol what an attention seeker

>>6720757
As critical as I can:

He ran his hands along the rung of the ladder, and underneath his fingers the faded paint chipped away, and beneath that he could see rusted metal. The ladder hung from to of the building and down into the narrow alley. And to test its rigidity he gripped the thing at both sides and shook it fiercely. It was much sturdier than he imagined—at least as far as he could tell—but he still feared the metal would be as frail as the paint chips, and knowing his luck, he would not know this until he was halfway up. But it was freezing. He guessed that he might suffer more if he didn't just go and so he did so, securing his sleeping bag by its strap and making his way up.

He fell gracelessly into the open window at the second story and once inside he reached out and shook the ladder again and looked down. The room was rotted and humid nature and he felt as though he could smell mildew in the damp wooden floor. The boards didn't creak as he walked, they sunk beneath his weight, like there was a small layer of mud beneath. He had no desire to look around. He closed the window behind him as much as he could, and he stayed only where the streetlights came through the window. He was too afraid to sleep in this strange dark. He got in his sleeping bag and [we get it—y'know the difference] pulled a stinking tablecloth he had found over himself. He was too exhausted to worry and he fell asleep without a thought
.
His chest seized and he awoke to the nausea of free-falling and before he felt his body collide with the floor of the room below, he felt his hip crack with the impact and felt his arm forced from its socket. Now his stomach seized with the pain. And as he scrambled like a frantic rodent, he felt his shoulder slide back into place, and it made him retch, and what little he had eaten during the day came up, an acidic and lumpy material and it stained the floor.

He began to weep loudly and he surveyed this new room that looked almost identical to the one he had been in save for the gaping hole in the ceiling that he had fallen through.

—
—so I like that you have an adventure in mind. I don't like your writing style. I doubt that anyone wants to swallow phrases like: "He completed its length" and "he still feared the metal would be of a similar frailty to the paint" —I hope you get the picture. It's like chewing on tinfoil. I don't know where it comes from. It makes eyes roll. And they roll and picture you. Sitting there on a laptop. You're not college aged and if you are you're not in a communications-heavy area. And these rolling eyes, they are rolling for more reasons than tangled and antiquated sentence shenanigans—they roll because why is yr fellow doing what he's doing? This is the internet. Why isn't he covered in blood in the beginning? Why isn't this in the present tense? Why why why whine whine whine—at least I was half-useful, maybe and yet I wonder will you take those changes seriously?

>>6721075
Jesusfuckingchrist
>The ladder hung from the top of the building down into the narrow alley.

>>6721075

Hmm.. I do want to take your critique seriously, but I'm not 100% sure what you're saying.

I understand what you say when you say they can make eyes roll and now that you mention it I know exactly what you mean what you say it makes people picture someone at a laptop typing, there really is nothing worse than that.

But,
>they roll because why is yr fellow doing what he's doing? This is the internet. Why isn't he covered in blood in the beginning? Why isn't this in the present tense? Why why why whine whine whine—

Could you maybe clarify what you mean by this? Are you saying that it's not visceral enough? I didn't think it was always necessary to have the character's motives apparent straight away?

Thank-you though, you clearly read the whole thing and your frankness is much appreciated.

>>6721075
>oboyherewego.gif

He ran his hands along the rung of the ladder, and underneath his fingers the faded paint chipped away, and beneath that he could see rusted metal. The ladder hung from from the top of the building down into the narrow alley. And to test its rigidity he gripped the thing at both sides and shook it. It was much sturdier than it looked—at least as far as he could tell—but he still feared the metal was too rusted, and knowing his luck, he would find out halfway up. But it was freezing out. He knew he'd suffer more if he didn't just go and so he went, securing his sleeping bag by its strap and making his way up.

He fell through an open window on the second story and once inside he reached out and shook the ladder again and looked down. The room was rotted and humid and he felt as though he could smell mildew in the damp wooden floor. The boards didn't creak as he walked, they sunk beneath his weight, like there was a small layer of mud beneath. He had no desire to look around. He closed the window behind him as much as he could, and he stayed where the street-light came in through the window. He was too afraid to sleep in the strange dark. He got in his sleeping bag and pulled over himself a stinking tablecloth he had found. He was too exhausted to worry and he fell asleep without a thought.

His chest seized as he woke and free-fall nausea twisted in him and he felt his hip crack with a sudden impact and felt his arm forced from its socket. And his stomach seized with intense pain. He scrambled like a frantic rodent, and he felt his shoulder grind back into place, and it made him retch, and what little he had eaten came up, an acidic and lumpy material, and it stained the floor.

He began to moan loudly and his eyes darted around this new room that looked almost identical to the other save for the gaping hole in the ceiling.


—Sorry. I can't help myself.

>>6720863
>I really like the way you write, you're obviously comfortable in your own style. But I would suggest that it might be a little much for the word count you have - stretch it out some, it seems like you've crammed all your talent into a small piece. If you wrote an entire novel or even a short story in the same style it could become laborious eventually.
>I like it but it's very dense.

as I hinted above, it's the opening of Darconville's Cat by Alexander Theroux. I posted it because I loved the prose even more than my other then-favorite (The Recognitions) and wanted to see how you guys would react to it. I'm happy to see you guys have good taste.

Now go read it. So good.

>>6721161
ugh

>>6721163

how else would I plug such a good book? nobody would read it otherwise

>>6721185

but why should anyone? especially when this anons >>6721161 critique was correct as fuck

>>6721115
Ayy, ya grammar is bent up. Yr words, they are borrowed and they don't fit in the 21st C. I don't care about yr protag, but I guess, what the hell do you care? Why do I care? Why am I even telling you this? Who am I? I used to be somebody. I loved people and they loved me. We even scratched backs back. I don't even recognize that image in the mirror. And I can't sleep with all the fucking nightmares. And the nightmares are just dreams of a happy past that will never come to pass again. So the blackness of sleep? It is no longer available. I fall through consciousness into a fucking fun-house world of love and pain. All I have left to do is gouge out my soul.

>>6709208
>Go look at almost any other novel and see how they do it. You shouldn't just ping things in without priming us.

Uh what does that mean exactly? This is the intro to the story, are you saying I'm supposed to introduce the fact that I'm about to introduce a character, plot aspect, or piece of the setting?

>>6720950
nobody?

>>6721537
Meme

Does this sound pretentious? Is it too clutteredish? It's a first draft.
Right now you are opening this book. You flip past the copyright pages, the dedication page, the jumble of unnecessary info that all demands you know that this is a work of fiction, written by a writer, and published by a publisher. And you've bought it (most of the people who read this, if any, if it ever does get published), and your money was sent into a cash register, to make profit for the people who have bought this book in heaped box amounts to stalk their shelves. If this book ever will be bought. Or, you may find it in a dark corner of a thrift shop, waiting patiently with its glaring bizarre cover. You've bought this book because it sounded interesting when you saw it waiting and picked it up, your eyes beginning to mull over the words on the back, or a friend told you about it, about how it disturbed them, and haunted their days, or enlightened them, or confused them, or bored them. You may have bought if off the internet on EBay, by some stranger who is known with a name composed of an orgy of numbers and letters, beside a smiling face that fills up a centimeter-square box.
But regardless, by some means, you got this book in the mail, or at a store, or at a thrift store, or on your Kindle device, bought or pirated, or in a box at a garage sale with four fat letters that shout: FREE, demanded to be given away; or maybe it was in a deceased friend's attic, or lend to you by a friend, or at a book shop full of other glasses-wearing strangers who probably talk about how much they like reading just as much as they read. And now, you're sitting on a couch, or at a school, or during a break during your work, or on a rocking chair, or maybe even reading this at a thrift store or book store or a EBook demo, considering to buy it; my marketing suggestion for this book so I can work as a writer and spend my days typing and eating assorted Hostess products, would be: BUY IT. My spiritual suggestion for this book, to benefit you, would be: BURN IT. But I need to stop derailing. You are sitting somewhere, or standing somewhere, or laying somewhere, with this book in your hands, a few pages past the cover, with most of its weight distributed onto the right half of the book, into your right hand.
You might be reading this and thinking, How clever! What a hook! or thinking: What a pretentious faggot.
So you're either enjoying this, or dreading the next however-many pages, or ready to put this book down in a moment and find some other book that might be actually entertaining and/or meaningful to you. Or you're nearing the end of your Amazon or Google Books demo.
If you're getting irritated by this obnoxious pseudo-artist blathering, trying to blow your mind by commenting on you reading the book as you're reading the book, it will stop now. The next however-many paragraphs, will be to explain the book.

>>6721572
(Cont.)
his book, is a metafictional, postmodernist, philosophical, hippie-spiritualism, book full of art drawings. It features monologues, books within books tenfold, writers writing about writers writing about writers, pseudo-mind-blows, novel, featuring a bunch of epistolary formats and footnotes, books and movies references, mini-adventures, and spectrums of emotions.
Honestly, this whole introduction thing is a rip off of On A Winter's Night A Travel.

>>6721572
No one in this thread knows how to tell a story

>>6721595

What is your reason for thinking that?

Or are you just being an asshole because you have weird compulsive/censorship/attention problems and you just like being an asshole?

>>6721609
Nothing happens in most of these stories, and if it does, it takes way too long and it's ornamented with lots of meaningless rubbish.

>>6721609
You yourself introduced the option of thinking you a pretentious faggot

>>6713069
This is ace

>>6721616
That makes sense, but most of them are short excerpts anyway, right?
>>6721618
Okay?

>>6721636
Yeah, definitely one of the least overwrought pieces in here, and actually has a character

>>6713069
Strangely authentic for anything on /lit/.
The only advice I have is to not ask for any advice here.

Girls in dark skirts and white blouses sit in ranks and scream in concerts. They carry funnels loosely stuffed with orange and black paper which they shake wildly, and small megaphones through which, as drilled, they direct and magnify their shouting. Their leaders, barely pubescent girls, prance and shake and whirl their skirts above their bloomers. The young men, leaping, extend their arms and race through puddles of amber light, their bodies glistening. In a lull, though it rarely occurs, you can hear the squeak of tennis shoes against the floor. Then the yelling begins again, and then continues: fathers, mothers, neighbors joining in to form a single pulsing ululation--a cry of the whole community--for in this gymnasium each body becomes the bodies beside it, pressed as they are together, thigh to thigh, and the same shudder runs through all of them, and runs toward the same release. Only the ball moves serenely through this dazzling din. Obedient to law it scarcely speaks but caroms quietly and lives at peace.

>>6721563
wut

>>6721689
I...
What?

>>6721755
read more literature friend

>>6721810
what did you think of my piece?

>>6721790
Takes place in a high school where the mascot is of orange and black colors.

>>6721862
It has some great writing and general flow, and I like your style, it's just I have no idea what I'm supposed to take away from that. You had me in the beginning but you lost me towards the end.

this is about a trip to a comic book shop in Kennewick, Washington. its not done yet just wanna know how the tone feels

The man behind the counter is middle aged but with all his hair, greyed and tucked back in a pony tail. He is bespectacled and smiling broadly. He tells me he makes only pennies per hour running his comic book store and seems proud of this fact. Inside the glass case of the counter is every manner of brush and paint and pouch and pencil and figure and magical tome a hobbyist could need, dice made of shiny poly-tetra-carbon compounds someone severe and highly educated synthesized in a lab, shrink wrapped in cellophane and destined to be clapsed in grubby hands and stuffed into pockets and lost under refrigerators. The only light is coming through the open front door: the windows are pasted over with slick plastic renderings of supervillains. Packed bookshelves lurch out of the semidark of the shop's interior, overfull with dense encyclopedias of fantasy creatures.

"Alright now, settle down. Everyone has to write 5 lines about their best friend in the world, time starts... now. Go on!"
"Miss?"
"Yes Ciara?"
"Can your best friend be your chickens?"
Snickers sprouted in corners of the room. The chickens were always Ciara's first port of call. When resistance was met, the next was similarly predictable.
"No Ciara, you have to write about your best friend, not your best pet dear."
"What about my strays?", asked Ciara, her tone growing defiant and shrill.
"No dear, the strays can't be your best friend either. Your best friend is a person!", answered Ms. Sheridan in her unerring, soothing tone.

Ciara visibly withdrew from the statement. Her cheeks flushed, her downcast eyes on the encroaching future, her voice now coming with a tremble.

"But miss, I don't have any people friends". The pockets of snickers grew into laughter. The more placid in the class let their allegiance to the mass be known with smirks.

"Oh Ciara, of course you do! I always see you and Ashley together at lunch. Don't I Ash?"

Ashley lowered her head. Her years were tender, but even she knew that taking Ciara's lunch money was not a liaison that constituted friendship.

>>6722261
This is nice, and very descriptive, but I can' imagine reading to much of it. It doesn't really do a good job involving the reader.

>>6722313
Who's perspective is this from? Maybe try to inject some of their thoughts into it.

Please feel free to disregard any of that, it's just my two cents.

A short poem

In the tremors of your dawning
spot pride and your clothes
thrown from the white sheets
each dirtied
by the floor
and by the terrible realization
of what we’ve done to each other

Help me into free verse, /lit/. This probably could use some more editing. Is the imagery clear?

“Admonition to a Brooding Mind”

Stubborn tendrils gnarling through
A hundred coils of fantasy,
Winding to their false conclusion
Down that poisoned stream,

To gnat-infested groves beneath
An older sky, angry red,
A ritual where time is bled
In offering to remembrance,

As drooping figures stalk and mutter
Through their tropic dark,
Obscured by brighter hours
From the sunrise in their midst -

Cut a fresh cerebral path
Dangling nerves, jungle-thick,
Cauterize. Clear the way
For breathing novelty

Find a neon ramble,
Strutting forms spilling
Into booming echo caves,
Lurid purple light
Upon young faces
Embalmed by caking sweat
In a fleeting smoky hour

Let chambers pound
And bodies meet
As viscid time
With slacking feet
Empties in a languid drop
And lie inside its rising troughs
Loiter in its heaving surge
Let ages hang upon a spiteful kiss

>>6705937
"Iorveth" is a character in The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings. Consider renaming.

The 'wizard of oz' is great
Save one small error
The tin man has a heart
And should it break
He has a a hatchet too

>>6719941
I really like this
Simple, brief, evocative. Hit me in the feels

K K K Fine
Sicker than your average nigger killer
Twist nigger’s heads off
Niggers fucking stink niggers and gayers
Chicken wing eating players
Triple K hooligans like Moon Man
Dead right if they head right
Fucking your mom every night
Moon man’s been smooth since days of killing jews
Never lose
Never choose to lynch jews who do something to us