Critique

[Anonymous No.5339885]

didn't see one active.

> post
> critique
> enjoy

[Anonymous No.5339887]

not sure how I feel about this one. thoughts?

I pray you keep on drinking until morning.
Young, alive and dying, now,
grown old with little warning.

I pray you drink away the nights
much lesser spent adorning
every freckle on your fragile face
that wastes itself in mourning.

Drink up from flasks of wasted youth,
still free from mother's scorning --
I pray you keep on drinking, love,
and live until the morning.

[Anonymous No.5341697]

>>5339885
Help. I know I'm not a good poet. Critique would be enjoyed.

What do you need?
What do you require?
No need to plea
Tell me your desire
I’ll do as you need until you expire
Go ahead, this is why I was sold
For you, the best buyer
I do as I’m told

I’ll do the worst of deeds
or simply hand clothes on a wire
Expose to me your greed
I’m here until you tire
To your lust I’ll feed
I’m yours to be controlled
For you, my sire
I do as I’m told

I’ll pretend to plea
Act as though I tire
But I do this to mislead
I enjoy it when you scold
For you, the liar
I do as I’m told

I’ll suck your seed
Your secrets I’ll withhold
For you, I decree
I do as I’m told.

[Anonymous No.5341758]

My adoration of you visage
My mass pulled by your allure
Waiting turns of the earth for you to appear
Doing anything to make us secure

The suffering I’ll endure
Just for the sight of your figure
Knowing these actions are impure
This ecstasy, left bitter

I wonder if you hear my whisper
That what I hold what is true
What would you ever consider
If I were to ask you?

My need for you accrues
As I remember when you unlace
I watch, I peruse
For long I have chased

I approach all coy, Introduce my name
A smile from you and we’re set aflame

[Anonymous No.5341767]

what the fuck is it with those autism threads?

neither of you
>>5341758
>>5341697
>>5339887
is any good, so why even bother?
i physically cringed at this shit.

>>5341697
you are cool. at least you know you're shit.

[Anonymous No.5341768]

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st
In these two princely boys. They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonder
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught,
Civility not seen from other, valour
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow’d! Yet still it’s strange
What Cloten’s being here to us portends,
Or what his death will bring us.

[Anonymous No.5341778]

>>5341767
Can you tell me why I'm shit?
It would help to know why so I can fix it.
>>5341697

[Anonymous No.5341779]

>>5341768
shit/10

holy fucking shit, i can feel the fedora on your had from just reading the first line

[Anonymous No.5341795]

>>5341778
it's hard to put my finger on it.
some of the rhymes feel forced.

also, try to have two rhyming verses have the same amount of syllables, that makes it easier to read.

>or simply hand clothes on a wire
>I’m here until you tire

that doesn't roll off the tongue very good, for the reason i stated.

>For you, the liar
>For you
Bane/10

[Anonymous No.5341797]

>>5341768

what are you trying to do with that meter

[Anonymous No.5341808]

>>5341779
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

You silly little cunt. That is Shakespeare.

Your are an utter fucking twat.

Leave this board, you stupid dickhead.

tip top kek

[Anonymous No.5341815]

>>5341779
lol pleb

>>5341808 too funny

[Anonymous No.5341817]

>>5341808
>posting anything other than Tolkien's poetry
fuck off.
Shakespeare was a tryhard who just wanted to compete with Goethe, but Goethe sold more, that's why Shakespeare wrote such shit.

[Anonymous No.5341818]

>>5341795
I understand.
I'm pretty dyslexic so the rhymes were a bit forced.

I always cringed at that line. I'm trying to figure out how to fix it with no avail. I'll probably just change it entirely.
I'll try fixing it using your advice. Thank you.

[Anonymous No.5341820]

>>5341817
You are so mad

leeelllllllll

[Anonymous No.5341830]

>>5341820
you are just mad that Shakespeare OPENLY admitted he was worse than Goethe.
stay mad, Hamletpleb

[Anonymous No.5341838]

>>5341830
stay mad pleb

google the passage next time

:^)

[Anonymous No.5341842]

>>5341838
lol. Shakespeare admitted multiple times that he was inspired by Faust.
his works are pleb-tier, a mere copy of Goethe's works

[Anonymous No.5341846]

>>5341842
mate, I don't care, the funny part is that you thought you were worthy enough to even criticize the passage

please post something better

lol

[Anonymous No.5341850]

>>5341830
>you are just mad that Shakespeare OPENLY admitted he was worse than Goethe.
10/10

[Anonymous No.5341851]

>>5341846
so you don't care that Shakespeare said multiple times he wished he was Goethe?
you are defending the works of someone with an identity crisis?
tep kok

[Tallis !!y+12CeFwYOo No.5341856]

>>5341846
most likely samefagging

[Anonymous No.5341857]

>>5341830
>>5341842
>>5341817

[Anonymous No.5341859]

>>5341851
>he wished he was Goethe?

[Anonymous No.5341865]

>>5341851
I'm not defending anyone.

I posted it as bait and someone took it and called it fedora-tier, that is all I wanted.

:^)

[Anonymous No.5341869]

This ugly town fools no-one; the view through the blinds falls short of justice. Much like how the rare flattering photograph of a tramp can force one to make a second judgement of attraction, today this city revels in its misshapen and bleached beauty. I cannot resist noticing all the green which has appeared; normally hidden behind layers of heat and fog. Oh, how it wears the sunlight so proudly today-- but as I lean closer to the window, the stink of cigarettes and smog finds its way through the glass. You look great today, city, and perhaps you will look as perfect on another day, but you will never conceal that odor. Such traps like you will never grab me, for I have learned to utilize all of my senses.

[Anonymous No.5341873]

>>5341865
but i hope, before making fun of the guy, that you just responded to 3 of his posts that state that Goethe and Shakespeare lived at the same time without calling him out on it.
if you didn't know that Goethe is almost 200 years older than Shakespeare you are just as much of a pleb as this guy.

[Anonymous No.5341886]

>>5341873
wow! I was playing along

>what is banter?

[Anonymous No.5341889]

>>5341873
>Goethe is almost 200 years older than Shakespeare

[Anonymous No.5341893]

>>5341886
damage control.
you weren't playing along, you clearly fell for it.
also trolling is not banter.
newfag pls go.

[Anonymous No.5341895]

>>5341873
petty sure goethe was born before shakespeare

/liy/ sure is pleb today lol

[Anonymous No.5341905]

>>5341889
fuck, you know what i wanted to write, god dammit.
Goethe is almost 200 years younger.

>>5341886
and that you didn't pick up on my mistake only proves that you fell for that guy's troll posts

[Anonymous No.5341907]

>>5341893
if you read my comments you would realise that they are tongue in cheek

pls don't call me a new fag

[Anonymous No.5341914]

>>5341895
yeah, i realized that i've made a mistake.
sorry master.

[Anonymous No.5341919]

>>5341905
>my mistake
>that guy's

samefag, pls do

[Anonymous No.5341921]

>>5341907
no, your comments sounded like you were very happy that this guy fell for your bait.
>stay mad pleb
that's not tongue in cheek

[Anonymous No.5341926]

>>5341919
>everyone is a samefag
pls, you can do better

[Anonymous No.5341929]

>>5341921
>very happy that this guy fell for your bait.

yes, that is what i wanted

[Anonymous No.5341933]

>>5341929
and then you proceeded to fall for his bait.
you baited each other and didn't notice.

[Anonymous No.5341965]

Like you would choose a crayon from it's box Sarah removes a single cigarette. She does so with her right hand, leaving her left, the artificial, in the designated proximity of her hip. When I return the pack to her purse I take out her
red BIC lighter. It takes three attempts to make it spark, giving me three chances, and we light the second cigarette of her life and the first of mine. Our rejected entrance into the Commodore Ballroom is protested with lines of smoke that, as designed, crudely etch an obscenity into the air.
“You want to find a cop?” asks Sarah.
“For what?” I ask.
“To verify us.”
“We can't have a cop verify a fake ID. We could get tickets for that.”
“No we couldn't. I don't think so.”
I cough, unable to help myself. Sarah exhales what looks like a spider web and appears sad. It was her decision to skip the after-grad and invite me (of all people) to try and see this band.
“Where'd you get the ID's, anyway?”
“They're my brothers. He lent them to me.”
“I thought you payed money, maybe.”
“I payed money for the tickets.”
She exhales, looks at me while accidentally blowing smoke in my sweater.
“You look old.” She says.
When the first police car visits Granville she almost trips into the street. She composes herself and waves and tosses her cigarette at my feet like a child would put a penny into a well. The officer make his way to the curb, crawling.
“Sir,” starts Sarah, through the window, “We need your help to see the show tonight.”
The policeman, of about sixty, looks us over. Our heads poke into the interior of his squad car, which smells slightly of vanilla.
“I'm going to need to see each of your ID's kids.”
We hand him the descriptions of Alicia and Tommy Chung – distant cousins, Chinese Heritage, Year of the Dog – and he looks at Taylor's ID, then at mine, then at Taylor's, than back at Taylor herself, and then back at the IDs, ignoring me. He types something into his computer and whistles softly. Sarah lets out a long, flat exhale.
“These are obvious fakes.” He says. His eyes pale, disciplinary, maybe friendly, watch us. He stares for a second and puts the IDs in his front chest pocket.
“You two should be on your way.”
Together we watch his car take down the block and Sarah asks for another cigarette and I go into her purse to get the pack. I light one for her and another for myself and the fire and ash - alive - delivers what I would call therapeutic company. I'm afraid to admit this. Sarah coughs and a tear runs from an eye. I end up taking the grip of her cold, artificial left hand. I feel like a child. Our threads of smoke hold up white and black balloons.

[Anonymous No.5341968]

>>5341965

I'm 18 if that qualifies me to write stupid teenage shit. That's for a contest and cigarettes is the theme

[Anonymous No.5341975]

>>5341965
that's bullshit.
that's even worse than Peter Jackson's LOTR novels.
at least the adaption by Tolkien was ok.

[Anonymous No.5342067]

>>5341965

Wow this is really good

[Anonymous No.5342416]

"Ends/means/etc"

Yeah women like muscles
Buff is hot
So drink your bull semen to get ripped
Protein!!!!!!!!!!!
But when she finds out you voluntarily drink bull semen she's not going to think you're hot
So in the end really you just drank bull semen.

[Anonymous No.5342423]

>>5342416
10/10 masterpiece

[Anonymous No.5342559]

A select few haiku for my friends at lit


Perched the bird awaits
As the innocent worm climbs;
Such is as life is

Oh, Grandiloquence!
The fool's tool to impress one;
As is irony

The lifeblood dripping
From a poem to the heart
Staining all the floor

One two three four five
Six seven eight nine ten eleven
Fuck rules stay pretty.

Oh, if looks could kill
How mirrors would be deadly
I'd be dead over again

A blanket of snow
Pure and chaste over bamboo
skeletons resting

All the little flies
Soon to die though disregard
Swarming the honey

Flexasaurus Rex
Swag ovenload melting bitches
Wiping liquid sluts

Snow covered mountains
Inhaled like a vacuum (fuck)
Ecstasy hits us

The wolves are prowling
Pack of predators hungry
Flesh an afterthought

Shit fuck bitch slut cunt
Poetry is what I want
Anything I want

This is nuts! she said
No, these are nuts! he replied
Rape in a haiku

Yolo fuck bitches
Broken rubber, clothes hangers
Yolo, fuck bitches?

Fuck Bill O'Reilly
No, this is not a poem
For real, fuck that guy

A midsummer breeze
Rustling leaves of emerald
Azure skies watch us

Vehement nothing;
The roaring of apathy
Over hearts of slate

That's all for now

[Anonymous No.5342618]

Just felt like writting this sole sentence out of nowhere, but it's not really coming out like I want it to, what do you guys think?

Hard to describe the place I grew up in, from time to time I go back and search for some hidden key to that child's world, but it's no longer there. The square, the park, all have remained largely unchanged, but the place that I had seen has vanished into the murky waters of memory. It belongs to a world that was only seen through the child's eyes. An old tree whose memory of youth remains only as a warm formless image locked inside the man's soul.

[Anonymous No.5342665]

Would anyone here be willing to take a look at some RPG writeups for me? They were well received on /tg/, and there seems to be demand for more of them. I'd like to improve my writing quality a bit if I'm going to be doing it regularly.

I love /tg/ and all, but its a lot easier to get story and character criticism there then core writing style criticism.

I won't spam and self promote if this stuff isn't welcome here, just looking for advice and input.

[Anonymous No.5342967]

>>5342665
Post something, no promises

[Anonymous No.5343007]

>>5342665
>>5342967

Here's the first one, which is D&D based. There's a few smaller ones from that campaign as well.

The more recent stuff that I'm working on improving is based off the Warhammer 40k game called Dark Heresy.

I guess I'll just post the archive links to those instead of screencaps.

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?searchall=high+mortality

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?searchall=all+guardsmen

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?searchall=Missing+Psykers

I'm really trying to get some sort of literary input here. I've been putting far more time than I ever planned into writing these, and I hate doing things poorly.

[Anonymous No.5343024]

Two steps , that's all he needed today. Just enough to get over the sill, past the doorjamb, push on the mutin, grasp the nob, twist with sweaty fist till, till the shank engaged the lock button, causing the latch to slide within its assembly, and to swing the door open just enough to allow his hand to slide into the mail box, desperately rooting for paper, panicking at the thought that it could possibly be that eviction notice Charlie Frissell had claimed to issue last week at the tenant union's meeting– it had been made in facetious company, but the way Charlie had lifted the water while he spoke. (a way that seemed to be a deliberate change of the physical tone of the preceding conversation, a deliberately dialectical method that seemed to be the equivalent of the Nazi boycott in 1936, a calculated maneuver into seriousness).
It was only two steps.
One.
Two.
The knob was in hand. The push was made. Now, the rooting: oblong rectangle, no plastic window (possible letter from mom)– oh no. The next folder was unmistakeably, inevitably always going to be, manilla.
–This is it, this is the end of me, homeless, listless, directionless beyond a gradual tilt toward bottom. I have no future, none at all.
Jonathan's arm retracted back into his hole, a spider having grasped prey too large.
–Oh Charlie, I should never have made that joke. Nazi, German. It was the blue eyes! The Blonde Complexion! Sleeping with the land lord. Penis in leathery flesh. I need to vomit, where's the toilet.... why is this black?– Jonathan's eyes stilled; the springs stopped.
It was dark, like the side of Los Angeles Class Submarine. The envelope was a hole, nothing could escape its pull. His attention, layer by layer, was being drawn to this fuligin envelope. It took all his energy to flip it over– checking for a return address. He found one, printed in an auric shade of white.
4902 West Horselover Ave
Apt 1138
His address.
All was silent. His chattering mind reduced a few ellipsis, as if searching for lost time. He glanced up, expecting his vision to be cut away to Rod Serling, or even the first few bars of the X-files opening. None came, and Jonathan Leslie Stevens felt just that– a name alone.

[Anonymous No.5343109]

There are two active. One turned into a literary welfare office.

If for no other reason than I don't want to saturate the board, I would encourage everyone to reroute to >>5343033

I am offering critiques there to anyone who meets my requirements listed in the OP. As well, I believe the rules states in the OP will encourage a more productive thread

[Anonymous No.5343131]

Last night, I dreamed that I meet I.B. Singer.

With pastel colored chalk we drew pictures of the sky; sunset reds and fleshy pinks, hues of violet and gold, colors of a neon-healing bruise concealed by puffs of delicate white cotton, like mountain peaks constructing a Heavenly stairwell to outer space. And when we finished the drawing, he silently took my hand and brought me to a tavern or public house that sat underground; another anonymous basement in the big city. I sat surrounded by family at a holiday feast, where games were played while the women gossiped and the men drank beer while everyone stuffed themselves with food. A little girl with coal black hair sat in my lap and I dotted on her as though she were my own child. I can still feel the nap of wool from her red plaid pea-coat grind against my skin as she fussed at the table; with each movement, my face was greeted by the itch of her collar, I hugged her like any loving mother would. Finally, the feast had finished and I watched the old man slump in his overstuffed leather armchair, eyelids dropping like the comatose under a morphine drip. It's funny how you know when someone is about to depart this world. I excused my self for a breath of fresh air and at the front door sat a baby in a carrier, facing toward the outside world though about to leave.

And that's how I knew that Singer had died.

[Anonymous No.5343136]

Night in July – dreamscape, no. 3

Last night, I dreamt that you asked me to lie in the wheat field,
Alone beneath the mountains, valleys, clouds and sky;
Under the all-seeing eye of God, Himself.
And you asked me to watch the stars,
To witness the knitting of string theory into mathematical scarves
And the beading of constellations into collars and necklaces;
All while the arms of far-off galaxies turn,
Rotating like the golden hands
Of an old, Grandfather clock.

[Anonymous No.5343143]

Midnight Insurgence

Kiev burns at midnight
With shouting and pops of gunfire
Like champagne bottles exploding on New Years
But instead of corks and alcohol
One finds tampons and gasoline
I wonder if they ever sleep
Lay down their arms and rest
Albeit their beds are made of damped cardboard
And asphalt contorts their tired spines
I wonder if they holler ‘cross the boulevard
If they say, “Let’s wait till morning”
And like Christmas 1914
They lay together,
The lion and the lamb.

[Anonymous No.5343917]

>>5339885
as I lay in my hospital bed
trying to think of something profound,
all that comes to my head
is white noise and empty sound

>1st paragraph so far

[Anonymous No.5343952]

Mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of men.

[Anonymous No.5343955]

>>5343917
Short, sweet and easy to eat; a werther's original.

What is this kind of narrative style called? It's like YA, right?

'Another night killing time', Lucy thought to herself as she scrolled through friends' facebook posts. She got up from her computer chair and walked over to her mirror. She looked herself up and down. She pulled her shirt up and stared at her stomach, turning side to side to get a different perspective. Lucy sighed and made her way back to the chair. Checking her facebook messages, she sighed again and checked the time. As she contemplated her next move, she heard a faint whisper coming from behind her open door; 'Lucy, come here for a second'. Lucy left her chair and walked hurriedly into the corridor. Nothing was there except the flickering of a television from a room at the end of it. She made her way into the living room and opened with a 'Yeah?'. 'What?', her father asked, quick to return to his late-night news. 'I heard mum calling'. 'Your mum hasn't come back from Barney's, she should be back after 11'. Lucy was somewhat confused, but more disappointed at the possibility of a break in her evening routine which she now headed back to. Time passed and Lucy felt a tingle down her spine as she heard the whisper again, this time she saw the eye and grimmace of a pale old lady reflecting off of her mirror.