/crit/ - Critique

[Anonymous No.14517422]

Post what you're currently working on and give feedback to others.

I just revised a short poem I wrote a while ago after I hiked on acid for the first time. I do a lot of that.

Birches in Winter

Alabaster contortions sway
Swinging emerald ribbons by day.
Drapery in the kingdoms of flight.

Flying, flaring bright in the wind.
When the light has all but eaten through
To the end of sun’s bow

*By the same muscle memory:*
*Mark its trajectory, go on,*
*Observe how the sun pounces.*

Pull yourself into the branches.
Bite at the light stealing upwards;
Undoing identity into high entropy.

Every silhouette still twists in the wake.
Warm in their dance against blue light,
Like the sun has stayed the night.

[Anonymous No.14517801]

20 filthy cattle walk upright, wearing fjallraven backpacks. they should be shot ( not the backpack, the cows, the backpack should be drowned ). i pee on the cows because they are not smart enough to not be turned on by any ol liquid. retards. the man leaning on the train staircase railings looks like a pathetic ryan gosling impersonator. the pants are the right color, but they’re green jeans instead of green dress pants - cheapskate. the coat is trash, accentuates all the wrong feminine features, the shoulders are sloped severely enough that a vietnamese man tried talking to the coat. the hair is also the right color, dirty blonde, but he has a slightly worse haircut than goslings classic “beyond the pines” doo, the back is too precise. probably just a body dysmorphic faggot - i hope he trips underneath the train like that autist yesterday. i remember that, mans really went and slipped, but the fucking train was going slow and stopped quickly. i got out hoping to see a burst watermelon, all i got was a crying retard. i light the last spirit in the box, bus comes 5 minutes too early, spirit blues take 10 minutes to finish, 10 cents wasted. finnish fish. finnish fish finish off fascist fishermen. strange how all philosophies come down to fish ultimately. elaborate. no, dont like you. skip song, cant listen to it anymore, ever since i found out the fag that recommended it to me was trying to bounce on my dick. grarahhhhhhhh THE SHIRT DOESNT FIT STOP STOP STOP STOP TRYING, GET OFF MY DICK, NOT A NICE SHIRT YOU VINTAGE SHOPPING DULLARD. mallard? dullard. etymology of mallard? no thats retarded. you too. good point. ok histories dont match up - doesnt matter, i like nice coincidence. coincidence nice for good price. glowing is the natural combination of “going” and “slow”, => this is why the glowniggers in the movies only walk slowly when they “chase” the protagonist. interesting. how much of my medication have i taken, did i take a double dose? is that why my dick wont get up? fuck (cant). im struggling to understand why that bitch aint talking to me, i am the most attractive person you know. ddd .d .d .d.d .d .d.d.d.d.d.d….d...d…….d...d..ddd….d...d..d…...d..d..d…...d...d..d…….d...d….d…….d...d can you recognise the song? its alright, NOT airtight. tapping ryhtms on your spacesuit WILL compromise your atmosphere to the cool void. nobody complemented my new haircut today, except me. MY DICK IS SOFT IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION ( not altitude, that might make it hard).

>>14517422
Overall liked, just a couple minor crits. The line "undoing identity into high entropy" doesn't make much sense to me - could just be I'm retarded. Also I'm presuming the asterixes are for italics, in which case, I personally don't see any good reason why it should be in italics.

[Anonymous No.14518003]

I hurriedly waded through the cold foggy football field and all I could hear was the pounding of my panicked heart. “Sabrina?” Ted’s voice struck me from the darkness, a few feet away, like lightning.
“Babe, why weren’t you at tonight’s game?” I asked, shivering. He stepped closer to me but turned his back, as if ashamed, and he folded his arms. “What was the point?” Ted sighed. My eyes widened: a vast, maddening array of thoughts entangled my soul within of what I may have done to upset him. It began to rain and splash mud onto my clean white socks.


>>14517801
Interesting but lack of capital letters at the beginning of sentences is jarring to the reader.

[Anonymous No.14518462]

>>14517422
I've been working on this story for about a month and a half now. Its actually the longest writing project I've ever consistently worked on and finished, though, its only the rough draft.

https://pastebin.com/wEWZWg2d

The first paragraph:

In the cool, dark recesses of the common room, Madeleine worked alone. She saw no one, spoke rarely with anyone who happened to pass by, and generally kept her headphones tight and her eyes straight, so as to distance herself from anyone who may have social inclinations. She brushed her hair to the side every so often, even as it fell back down immediately after, even as it fell right into place once again, but as soon as she had moved it she forgot about it, if not for another few minutes more; once again her arm would drift idly towards her ear to wind the threads back under it. So it went, for hours, her eyes transfixed, her hand steady, scrit-scratchting notes onto her notebook, jotting down things here and there, reading, typing, messaging, watching, playing; with quick breaks to get some water, use the bathroom, or go back to her dorm to pick something up.

[Anonymous No.14518511]

>>14518462
I just thought to rename it to "The Lesbian Phallus", since "The Death Ray" is kind of a dumb placeholder title and its not as clever.

[Anonymous No.14518617]

>>14517422
heres some bullshit i made up in five minutes:

King darmacius struck down his son and made incest with his sister that night, bearing him a child known only in legends, never to see the public acknowledgement, the king banished the child to the darkest dungeons of his castle, hoping it would pass or wither from spiritual attrition.
One day the child sprang from this cell and using the very same sceptre that bore down on its brother, held tightly to its fathers throat and uttered “now you see me, flesh and blood before you, sent to die, but not me, I am not the other, you are weak father, and now it is I who dared to grasp victory from the jaws of the goliath” and with one swift movement the king was no more.
“murder, bloody murder by the beast from below” bellowed the king’s followers, but it was to late, with nigh but a slight hindrance, the child escaped the courtroom and flew into night, never to be seen again, as if it had been nothing but a extension of the sky itself.
Little more of this legend is dared spoken in the royal court anymore and as time passed, so it would seem that the story faded from the minds of the peasants. Time was not so much a healer to the queen however, every night she sobbed and pleaded to the forces above for the eventual return of her child, to take her like they had her brother, so that she may to know rest from the ceaseless torment of life.
That day never came for the queen however, her children were no more and though she tried to rule the kingdom fairly, she fell into an embittered rage, persecuting the very people she was meant to protect with the scorn of a thousand burning coals.
That is the legend of the beast from below, and if it were to be true, I’d stake it a very sensible decision to halt any further talk of this story while we are in the grounds of the cercusian empire. Though the queen may be jaded and cruel, telling of the story is still prohibited and her many loyal servants will see no ethical issue with our burning at the stake for such loose conversation in their lands young master.

[Anonymous No.14519822]

>>14517422

arms akimbo
synthetic bust
swollen lips contorted, smirking
dormant anxiety painted neon red
mutant gazelle strutting under fluorescent sun
begging to be maimed

>>14518462
Enjoyed the first paragraph but the more i read the more i got angry because it reminded me of the types of people i used to hang around with at uni.

stuff like:
'“You’re a big boy, arentcha?” Madeleine chided.'
and
'“I’m like 95% sure I’m straight.” she asserted.
“95%, huh? That’s a big five percent.” He said.'
and
Max's voice in the cross dresser paragraph

made me incredibly agitated.
However, this probs means its decent writing.

[Anonymous No.14520527]

Meadow sweet and Winter warm
Forty sounds on Winter's horn
Back again I turn to Spring
Music, magick
All must bring

Forty more again I cry
Water, prima moris spies
Find a tailor, four in part
And stitch away my clentching heart

Chimney smoke and fired bath
This shallow path
Is breathing till the rain comes

[Anonymous No.14520615]

Moths

Around me tonight familiar faces and voices,
Yet my solitary soul reflects but shadows and noises
That blind my reason and bind the will inside
The carcass that carries my name on its hide

The dark retreat I confined myself to has fallen,
They find me, surround me, my fleeting peace now stolen.
Like moths in a silent forest swarming a lighter
Choking the flame, entwining my neck ever tighter.

Resolved, I straighten my knees, I raise my head
Through the veil of wings, wavering, I lunge ahead
And bail out briskly, stuttering, averting my gaze
Lest the spirits of rapture unholy ablaze.

Out in the night, out in the cold I fly
Above the trees of concrete, I breathe from the sky.


>>14517801
Did not hook me up. Also, aestethicaly unappealing.
>>14518462
I'm not into this kind of stories and but I found it well-written.
>>14519822
You're throwing images and sensations at me but I feel no flow.
>>14520527
>>14517422
I have no idea what you are trying to say but I like what you are trying to paint.

[Anonymous No.14520799]

>>14520615

>>14519822
here. Thanks for the feedback. i'd love to return the favour but unfortunately, as you can probably tell, I am pretty new to poetry and won't be able to provide anything constructive.

I had another go at it, as below. Any further feedback would be appreciated. And what do you mean by flow? When I read the bits and pieces that I write, it's obvious even to me that something is missing, but I can't exactly tell what. Honestly, this is probably cringe tier but any pointers would be great ahah

arms akimbo
synthetic bust
soul obscured in magic dust

swollen lips
dormant anxiety painted neon red
she reaches out
with desperate pout

mutant chimera bathing in fluorescent sun
begging to be maimed
and become the lucky saved

[Anonymous No.14520839]

>>14517422
Wrote this short poem recently. I’d appreciate feedback, as I’m very new at this:

Twin Oceans —

The waves crash ashore
A stream of empty light rushes the loch
The air is still, yet misty uptick drowns the bow
Sea to sea, it’s seen, not heard
Nothing comes to it, from it, through it
Doused with teardrops
Ones you will never witness
A miasma, a bittersweet dance
An unending, deathless death
I can see you, and your twin oceans
Again.

[Anonymous No.14521127]

>>14520799
>synth bust
>fluorescent sun
>neon red
I dig the asthetic, but this should not be a poem but a future retro wave muzak tune

[Anonymous No.14521135]

>>14519822
>arms akimbo

[Anonymous No.14521145]

>>14521135
where does that word come from? Zulu?

[Anonymous No.14521152]

He was very particular to the franchise. I saw through his glass eyes, a glass optic nerve into his glass mind. It was too easy to steal such privacy. I saw each line of code etched into the stone walls of his prisoned existence. Each thought ticked. It waited as a developing film, then spun back down the queue. These moments had become a formula, a political science. I stood outside him, yet no self could see such ticking inside its own head. This one is calling. This one is plotting. Maybe next I'll put an axe through it.

>>14520799
Not him but I'm not really sure your switching in and out of rhyme matches the metre (particularly "painted neon red"). Each idea seems to be asserted without connection to others. You are listing ideas but not describing how they should string together in my head, which works for driving a certain tone but leaves out a lot of the actual poetry. I don't know how to make sense of "soul obscured in magic dust" with the rest of the verse. But idk maybe I'm just dumb.

[Anonymous No.14521167]

>>14517422
Yes it's nice and all but honestly at this point we are so fake that the only true poetry is silence, a beaten spirit sitting on a rock

[Anonymous No.14521178]

>>14521167
A beaten spirit sitting on a rock

...! -
(...); [...]:
"...., ....?" -
....!

...! -
(...); [...]:
"...., ....?" -
....!

...! -
(...); [...]:
"...., ....?" -
....!

[Anonymous No.14521414]

>>14520799
This anon summed up most of my issues >>14521152

Try giving it a more defined structure, for example by keeping the same number of verses in each stanza.

I know it may feel like limiting yourself but it actually isn't. Think of it as the canvas you will put your picture on. The human brain reacts to patterns and you should take advantage of that.

[Anonymous No.14521500]

The words had gone alone to scout ahead
for matter to conceive in. For reason
With room enough to raise the living dead,
Though stunted by poor soil, out of season.
Blind roots discover their unlikely den;
A nervous student, reading after ten.

They offer their credentials as a guide,
Not mentioning a few unfitting truth’s.
Their master advocated genocide,
or had a taste for undeveloped youth’s.
these facts, for now, a berried in heap
of epigrams the student tries to keep.

The first stanza doesn't flow as well as I'd want it to, and the second devolved into doggerel . Don't think im gonna continue with it.

[Anonymous No.14521896]

A sizzling violet bites my brain. The room gets heavier as I yawn. This couch is an honest friend like a dog. But my love for friends will not ignite me. That’s what I want right, fire? I feel the flitting colors of the violet, it says to discover electricity! But the room breaks over my head like a plank and I’m flattened.

I’ll get real close to these pillows then, and I’ll count loose cat hairs like harp strings, I’ll watch the alien fog overtake the streets, and taste the ginger leaves.

[Anonymous No.14521953]

>>14518003
fuck me my writing must suck if everyone skips over it.

[Anonymous No.14521957]

The last stanza is stolen from WH Auden. I wrote the rest this morning.

We felt it ere it came, the snow,
We smelled it in the air,
And felt its goose-flesh augury —
We knew — but did we care?

With hollow chests and muffled mouths
We craned our necks like holy men
Divining from the gathering clouds
Indeed the snow would come again.

And, as foretold by weathermen,
Our prime-time prophets on TV
The clouds descended from the hills
And loosed the wrath of entropy.

It clouds our windows with its breath,
It fills dark rooms with bleached half-light
It sugarcoats our neighborhoods
With vexing sheets of breakneck ice.

The interstate is bleachèd white,
Its twelve lanes blended into one;
This guide-ruled artery is stopped.
Across it, herds of reindeer run.

From supermarket parking-lots
Arose a cry of “All is lost!”
A wild, anarchic fury reigns,
The parking lines obscured by frost.

Wall Street is silent as the grave.
Our economic experts found
The bankers’ cars, stuck deep in drifts,
Like clockless ships have run aground.

The signs along the interstate
Without which none of us would know
By what name we must call our city,
Obscured now by illiterate snow

So that we are no longer sure
Quite where we are, nor can recall
Whether we are anywhere,
And if not — are we here at all?

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs
Sitting on their speckled eggs
Eye each snow-enveloped city.

[Anonymous No.14522026]

>>14521953
>>14518003
It’s incredibly generic, sorry. This reads like something generated by those AI scripts which browse Twitter to learn how to piece together sentences.
>all I could hear was the pounding of my panicked heart
Terrible cliche
>like lightning
Ditto
>Babe
Nobody talks like that
>vast, maddening array of thoughts entangled my soul within of what I may have done to upset him.
Even if this made grammatical sense it would still be ridiculous. Try reading that out loud.

The last sentence is a great image, however, so clearly you have the ability to write well. But need to develop a sense of what’s corny/meaningless vs what’s creative.
I recommend reading this; it’ll help you:
http://www.openculture.com/2016/05/george-orwells-six-rules-for-writing-clear-and-tight-prose.html

[Anonymous No.14522052]

>>14519822
thank you. I'm trying to write queer shit which has a more nuanced plot structure than a Tumblr comic. I've been out for less than a year so it used to be far more subtle in my writing.

[Anonymous No.14522067]

>>14521953

It doesn't. It is OK and there's nothing striking about that paragraph. Diffcult to judge prose upon such a small bit.

>>14521957
That was a good read.

[Anonymous No.14522629]

>>14522067
It began to rain and splash mud onto my clean white socks.
“Sabrina?” Ted’s voice struck me from the darkness.
I shivered. “Why weren’t you at tonight’s game?”
“What’s the point?” Ted sighed.

“Look, Ted.” I pointed to my browned socks. His shoulders stiffened and he asked sharply, “Are you mocking me, Cheer?” I gulped because Ted only called me by my last name when he was upset about something I did. I smiled and thought of an inside joke between the two of us and I said, “Hey, you’ve made me so wet my makeup came off!” And Ted laughed but the crickets drowned out his raspy voice. “This is it...” The defeated voice began amid the glittering mist. “I’ve peaked.”

I curled my frigid lips and complained, “Come on, it’s a Tuesday night, I have to go to bed.” The Moon’s milky spotlight drenched Ted. “Wait, I wasn’t accepted to do college football.” He said. “I’m sorry...” But he cut me off and interjected: “To hell with your ‘sorry’. To hell with your Cheerleading. To hell with you. You don’t deserve to be a College Cheerleader because all you do is look pretty. You are just a side piece.”

Ted stepped back into the mist and ran through the mud. I ran after him. We pretended that we were in a game of football. It was silly but momentarily fun. He stopped after what felt like an exhausting workout and he said, “I’m sorry. I’m just...” Our lips touched. “Stay with me.”
I told him, “My dream is to compete in college.” And then I added, “But you can come with me.” I was soaked from head to toe but I was happy.

[Anonymous No.14522641]

>>14522629
>>14522067
Reformatted

It began to rain and splash mud onto my clean white socks. “Sabrina?” Ted’s voice struck me from the darkness. I shivered. “Why weren’t you at tonight’s game?”
“What’s the point?” Ted sighed.

“Look, Ted.” I pointed to my browned socks.
His shoulders stiffened and he asked sharply, “Are you mocking me, Cheer?” I gulped because Ted only called me by my last name when he was upset about something I did. I smiled and thought of an inside joke between the two of us and I said, “Hey, you’ve made me so wet my makeup came off!” And Ted laughed but the crickets drowned out his raspy voice. “This is it...” The defeated voice began amid the glittering mist. “I’ve peaked.”

I curled my frigid lips and complained, “Come on, it’s a Tuesday night, I have to go to bed.” The Moon’s milky spotlight drenched Ted. “Wait, I wasn’t accepted to do college football.” He said.
“I’m sorry...”
But he cut me off and interjected: “To hell with your ‘sorry’. To hell with your Cheerleading. To hell with you. You don’t deserve to be a College Cheerleader because all you do is look pretty. You are just a side piece.”

Ted stepped back into the mist and ran through the mud. I ran after him. We pretended that we were in a game of football. It was silly but momentarily fun. He stopped after what felt like an exhausting workout and he said, “I’m sorry. I’m just...” Our lips touched. “Stay with me.”
I told him, “My dream is to compete in college.” And then I added, “But you can come with me.” I was soaked from head to toe but I was happy.

[Anonymous No.14522777]

>>14517422

I just posted this in the Natalia thread, would be cool to get some feedback on the prose even if you don't revere her.


Natalia Poklonskaya

>Her grand beauty rivals Aphrodite,
>Her wisdom evokes Athena's vision.
>She is the Savior of Humanity,
>She speaks the truth... but will we listen?

- Feodorovna, 2020

[Anonymous No.14522859]

Its not such a sad end, shot to death, empty rifle in hand.

[Anonymous No.14524051]

>>14521957
It's all very simple, and not in a Robert Frost, Richard Wilbur kinda way. The first and last stanzas don't fit and the rest feels like someone feeling in a checklist. A rhyme here, a syllable there, Without much concern for what you're saying.

From supermarket parking-lots
Arose a cry of “All is lost!”

That just doesn't fit the tone, a eighteenth century fable maybe, but not the rest of the poem.

The signs along the interstate
Without which none of us would know
By what name we must call our city,
Obscured now by illiterate snow

Sounds clever but it's just not true. ....
Stick to lines like "Its twelve lanes blended into one" or "We craned our necks like holy men" these are good, more like that please, but you either need more of them or they need to have more of an effect.

Keep going.

[Anonymous No.14524608]

>>14517422
Screenshot because there's too many characters to fit in a post. There's only a rough outline of one major plot point at the moment, where another character gets introduced and starting having conversations with the narrator.

[Anonymous No.14524614]

>>14524608
and of course I forgot the screenshot

[Anonymous No.14524926]

>>14517801
Finally someone with something to say.

>>14517422
Never post here again. "Sun pounces"? No one should ever let you write like this, it is atrocious.

>>14518617
The effort shows.

[Anonymous No.14524969]

>>14521957
Put some intellect and heart into it next time, dullard. And for fuck's sake, at least sleep on it—your brainshits aren't precious metals.

>>14522777
Holy trips confirms.

>>14522629
>I gulped because
>I gulped because
>I gulped because
>I gulped because
>>/reddit/
Get out of our clubhouse.

[Anonymous No.14524984]

>>14519822
>arms akimbo

[Anonymous No.14524986]

>>14524926
Well aren't you a grumbly fella
How about this:

Alabaster reachings
Wreathed in emerald drippings
Burn into the sky from ray’s tippings.

Scorched silhouettes left twisting in wake.
Dancing into a blur of warm blue light.
The sun has stayed the night.

[Anonymous No.14525003]

>>14521414
>This anon summed up most of my issues
Your issue is lack of depth, lack of basic metaphoric command, a narrow vision, and zero will to improve. I didn't know you were serious with your post.

[Anonymous No.14525033]

>>14524986
Further proof that none of your sleazy, fraudulent hours wasted on this plane can push out a pretty scratch of poetry.

[Anonymous No.14525055]

>>14525033
Are you ok?

[Anonymous No.14525088]

i kind of want to make a forum that's just for posting prose and giving critique/ feedback. would anyone be interested in this sort of thing

[Anonymous No.14525096]

>>14525055
Now that I'm done reading that chicken scratch vomitese, yes.

>>14525088
No.

[Anonymous No.14525113]

>>14524051
Thanks for the feedback. My only counterpoint is that if you don't think dramatic hyperbole has a place in poetry, you either haven't read or you don't like Auden.

[Anonymous No.14525125]

>>14525113
So what?

[Anonymous No.14525186]

>>14521896
Truly, truly amazing. Good job. Have you submitted it to any journals yet?

>>14521500
Best post in thread. I don't think you see it for the diamond mine it is.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525229]

>>14517422

You do a lot of hiking on acid for the first time?

Anyway, I'm not a poetry guy. Can't say much about it. I like the final line.

>>14518003

>within of what

Please fix this.

>splash mud

"Splash" in the infinitive tense suggests continual splashing of your clean white socks. Which doesn't make sense. Either they're dirtied the first time, or they're only splashed with mud once. If the latter, change it to "splashed".

>>14518462

You defer to stale and tired forms of description. Stop doing that. Make our investment pay off. Dazzle us a little. Be playful with your language.

>social inclinations
>pick something up
>jotting down things
>such isolation...still isolation


You can conjure up something better than that

You should be more economical with your prose. "Alex wasn't one for working, only beginning" would probably suffice.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525253]

[1/3]

A bass drum masks tremoring hands. I take Mariana’s from across a table ensconced in the corner of the restaurant.

“A bit too loud to talk, isn’t it?”

Her feet nestle mine, though I cannot be sure unless I lift the tablecloth.

Her head tilts, shoulders shrug.

“Maybe we should find someplace else?”

She smiles, embarrassed.

I point out the window to the lamp-lit alleyway.

“Let me get it.”

I thumb rusted coins onto the table. I’m unsure what they’re worth, though we’ve ordered nothing.

“Vámonos?”

Outside Mariana runs the back of her hand across my cheeks, registering the coarseness of winter for the first time. Translation fails her, so she smiles.

She flashes her expired student card to the bus driver, somehow gets us on for free. The aisleway is carpeted with black rubber, the tattered seats smell of diesel.

“Where are we going?” I ask her in questionable Spanish.

Something about a dance.

Mariana sits next to me, the contrast stark between her olive dress and the torn cloth seat. Through the window, the tops of mountains are given form by porch light constellations. Endless ghettos in the hills.

My eyes fall back on her, the magnetic lure of the girl. The tender-eyed undergraduate I once taught. The sleepy graduate student whom I tutored vainly over glasses of Grenache. The blazered post-doc speaking alongside me at a conference two years running; her presentation in Spanish, mine English. The sudden synchronicity of our lives a testament to the budding of her young career, the stasis of mine.

The bus speeds over a bump in the road and we bounce off our seats. And there it is, the sound I’ve traveled so many hours to hear: her laugh, the same blubbering laughter I remember from those faraway nights. How it trumpets through the air like a song. How it could purge a room of gravity. How it erupts like a caldera, opening the taps on whatever’s inside.

We lean into each other, in hysterics, though I’m unsure why. She runs her fingers over the top of my hand, letting die in silence what can’t be said aloud.

The bus stops and we’re thrown into the next row of seats. She shrieks, snorts. That spasmodic song. Our laughter is broken by shouting from the streets, a tapping at the window.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525270]

>>14525253

[2/3]

Standing outside are men, clad in black, with machine guns clasped across their ribs. Belts of ammunition hang over their shoulders like a sash. Their cheekbones visible in their faces, severe under the shadow of their berets. A soldier motions to the bus driver through the door, cracks it with the butt of his rifle.

The bus rumbles ahead, streaming past an unending line of soldiers in unmarked fatigues. Shopkeepers shutter their windows, pull their signs in from the sidewalk. The hilltops slip away as house lights are snuffed out by panicked sons and mothers; fathers kill the cherry tips of cigars before abandoning their verandas.

“What’s going on?” I ask Marianna, taking her hand in mine.

“We will be okay,” she says. Whether in truth or delusion, her voice could drown a war drum. “It is unsafe to stop. The bus must keep going. Keep, you know, going on.”

“Who are they outside?”

She pauses, stares into nothing. Desperate for the right words, the right way.

“Policia?” I ask.

“No.”

Marianna leans over the seat and speaks hurried Spanish to a greying man in a bandana seated ahead. He exchanges words with Marianna, and I’m relieved to discern anger in them.

“Militia,” he snaps.

He stares at the men and their guns the way one might stare at undisciplined children. As if they were an ordinary annoyance, like finding a kernel stuck between one’s teeth at dinner, or wetting one’s shirt sleeve under the faucet.

“What?”

“They do not want to do with us, I do not think,” Marianna interjects.

“Look at them—”

“They are,” she searches for the word. “Like politics.”

“I see.”

Pickup trucks with motorized gun turrets mounted to their beds border the roadside, forming a perimeter around the city center, shutting the valves of its heart. One by one the sidestreets and alleys blot out then blacken like organs starved of blood.

[Anonymous No.14525274]

I don't want to kill a thread for this question so I am going to ask it here. How should I improve my usable English vocabulary? I say usable because it makes more sense to me that my comprehension will improve just by reading more but I'm more concerned with how I talk and write. Should I just read more and put unfamiliar words onto flashcards and go about it that way or do any of you have a better method? Perhaps, I should write more too while incorporating the new vocabulary? If I do that I'm assuming that my verbal vocabulary will improve as a consequence. Is there a more expedient way to level up or do I already have a good plan?

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525282]

>>14525253
>>14525270

[3/3]

“The exits are blocked,” I say.

“Yes.”

There is a moment of pause, its severity steeping in my gut.

“We circle the city until tomorrow. Then the militia will leave when the sun comes.”

“How do you know?”

“I know that we will be okay.”

There is a lack of urgency in Mariana’s eyes. As if they were gifts, these extra moments spent together.

“Come,” she says, tugging at my arm. She shuffles to the front of the bus with me clumsily in tow, clutching handloops and seatposts for balance.

“Señor,” she says to the driver.

He turns the dial on the radio, and out springs a staticky tune. She pulls me at the waist and hurries to the back of the bus, toes pattering on rubber, where she spins to face me, cha-chas forward, and flaunts that sly sophomore smile—her talent for being alive on display.

“Dance,” she pleads.

A gunshot rings somewhere in the distance.

I place a hand in hers as the bus ascends a bridge. The vehicle levels and then we begin, my every footfall a flub. One-two, three-four, one-two, three-four.

At this distance there is something to hoard in her every detail. A trove of small beauties, as pluckable as heisted jewels. The sticky perfume residue on her sideneck, the stale apricot scent on her arms. How far they travelled, all bottled up, to chance on her skin. How easily my fingers glide along the patch behind her ear, gliding like the hours of the night. The softness of cheeks born of eternal summer. A dirty-blonde hair fallen on her dress. To take register of these feels like robbery, like I must empty myself to repay her. As if any beautiful thing exists only in lieu of another.

We’re thrown to the ground as the bus rounds a tight corner. The rubber floor breaks my fall, and I break hers. The overhead lights glint in her eyes, those garden gates. We laugh over the music, palm to nape, the chorus out of step with her pulse. How unsteadying it is to be looked at by Marianna in this way, to be the object of her mind.

Above us the bandanaed man is pleased by our distraction. He is humming a tune, his voice croaking into song, crooning in a language I cannot know.

[Anonymous No.14525361]

>>14525186

thanks and no, that was essentially a stylized diary entry lol

[Anonymous No.14525389]

>>14525253
>>14525270
>>14525282
I've been in endless crit threads and I've never seen music so well crystallized into sentence. A true palace of the present.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525416]

>>14525389

Thanks, man. Been here a while. Posted a lot of garbage along the way.

Would you mind clarifying what you mean by "music"?

[Anonymous No.14525421]

>>14525416
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cymatics

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525687]

Bump

[Anonymous No.14525698]

>>14525125
I think he means if you aren’t familiar with a poetic device older than the Greeks maybe you shouldn’t be analyzing poetry

[Anonymous No.14525776]

>>14517422
Started working on this today, I'd appreciate any crits.

https://pastebin.com/y7RbaYRQ

[Anonymous No.14525810]

>>14525698
who would you suggest he read?

[Anonymous No.14525816]

>>14521135
>>14524984
Is this a dumb expression?

[Anonymous No.14525846]

>>14525776
This is actually pretty amazing. Best in thread. Do you believe me?

[Anonymous No.14525852]

>>14525810
The fortune, now in his dirt, that he accidentally swallowed.

[Anonymous No.14525859]

>>14525816
Poetry is a description when you use one obscure word to describe an image it defeats the purpose.

His arms were struts, buttressed from his waist.

Laconicism in poetry has to be used when most effective, a word like akimbo, when describing something as plain as arms, its usual meaning, is boring and not artful.

[Anonymous No.14525865]

>>14525810
Poetry. Start with Robert Frost if he thinks that poem sounds remotely like Frost.

[Anonymous No.14525867]

>>14525846
I don't know if I believe anyone on this site about anything.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525872]

>>14525776

Good piece here.

>but the clouds of alcoholic afterburn were still in his brain

"In his brain" is jarring and disruptive here. We know where the sensation of a hangover is felt. Excise this bit or replace it with creative writing, not an anatomical description.

I also would've preferred you weren't so jaded. Escape rooms aren't the lamest thing in the world. Some are pretty fun. Gets tiring and kind of pathetic hearing people complain about popular, pro-social things just because they're both.

[Anonymous No.14525875]

>>14525865
No, I meant what poetry from before the Greeks should he read.

[Anonymous No.14525925]

>>14525872
You're probably right on both accounts. I originally had "were in his eyes", but that felt like trite.

And I wasn't trying to hate on the activity itself, I'm sure they're fun enough with friends; I meant to illustrate the psychologically-intriguing proposition in the absurdity of having to trap yourself in an activity in order to socialize. I also wanted to get across the feeling of feeling claustrophobic while on this objective-oriented drug. This piece still needs to be worked a lot more, some of my ideas still feel disorganized on the page. I also prefer positive prose, so perhaps I was being too cynical there.

Thanks for the crit btw, if you have a pice here I'd be happy to look at it.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14525939]

>>14525925

No prob. Keep working on it. Build it out.

I have a 1,100 word piece posted above. It's a three part piece. Quick read.

[Anonymous No.14525980]

First time writing down some of my thoughts, all criticism is welcome. (Yes, the sentence fragments are stylistic.)

https://pastebin.com/Gn7UxjcE

[Anonymous No.14526116]

>>14525939
>How it could purge a room of gravity. How it erupts like a caldera, opening the taps on whatever’s inside.

I like your prose anon. The ending felt a little unlikely, or sparse. It reminded me of some modernist short stories, in which the endings always feel bittersweet, cold, and vaguely unsatisfying. Not faulting you there, it's just not the narrative I personally seek out. I also think the imagery of the militia blockading the city could've been tied into more of a theme regarding the infatuation the narrator has for this girl. Perhaps the age gap, or language barrier? It's there, but I think could be explored more.

Other than those nitpicks, the writing is excellent, good work here.

[Anonymous No.14526129]

>>14525980
>Yes, the sentence fragments are stylistic
Not really

[Anonymous No.14526135]

>>14525939
>How it could purge a room of gravity. How it erupts like a caldera, opening the taps on whatever’s inside.
Has anyone ever written anything so cringe before this? Will they after?

[Anonymous No.14526154]

>>14526135
I completely disagree but to each their own. You also replied to the wrong post, to a post with a story that has far more prose issues than the one I responded to.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14526185]

>>14526135

Come on, it's not that bad.

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14526197]

>>14526116

Maybe. I tried to demonstrate the inconsequentiality of the blockade. Contrasting the special moments of appreciation that the two share for each other in complete disregard for the threat to their safety and that of everyone else's outside. The description of the militia is meant to seem plain and bleak.

[Anonymous No.14526389]

>>14525003
Who?

[Anonymous No.14527177]

I am going to build myself a bunker
Fitted with electricity and running water
Small, underground, myself a spelunker
I'd fancy myself a surgeon and a plumber
With a toilet, bed, and bars galore
My guest will holler, whine, implore
Horrific was his deed enough to cast him so
Tangled in the weeds of my handicraft
I sow in him the seeds of my loving wrath
That he planted in me, long ago
I laugh in fits of contemptuous glee
Recording the blips of disharmony
That shudder across my tormentor's face
I made the finish line, I fixed our race
Against time, so that I could pick apart
His parts, and his death to orchestrate
As he's inside my invention of late
The adult-sized, porcelain, baby restraint.
I wonder what he's thinking? Day in, day out
Undergoing vivisection, cramps, and clout
If he's righteous, he'll perform his penance
In the next life gladly, pushing balls of shite
Imposed on him by his own karmic blight
With beetle arms to wipe his beetle brow.

[Anonymous No.14527208]

>>14517801

[Anonymous No.14527212]

Flushing a toilet full of shit is not unlike living and dying. As the shit spirals into the sewage pipes that sprawl like so many veins underneath the city that all lead to the sea where they join the shit of others, so do our bodies after they are interred and decompose, only to be consumed and shat out by the flora and fauna of the Earth, binding to all that is, ever was, and ever will be. For when our planet is pulverized and our myriad guts scattered across the galaxy, we will all be married in shitty, celestial totality.

Life is shit.

[Anonymous No.14527221]

>>14527212
So shit is life? It doesn't sound as edgy and "deep" when you swirl it around, does it?

[Anonymous No.14527238]

>>14527221
Cope.

[Anonymous No.14527247]

>>14525113
hyperbole has it's place, depending on the tone of the poem, but taken too far , in an otherwise documentary-like description, it feels out of place, like it's straining for effect.

It was also the chief sin in those poems Auden later repudiated.

Auden, in that and other things, is a dangerous influence. Cecil Day-Lewis, for example, made an absolute fool of himself trying to copy him. (he still had some good poems though)

>>14525186
Thanks buddy.
I know there is a good idea in there. But i just lack the skill to bring it out.

[Anonymous No.14527253]

>>14527212
Life is shit and you write like ass.

[Anonymous No.14527255]

>>14527238
Calling all of life feces because yours is terrible is also a fantastic cope. Very original, I guess shit built cathedrals and wrote hamlet.

Even on a literal level, it's the most cliched circle of life sentiment. The toilet imagery is also ugly af.

[Anonymous No.14527269]

>>14527212
As a writer, you should always write positively. You can even write about horrible things in a positive light, nobody wants to read negative angst via horrible metaphor.

[Anonymous No.14527312]

>>14527221
>>14527253
>>14527269
>>14527255
This was written sarcastically. Try not to take yourselves too seriously, spergs.

[Anonymous No.14527319]

>>14527312
Chill out bro this is a /crit/ thread lmao

[Anonymous No.14527328]

>>14527312
what a waste of your time, it's not even funny. Also, cope.

[Anonymous No.14527352]

>>14527328
Did I hurt your feelings, sperg?

[Anonymous No.14527358]

>>14527352
People are the words they use.

[Anonymous No.14527389]

>>14527358
I’m not so sure about that. I could call someone a sociopath or a zipperhead, but my psychological makeup and physical features would suggest otherwise. There’s some pretty damning evidence against you that leads me to believe you might be on the spectrum though.

[Anonymous No.14527407]

>>14527389
Using pejoratives such as those would speak volumes about you even if the specific ones didn't pertain to you. If you called someone a sociopath without reason I'd think you're ignorant, if you used racial slurs seriously it's safe to assume you're racist. Do you know who takes expressions too literally? People with Aspergers.

I'm curious to see this damning evidence you have though. I don't think responding earnestly to a post in a crit thread is wrong at all.

[Anonymous No.14527425]

>>14520799 here

>>14521152
>>14521414
Thanks for the feedback. I've tried to put what you guys said into mark iii below (attempt at a more defined structure, and hopefully the whole thing feels more 'connected').


by altars far
the apostles yearn
tuning in to youthful stars

built for fun
babe chimera
bathing in fluorescent sun

synthetic bust
dimensions false
mug obscured in magic dust

she reaches out
with swollen lips
neon red in desperate pout

a silent beg
for savage maim
anointed queen of digital dregs

[Anonymous No.14527432]

>>14527425
too laconic. and is this a poem about a sex bot?

[Anonymous No.14527441]

>>14527432
That wasn't obvious from the start?

[Anonymous No.14527452]

>>14527441
From arms akimbo? No.

It doesn't really have much of a theme other than; this is a sex bot. Perhaps if you explored the question of its will, or connected it with the apostle line more it would work better. Mug also feels like a clunky word to me, is it meant to have a second meaning? It's an odd choice otherwise.

[Anonymous No.14527528]

>>14527432
so there should be more descriptions? is each line too short?

>>14527441 was not me ahah. i can't remember the exact one, but i remember i was inspired by the image of a camwhore at the very very start. So, yes and no: not exactly a sex bot but also maybe so?

>>14527452
Yes. I now understand why 'arms akimbo' is shit lol, thanks to an anon who kindly explained.

I'm not sure about the word mug: i'm trying to refer to a caked up face and it just seemed like a better way of saying 'face' with a tinge of contempt.

As for theme, yeah, you're right in that it's probs lacking; this is likely because i started from an image. I will think about it some more.

i don't have much to give back, but cheers for the crit anons

[illiterate (www.larthurhunt.co(...) No.14527823]

>>14518617

Nursery rhyme/10

[Anonymous No.14527915]

>>14522641
Reads in a very juvenile way, like online fanfiction. Dunno what to tell you other than you should probably try to immerse yourself in more literary language so you get a better feel for cadence and rhythm.

>>14522859
>shot to death.

>>14524986
If the poem is intended to describe something visually you should ground it in more solid images and concepts. Too much abstraction in that one. It feels like it's floating free and not tied down to the image it's supposed to describe.

[Anonymous No.14527922]

>>14527915
What I've got so far of the opening to a short story.

>The world was young when Hank O’Connor finished the construction of the little house in the valley of coarse, stony soil. The sun was still bright and warm, casting sharp shadows as it cut through the mountains on either side, and the waters of the little stream that ran next to the shack were still clear and unmuddied. This naive freshness of things was mirrored in Hank himself, as with cheer and tenacity he drew from the rough gravel enough grain that the O’Connor name was soon known and respected throughout the entire valley. Nancy, his wife, although possessed by a certain melancholy, matched her husband in energy and diligence. She taught the neighbouring households the arts of reading and of writing, driven by a clear-sighted conviction that these would be the forces to govern the shape of the world in decades to come. Hank, however, though his love for his wife was immense, and though he had been gifted with great industry and quickness of mind, had no patience for her lessons, and never learned to read. “What use is poetry and prayer?” he was once heard to ask, his cheeks reddened with ale and grain liquor. “You cannot eat a prayerbook.” She was nineteen and he twenty-one when Nancy fell pregnant, the first woman in all the world to do so.

[Anonymous No.14527924]

>>14527922
>Those were prosperous times. Hank’s industriousness only grew with the news that Nancy was with child. “No child of mine will be born in a hovel!” he declared sternly. His meagre patch of gravelly earth produced more grain that year than ever before, and his visits to the alehouse grew fewer and fewer as he set about expanding the little cabin into a great manor-house. He brought in craftsmen and architects from all over the lands surrounding the valley, and, as more of the region’s women fell pregnant in that fertile season, at Hank’s behest, foreign doctors came from across the seas to aid them through their birthing. The little stream had grown into a wide, powerful river as the world came into its maturity, and soon wooden boats and steam-powered cogs carried grain away from the valley and returned with lumber and passengers from new lands with new ideas and technologies. The little gathering of huts was soon a sprawling town, with visitors coming from far and wide to pay homage to Nancy as the first known woman to fall pregnant. They lavished her with gifts of fine pottery with exotic patterns, woollen tapestries depicting the sun chasing the moon and volumes of poetry in languages she did not yet know. After much pleading from his wife, Hank, whose wealth over that single year had grown to near-legendary proportions, purchased a large plot of land outside the town and built a school for these foreign men to teach their tongues and sciences and philosophies to the children the town soon expected. Soon the town was all abuzz with new ideas. The bedridden women discussed medicine with the doctors who tended to them, and stuffy air of the alehouse was laden with talk of trade and labour and capital. Soon came a wave of men in dark coats, small men with thin hair and thick spectacles, asking many questions and muttering amongst themselves in sinister tones. The soldiers arrived on the same day that Nancy’s labours began, and the town was claimed as part of the State.

[Anonymous No.14527928]

>>14527924
Hank’s fruitfulness in the field that year was matched in the marital bed, and when her labours were finished, Nancy had given birth to two boys and a girl. One of the boys wailed ferociously as he was pulled into the light, while the other merely gurgled and glanced timidly around. The attendant doctor grew concerned, however, when the little girl was born still and silent. Terrified, Nancy began almost automatically to recite passages from her prayerbook, and even Hank beat his fists on the wall and cried his pleas to the heavens. The two newborn brothers held eachother as they wept. For some time this crying and praying and pleading went on, and the sun in the sky grew slightly dim, until the doctor, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the girl dead. No sooner had he said the words, however, than her eyes opened wide and from her mouth came, not the cries of an infant, but the song of a bird. The firstborn boy they named Jack, and his brother David. The girl, on Nancy’s insistence, was named Melody.

[Anonymous No.14528023]

>>14527928
>For a brief few minutes the house was filled with music and jubilation. Melody’s song had the peculiar quality of resonating at equal volume through every room of the house, and the many guests who had lingered in the parlour, whether to support their friends or to witness the novelty of a baby, were unanimously brought to tears. Two young women even found themselves stirred to an impromptu dance, twisting delicately and gracefully around one another as Melody’s song trickled through the house like a stream of melt-water. Hank carried held her above his head and brought her out to the crowd. Many fell to their knees, so sweet was the song. Even the firstborn Jack, who had wailed so violently as he left his mother’s womb, was calmed to joyous laughter, and his brother cooed softly and nuzzled into his mother’s arms. The celebration was soon halted, however, as three of the soldiers, rifles in arm, marched through the open door, accompanied by one of the small, bespectacled men. This man introduced himself as a representative of the State Bureau of Infant Registration, flashing papers before the eyes of mother and father alike, and immediately moved to pick up the little David, who squealed and nuzzled further into his mother’s arms. “I’m afraid I must insist, ma’am,” the man intoned disdainfully as Nancy shielded her sons. When she refused to yield, he simply shrugged, and two of the soldiers grabbed her arms and held her down as the man in black set about measuring the length children’s limbs and the diameter of their skulls. When Hank attempted to protest, the third soldier struck him sharply on the back of his head with the butt of his rifle, and he fell to the ground, unconscious. Little Melody fell from his hands and drifted to the ground as slowly and softly as a feather, as if with a strong draft she would take wind and float off into the sky. Nobody had noticed that she had ceased to sing.

[Anonymous No.14528350]

>>14527247
>X is a dangerous influence
Indefensible bollocks. All the more reason to imitate someone.

[Sissy slut No.14528682]

Out of the window the next house over, I hear a familiar kid's voice hollering in rasped agony "Mommy! Mommy I need a towellll!! Mommyyyy!! Mooooooommmyyyyy.... Mommmmmyyyyyyyyyyy....." And the anguished "ee" sustains and echoes across the siding and the shingles along the block and I feel like it's going on for too long, a child's lungs just couldn't bear that, could they?
I realize then it's actually harmonized perfectly with the ringing howl of a distant plane obscured by the cloudy sky, traveling overhead. That's what I'm hearing. And in the burn of caffeine rushing through my blood after too many morning coffees I'm tempted to meditate on the speculative morphology of a child-plane hybrid, or a plane that fuels itself via repurposed organs of an unfortunate 7 year old victim of a head-on collision, and although it works perfectly well and cuts back on CO2 émissions its passengers can't help but notice a human timbre to the whine of the jet engine, the thickening of the air pressure in the cabin feeling wet and sticky like clogged ears, the tray tables and window shades possessing a gossamer, webbed, telltale skinlike sensation when gripped or grazed by the arm