New Critique Thread.

[Anonymous No.5726540]

You know the drill.

[Anonymous No.5726545]

If racists could see
the inside of me,
they'd pull the trigger
calling me "nigger."

[Anonymous No.5726547]

Swag is a way of life, it ain't no fuckin' game. When I walk into a room with my OBEY cap sideways I expect all the hoes to immediately drop to their knees and slurp up my seed. OBEY.

[Anonymous No.5726550]

The sounds come out, out of the woodwork,
they come (and come) and we sit silently
unknowing: the sounds, their origins, their nature,
hearing all the same, ears to the cracks, hearing
the noises. They rise up and down, fall, befall at night–
rising and falling, receding and surging, up and down,
rising: sun and moon, tides and time, din and air,
breath and–We, we keep listening for the sounds
looking to see if they'll stop (but they don't) they persist
So we wait, wondering what, who, where, how, and
(doing nothing but listening in silence to the noise)
why–the crashes, the screams, the screeching scrapes, the clashes!
Hollers, howls, horrendous hums, terrific thunder, a bang!
And then suddenly!
Nothing,
silence.
We sit silently, listening, hearing nothing, waiting, hoping
for–nothing, silence. Yet, we wait for something, a noise, a–
There! There! A hint of something!
No, nothing,
no more sounds but a noiseless nothing–a void–
Where did they all go? The sounds, why leave us
with: this silence, this mystery, this nothing, why–
We wait, listing our wonders, still listening, waiting yet
nothing persists, unknowably, unquestionably, inconceivably
nothing persists and persists and then we hear a–no,
nothing. We hear nothing. We hear a
nothing. We hear a silent
nothing. We hear
nothing.

[Anonymous No.5726563]

>>5726550
nothing.
nothing of value.
nothing.

[Anonymous No.5726564]

>>5726547

>#SWAQ

The Sea Isn't Opaque Inside a Submarine

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

[Anonymous No.5726577]

>>5726563

Well finalized critiques without any explanation are without value. So unless you tell me why you think my poem is no more than wispy air, I have to disregard your judgement. My ears are open, lemme have it.

[Anonymous No.5726632]

>>5726540
>I'm monitoring this thread

[Anonymous No.5726650]

>>5726564
I like it.

[Anonymous No.5726783]

>>5726545
This is so beautiful, it clearly represents society as a whole, promoting marxist ideals and telling the world: "Dolphins are people too."

Wonderful, simply wonderful. I take it you're black? I'm offering a $200,000.00 scholarship to young urban youth poets. I would be ecstatic to give you this opportunity, young Tyrone.

You will be famous!

[Anonymous No.5726864]

Maudlin no more, Ms. Merrirose set aside her habitual venery, her rosés, and her incarnadine wines that had begun to stain and sag her youthless under-eyes, then rose to common decency with the equipoise of an annuated lush. I thought it a waste that so vain a vixen would deign to turn her luscious tail to a modest, thigh-binding skirt. Gone, my meretricious whore! was my internal lament tuned to the percussion of French silverware against china.

She sat across the table from me, every bit of her face as naked as her expression was amateurly masked. Her features were intolerable in plainness without the accent of rouge or the art veiling her sallow eyelids, and a worse injustice to her once debonair beauty was the lie of her smile. She was grinning the ribbon of wet teeth that I had had her wrap around me to quiet her voluble melancholy as we sheltered from the rain some Godless Sunday. The Ms. Merrirose I knew had been a morose creature whose lust for life made her long achingly for death.

Her father, a tall but untenably hairless man curiously blind for his wealth and intellect, did not seem to perceive her act as anything other than a remarkable and miraculous transformation that was nevertheless all that could be expected from the dewy-eyed, educated child-woman. From the head of the table, he was proudly taking his guests by the eyes and ferrying them over with forceful looks at the mead-haired mademoiselle. Yes, this is how a girl still in the throes of adolescence should look and behave—sex, drugs, and the debauchery of desirability had no place in her or her (female) coevals.

Why, you need only look at her fatter and even plainer sister to know that she would never tarnish her vermeil purity with the naughtiness Ms. Merrirose the Younger (my cynical Julianne) nightly had engaged in. Such sister was seated next to me, her hand in mine. Under her nearly transparent eyelashes she was adoringly consuming the hair and the flesh of my profile with greed and gluttony, but certainly no sin as wicked as lust, she had responsibly informed me through all of our courtship. I caught the Younger’s eye and discretely pinched the Elder’s (my sweet Stacy’s) thigh with my unfettered fingers and she glowered redly with a lip-deep smile of pleasure. I winked at the girl Julianne across the table, but she sat a doll, tight mouth stitched to bear the pinks of her gums.

The only handsome woman of the room was the mother, Rosemary Merrirose, who seemed to have married to claim her husband’s name, for he was far less impressive than she. She was immersed in shallow, horizontal conversation with men and wives who are not worth describing (I believe they were wealthy pets of Mr. Merrirose, effeminate yet successful business executive), her elegant and subtly expressive fingers captivating all without touching one. And readers, I was captivated by this enchanting matriarch. I was enamored of, lustful for, and in love with Stacy’s mom.

[Anonymous No.5726879]

>>5726564
Title=good
format=disjointed, to its detriment

[Anonymous No.5726898]

He spoke with a drawl, the American inflections, well concealed after many years in the country still left a clear but difficult to place accent.
“I was in the neighborhood.” Grim replied and seated himself in one of the sofas. “How's business?”
Jones laughed. “As you'd expect. The trick is to cast a wide net, you know.”

Oh, Grim knew. There wasn't a single transaction that took place within twenty blocks of the pub, whether it was drugs, contraband, prostitution or information of which Jones didn't take a percentage. It was disgusting, of course, but Jones was a valuable source and Grim couldn't afford to let his loathing show and let his personal opinions get in the way. One needed to focus on the big picture, as it were, to angle the bigger fish you had to let the fry go.

The agreement between Mordecai Jones and the police department didn't exist in official records; there were no stamped and approved deals on immunity. But all the coppers in the five zones knew that Jones was untouchable, and so far no one had ever challenged the pattern. With the information leaked by Jones, more cells had been filled, more corrupt officials and politicians deposed and more laundered credits seized than the Department of Integrity and Vice could have managed in five years alone. And in the periphery stood Grim Brandt, taking notes, like a rat feeding on the crumbs form a table high above. It was a good deal, Grim thought. Objectively speaking. Though it did nothing to wash the taste out of his mouth. He told himself it was simply the price of effective journalism, knee deep in shit so you could describe the smell with perfect honesty once you put it up on the screen.

It paid the bills, the crumbs from Jone’s table. It was bloody depressing, the thought, that year after year of digging had led to little more than a collection of oily snippets for the gossip feeds. ‘Department of Sanitation fourth undersecretary in drug den bust - You tax credits funding jetronik’. There were no shortage of ractions. The feed would soon overflow with comments advising him to ‘Get a real job’ from people who’s educational resumé frequently included ‘The School of Hard Knocks’. Others were bent on misstaking his rent paying grind of whoring himself out for collumns for a rigtheous struggle against a draconinan state.

Three things cannot be hidden for long: the sun, the moon and the truth. Who had said that? Buddah? Yeah, we he was pretty sure it had been Buddha. He wasn’t a religious man. He didn’t believe in the rebirth, the ressurrection or the prophet. But Siddartha had a point. If he believed in one thing, it was that eventually truth, indeed, would out. Despite their best efforts, eventually someone would brush it out of the dirty sediments or pluck it from the closet like a moth eaten coat. So he’d sit there, and he would listen to the yank drone on about the girl down Copper Tin and her many talents.

[Anonymous No.5726902]

>>5726898

Excerpt, I'll post the rest if anyone's interested.

[Anonymous No.5726928]

I posted it once before. It's a translation, not the original actually, just want to know how does it hold up in English?

Good night Marcus put out the light
and shut the book For overhead
is raised a gold alarm of stars
heaven is talking some foreign tongue
this the barbarian cry of fear
your Latin cannot understand
Terror continuous dark terror
against the fragile human land

begins to beat It's winning Hear
its roar The unrelenting stream
of elements will drown your prose
until the world's four walls go down
As for us? – to tremble in the air
blow in the ashes stir the ether
gnaw our fingers seek vain words
drag off the fallen shades behind us

Well Marcus better hang up your peace
give me your hand across the dark
Let it tremble when the blind world beats
on senses five like a failing lyre
Traitors – universe and astronomy
reckoning of stars wisdom of grass
and your greatness too immense
and Marcus... my... defenseless tears

[Anonymous No.5726950]

Shadows grow from city spires like fungus over a dead tree. Fog consumes the coast and the lights of cars shine ethereal from within. Streets slowly grow silent to all but the clacking of trains overhead. The smoke and clouds of the industrial towers fades to black. Neon signs glow faintly from the windows of bars, where men nurse acrid beers trying to forget time– years in sips, lives in glasses. Some do not have that luxury: nightwatchmen lurk the halls of offices and museums.
James Kiarostami was one of them. He haunted the city's labyrinthine art museum, ambling aimlessly between rooms, eyes glazed over, unprepared for the Thomas Crowns and Catwomen never to come.
His flashlight wandered bouncing off the pristine white walls of the grand hall. The ceilings were vaulted, and reached up beyond the limits of his light. Footfalls smacked against marble as he walked to the lonely island of light that was the front desk.
Until he heard a second set of footsteps, in harmony to his own. In the distance, a light flicked on in the marmoreal darkness. A single lamp directed at a monolithic painting at least three meters tall. A man stood in front of it.

[Anonymous No.5727037]

>>5726864
[Possible continuation]

Every minute detail I had learned through hours of studying her from each angle that providence awarded me. Rosemary was a deviant when seen from below and to the right, where her scar would be hidden behind her jaw and her eyes would seem to glow a halcyon gold and she would look tantalizingly youthful and deliberately alluring—my hands had sweated at the thought of her stepping nearer to me as I picked up the whatever-it-was I’d dropped next to her some months ago. She was a mother from the top of the stairs, where the tiny bits of years clung to her head and the motion of her neck craning in any direction was graceful, and where the lavender slopes from her nose to the far corners of her eyes confessed the poor woman’s sleepless nights. For now, seen occupying the other head of the table and nearly eye-to-eye (my love was nearly my height exactly, lips precisely right to scoop into), she was a slut.

Whore. Harlot. Tramp. Vampire of men, that wicked blood-kissed Rosemary, and in her housebred innocence she may not even have known it! They were all fawning over her (the business pets), their heads turned unabashedly to bear their loathsome faces at her without offering her a repose from the fruits of femininity that exhausted Rosemary so; to them, she was a reproduction of reproductive fantasy. Their heads bobbed in that conversational way of listening as they slicked their tongues against bits of food, longing for a meal they could satisfy. I sipped my drink and, with it, choked my attention. I offered a brave grimace to my sexless lover.

“Are you not well?” asked my Stacy.

I smiled. “It’s only my head.” I thanked her for her dutiful concern, and she insisted that I go lie down. She’s always been a good girl, always had a keen awareness of what I needed from her at a given moment. My departure was noticed only by Mr. Merrirose and his two daughters, who had long since lost interest in the endless intercourse the lady Rosemary was leading, unable to appreciate the style and flare of the woman they saw too often.

[Anonymous No.5727146]

>>5726540
http://pastebin.com/q8EPDH64

full story, about 4 pages at 12 point

[Anonymous No.5727386]

I posted the first two parts yesterday, but here's the third part of my ongoing writing. It's about 4 pages long. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bTaTJh2ovatKSkMQcx8NLJHk888AtLK4oaunU1me3z8/edit?usp=sharing

Also, this is a poem my gf wrote, if anyone wants to critique.

Under the sodden elm tree
The wind is enough
To push a liquid thought
Through an old and open face.
Under the sodden elm tree
If time doesn't substantiate
A beginning
The flowers still bloom,
It is only you
Who is confused

[Anonymous No.5727413]

My girlfriend belched and patted her fat belly. "Oof, no more."

"But there's still half the plate left," said I, and shoved the pasta platter closer.

"But I'm so full," she groaned. She noticed the intensity with which I stared at her, particularly as she spoke those words. She hid a playful smirk and wallowed where she sat, maximizing the considerable spread of her large arse. "Look at me, I'm already so fat. Do you know how much weight I've put on just in the last month? I've gone up a pants size, and these are snug."

"You might as well outgrow them, then," I said, and scooted her plate that much closer.

I saw her eyes engage in awful struggle. She of course knew where this would lead: to folded rolls and waddling walks and difficulty standing up. But my dear girl was greedy, as certain women get. Certain people as a whole, in fact: indulge them in their appetites enough and you untether them from modesty's strong dock, setting them adrift in seas of unceasing indulgence.

My girlfriend smiled, showing off her double chin. "I might as well outgrow them," she admitted, reaching for her plate.

[Anonymous No.5727849]

I think it's because I was raised on irony, satire and subversion that, in my youth, I harboured so firm a conviction that the rules of the game could be changed. At least, that may be why *I* felt this so certainly, even if others weaned on the same fare didn't. Everything around me in that time, everything that looked as though it was telling me how the world was, seemed to promise a coming revolution. I saw a hundred syphilitic, dipsomaniac spoofs of James Bond held up for our ridicule before it truly registered with me that the original existed. I saw no casually charming ladies' man before I'd seen a thousand desperate losers try and fail to be one for our amusement, and I assumed the lesson, as I saw it, was as clear to everyone as it was to me: The days of the fortunate ones were numbered.

The world, as shown to me by this parodic milieu, was divided into the ambitious and the humble. The humble were - well, simply that. The ambitious were those who sought power, glory, esteem. Whether they obtained it or not mattered only insofar as it informed the nature of their ridicule. The Ladies' Man - he might be poor and simply ridiculous. He might be rich and obscenely disgusting. In any case, he was loathsome to women, never knew it until it was too late, and always forgot straight after. The Snob - he, or often as not, she, would be the product of the finest education and yet thick as your boot. The Popular Guys and Girls were always monstrously cruel and, even if their ultimate fate happened not to befall them before the credits, there could be no doubt they had it coming. The dictatorship of the humble ones would soon be upon us - weren't we all watching this? All laughing, booing, hissing, cheering at the *same thing*?

Then surely we had only to wait.

...

[Anonymous No.5727853]

>>5727849

Come the day, and it would be soon, the day we could no longer doubt we had the strength, the numbers and the force of will, we would take over things. We would throw a glass of wine in the face of *all* the Ladies' Men, we would push *all* the Snobs into a muddy ditch and no-one would ever want to talk to anyone Popular again. We would all be humble together. No-one would back a horrified woman into a corner, leering at her, oblivious to her disgust in a way as amusing as it was morally repugnant. No-one would play Pygmalion, there no longer being any high society into which an Eliza could be introduced. And no-one would ever be shunned or ostracised - unless, of course, they began to show signs of ambition.

There was no one moment where I realised it was all a delusion, just a steady fading away and its replacement with an indifferent certainty: that we would not club together and do things differently. There would be no remoulding of the shape of things, no strike against the tyranny of the fortunate ones. No, we would do things just the same, just as they did, and, should one of us be offered a chance at life behind that velvet rope, there'd be no twist-ending refusal, no proudly defiant harangue, no "I'm Spartacus" - just a wordless ducking-under, up, in and away, a grateful vanishing into the luminescence of their grandeur.

[Anonymous No.5727859]

>>5727386
Substantiate is an awful word.

[Anonymous No.5727864]

She sucked my penis and then I sucked her penis and then we sucked each other's penises. She licked my ass and then I licked her ass an we tried licking each other's asses but we couldn't figure out how.

But then, something magic happened. She finally sucked my dick. Truly.

[Anonymous No.5727869]

>>5727413

quality horror writing

[Anonymous No.5727899]

The barbarians known today as the Unconquered are what remains of the conqueror's great armies.

Looking across the Wandering Lands, the Conqueror finally knew what the blind sage had meant to see nothing. He saw nothing. He knew nothing. And he Feared nothing. There was nothing in these lands, no kings and no gods. He had truly reached the end of his journey. Nothing lasts forever.

[Anonymous No.5727904]

>>5727413
porn lol

[pigfuck, niggerbane, kikekille(...) No.5727925]

>>5727899

[Anonymous No.5727933]

is it not moral,
to murder my neice
is it not right
to kill in her sleep
eternal peace and slumber
suffering, crying ceased
my only regret
having not killed her younger
tantrums and tears needs wants
and fears in the night dawn brings light but it burns playtime is over I'm bored everything spurned
love isn't peaceful violence hell it's murder
but it's the right thing to do when she's loved like a daughter

[Anonymous No.5727969]

Arm in arm
We wipe our faces
Arm in arm
The sunlight traces
Tracks of jam
That line our teeth
Line our lips
In disbelief
Our mummy laughs
At what she raised.
Is it scorn or is it praise?

The prickles are in
Under our skin,
Must she have set a boundary to begin?
Down at the river the plants are thick
Glass and cans and prickles stick
In soles of our feet,
Our souls of the street.

She cannot save us when he walks in.
Nothing gets under the skin.
He walks across to close the curtain.

Arm in arm the weather chases
Our severed limbs
In mismatched cases.

[Anonymous No.5727981]

>>5726864
Gimmicky use of alliteration.
>>5726898
Casual tone doesn't really work with the 3rd person narrator. All that "Oh," and "Yeah," and so on, it's fluff. If your narrator were anybody but a disembodied voice it would add some color to their character. As is it just seems forced.
>>5726950
First paragraph is useless, cut it.
>>5727037
More gimmicky bullshit.
>>5727146
Read the first sentence, laughed, and stopped reading.
>>5727853
>>>/r9k/
>>5727899
Truly appalling.

[Anonymous No.5727986]

>>5727981
>/r9k/

I guess it went over your head. That's OK, people miss subtleties when they're anticipating how fun it will be to be dismissive.

[Anonymous No.5727994]

>>5727981
What part was Appalling? I'm trying to structure these ideas out.

[Anonymous No.5728111]

>>5727981

>As is it just seems forced.

Yeah,, I agree. These passages are the only ones that have it, I was trying it out. I'll rewrite it, thanks for the feedback.

General impressions though? Ok? Complete shit?

[Anonymous No.5728133]

>>5726540

one that's up on my blog

My Winchester had jammed, and I’d begun to urinate myself a little.

“You unholy fool!” he said. This profane bastard was my target. I had been sent to kill him, and I had failed at my task.

He pointed his revolver at my heart. “You goddamn idiot. Thinking I was asleep here on my horse.”

“Don’t you go putting God into this.” I said. “This ain’t about him.”

“The hell it ain’t!” he shouted. “Why do you think these events have transpired as such? You sneakin’ up on me asleep. Your gun gumming up like that. This is some divine intervention, you dim motherfucker.”

“It’s poor circumstance. Nothing else in it.”

“For you, maybe,” he said. “But for me it’s affirmation. It affirms that everything I believe to be good and holy in this world is correct and true. It means I am right in my life and secure with my Lord. It means God has abandoned you.”

His logic was unsound. “I’ve given God no offense.” I said. “And it might do you well to shut your mouth with that talk. You ain’t no preaching type, far as I can tell.”

“That’s rich!” he said. “How many years you got on that stinking creased face of yours, old man?”

I looked down at my boots. He had caught me in my shame. “Fifty-seven.” I said.

“Fifty-seven!” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “For fifty-seven years our God has been delivering you through all of space and time to this, right here. This culmination. And your life, you sick old fool, you incompetent assassin, is what God has intended that I conclude.”

His Colt cracked off a round, but its pins were poorly machined and it exploded in his hand.

“Goddamn false Chinese armament! Goddamn quality control!” He leapt off his saddle and cradled his mangled hand like a man’s first dead child.

I took up my Winchester and delivered it straight through his chest. The barrel went right through his body and into the belly of his horse. The horse did not deserve it.

I dislodged my weapon and riffled through his pockets to take my tariff, and as I watched him die, a shuddering thought ran through me. This sprightly little shit might still have been right, only he had the timing all wrong.

I spat on the ground and mounted my steed, Tell Me About It, who whinnied with friendly approval. I gathered up the reins and pointed us once more toward some grim dimming redness in the west.

[Anonymous No.5728142]

Critique muh attempt at BEE'ing it up pls
Wakeup.Nosefeelsclogged,headhurts.Fuckingheadhurtsagain.Itdoesallthetimelately.Checkmyphone.It'spastten.Fivehourssleep.That'sokay.No newmessages,thankGod.Igotothebathroom,lookintothemirror.Ilookokay.Tiredeyes.Tousledhair.Gothroughitwithmyfingers,washmyface.Blowmynoseintothesink.It'sbleedingagain.Ifeelvaguelyworriedaboutit.Touchmynose,feelmyseptum.Feelssolid.Ilaughforsomereason,thoughIfeellikeshit. Gointotheshowertowashoffthefilth,allofit.Waterisstillcold.Atleastitkillsmytiredness.Thinkaboutagirl.ShelookslikeJennythoughJennyprobablylooksdifferentnow.Headstillhurts. Ileavetheshower,towelmyselfoff.Wonderwhattowear.Doesitmatter?Isuddenlyfeelfrustrated,don'tknowwhy.Chooseananthracitesuitwithablackshirt,greysuspendersandaviolettie.Windsorknottoday.Ineedsome80'sshirts,whitecollaranddifferentcolourfortherestofit.Mightgotothetailortoday. Tiethetieonmywaytothenextroom.Lookforpills.Can'tfindany.Iturnonthemusictodistractmyself.HueyLewis.DidIlistentothatyesterdaynight?Don'tremember.Toomuchwhisky,notenoughcharlie. Mynoseisitching.NotsureifI'moverdoingit.Andmyheadstillhurts.Searchharderforpills.Findsome,finally.Taketwo,swallowthemdry.Iclosemyeyes andwaitforthemtoshowanyresemblanceofeffect.Nothing.

[Anonymous No.5728145]

Trying again.
Wakeup.Nosefeelsclogged,headhurts.Fuckingheadhurtsagain.Itdoesallthetimelately.Checkmyphone.It'spastten.Fivehourssleep.That'sokay.No newmessages,thankGod.Igotothebathroom,lookintothemirror.Ilookokay.Tiredeyes.Tousledhair.Gothroughitwithmyfingers,washmyface.Blowmynoseintothesink.It'sbleedingagain.Ifeelvaguelyworriedaboutit.Touchmynose,feelmyseptum.Feelssolid.Ilaughforsomereason,thoughIfeellikeshit. Gointotheshowertowashoffthefilth,allofit.Waterisstillcold.Atleastitkillsmytiredness.Thinkaboutagirl.ShelookslikeJennythoughJennyprobablylooksdifferentnow.Headstillhurts. Ileavetheshower,towelmyselfoff.Wonderwhattowear.Doesitmatter?Isuddenlyfeelfrustrated,don'tknowwhy.Chooseananthracitesuitwithablackshirt,greysuspendersandaviolettie.Windsorknottoday.Ineedsome80'sshirts,whitecollaranddifferentcolourfortherestofit.Mightgotothetailortoday. Tiethetieonmywaytothenextroom.Lookforpills.Can'tfindany.Iturnonthemusictodistractmyself.HueyLewis.DidIlistentothatyesterdaynight?Don'tremember.Toomuchwhisky,notenoughcharlie. Mynoseisitching.NotsureifI'moverdoingit.Andmyheadstillhurts.Searchharderforpills.Findsome,finally.Taketwo,swallowthemdry.Iclosemyeyes andwaitforthemtoshowanyresemblanceofeffect.Nothing.

[Anonymous No.5728146]

>>5726632
underrated post

[Anonymous No.5728148]

A little portrayal of a paradisiacal life could be seen through the loop in the noose in front of him., The noose hung outside the transom of The dolly shop on Sailmaker Street, depending from a short-cut top spar-end long since retired from service by woodworm and weather, and lately called upon to half-pay shore duty by one Bail Raskin, Esq., Prop. in Res., informally liscensed pawnborker and dealer in ship's stores.
Said noose was normally the fixed and frequent residence of Jarky, a sailcloth and tar tatterdemalion, liberally greased and lampblacked and with two mismatched and lopsided button eyes and a the red felt grin of a demon from hell, which, in fact, he was.
The paradise glimpsed was little more than a skyline of warehouse roofridge and chimney pots, with a grey moon scudding through the Thames fog behind it. But this was paradise enow and amen to Domdaniel. He had been a sweep for three years of his short life until cold and tuberculosis, with the able assitance of starvation, had ushered him out of the workaday world and into the service and employ of Master Raskin, Esq., who, while a most able and straightforward man of business, was also perhaps the blackest and most capable practitioner of the Dark Arts that London in the year 1889 Anno Domine could boast.

[Anonymous No.5728150]

>>5728146

you deleted all that embarrassing shitty typing you just posted. i appreciate your self-awareness in removing it but don't think i didn't catch you.

[Anonymous No.5728151]

How strange it is

the secret inner life

that we all keep hidden

inside.

Inside a body we've

gradually come to find

somehow natural.

But there are the mild forays

into the blowy void of

darkness, into the center of

a dim room in our heads.

Hands folded over, we are simply

listening to the shuffling feet

shuffling to a steady beat

and we open our eyes

a few minutes later

into a brightly-lit world

with the actors rushing

noisily, in careless animated scenes

like in a strange relay-race.

The words leave our mouth:

do I belong?

[Anonymous No.5728162]

>>5728150
what are you talking about?

[Anonymous No.5728176]

>>5728150
In case you're talking about me, I deleted it because for some reason all the spaces and breaks were missing.

[Anonymous No.5728219]

The hyena had a bottle in his paw.

“Oi, mate,” he shouted, showing slick, sharp teeth.

There was a German Shepherd further up the sidestreet in the new navy blue uniforms that had been provided for the G20. “Yeah?”

The hyena grinned. “Arrested any diss-ee-dents yet?”

The Shepherd scowled.

“Would ya-” the hyena began, then snickered. “Would ya like to?” There was a Doberman and a bearded vulture on the hyena’s left, and they laughed - guttural barks and cawing that echoed off the close concrete walls. The hyena slicked back the loose mohawk on his head.

“This’s a declared area,” the Shephard barked, tightening his grip on his baton. His riot shield was propped up against the wall, and he inched closer to it. “No entry.”

The hyena glanced at his compatriots and then grinned again and took a step forward. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. How about you go protest out on George Street like everyone else?”

“How’s about instead you- hey, fuck off,” the hyena shouted. The Shepherd was muttering into his radio, which he had grabbed off his webbing. The hyena pegged the bottle. The Shepherd flinched away as it sailed past and barked urgently into the radio, tensing.

“Fucking cops,” the hyena spat. “Yeah, call your fucking friends.” The Doberman frowned.

The Shepherd never broke visual with the three animals at the end of his sidestreet, unholstering his tazer with his free hand. “Clear off,” he shouted, jamming his radio back into his webbing. He had his baton in a loose grip and had both hands on his tazer now. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Or fucking what,” the hyena shouted, making to step forward. The Doberman put a big paw on the hyena’s shoulder, restraining him.

“Come on, mate,” the Doberman growled.

The Shepherd glanced at the Doberman momentarily, but put his eyes back on the hyena. “You should listen to your friend.”

The hyena spat. “Yeah, fine.” He shrugged off the Doberman’s paw. “Let’s go.”

>just something i wrote. i don't know why they're animals

[Anonymous No.5728226]

>>5727981
>Read the first sentence, laughed, then stopped reading

why did you do that

[Anonymous No.5728278]

>>5728148
are you trolling? or are you actually that autist who posted that fucking picture before?

[Anonymous No.5728424]

The Mountain Radio [1/2]

Start of transmissions, transmissions beginning, the beginning of transmissions.
News borrowed from the weather, snow-loaded clouds. Signals start swinging,
followed by gusts of wind that slam the antennas on the corrugated steel roof.
Our listeners' radios are already turned on, illuminating the shady living rooms,
giving shape to frames on shelves, with they indistinguishable paintings. Despite
the scratchy sound, someone has to listen us. They will.
The cliffs that divide us from you, or loved ones, will not prevent you to hear
us. We put on some music, choosed carefully, in the hope that everyone, but especially
the youngsters, is satisfied. there's a particular order, even though the disks they
choose theirselves. We can warm up our voice without producing noise. Wait a little longer.
Snow sticks to our window glasses twice as thick than yours. It covers us as if we were
one of his nocturnal laments, exasperated by the idea that it could wake up.
the temperature of our facility is unreal, snow's sweating during its sleep.
it's too hot; our lukewarm reality, which wraps its bare feet between the sheets
it could lose it. our wintery god can be temperamental at times.
.........................................................................................
.........................................................................................
................A child still has to turn on his radio...................................
.........................................................................................
We could record our voices and play them indefinitely, perhaps we are already doing it.
No. You could hear the tape runs. There's no deception. Don't listen to us anymore,
wait forever. We are procastinating. (you may wonder why do we speaking in plural.
Too boring you say? You're right, we are not the TV).
Jets flying over the Mountain Radio, or Wired Mountain, or simply over the mountain
since the mountain was there way before the radio. They cross the speed of sound, The
Mach 1, entering the supersonic regime. At the exact moment of penetration of the sound
barrier, the Jet is in the transonic regime, since the point of maximum speed is outside
of the mass. The result is a sudden cloud that disappears immediately. The sonic booms are
3 and they're broadcasted live since our microphones work great. Loud noises are quite similar
from a distance, and you can get confused. Maybe they weren't aircrafts.
The idea of the radio is to talk without being interrupted. There's no phone, no green lines,
a space for calls, nothing. Arguing is harsh. If you're not satisfied, just turn it off.
Talks are being built day by day, but it's sometimes difficult to remember yesterday's topics.
They are stoked in piles similar to a disturbance, such as AM frequencies that let express
spirits talking through oriental quarter tones, evil sitars that badly melt with whistles and
pillow cryings.

[Anonymous No.5728429]

>>5728424
[2/2]

Words are slow and still not coming: someone has placed the microphone near the window, curious
to know the effect on our listeners, but he will never know since we don't have a phone.
Tempers swing on the same tones of sleepy impatience.

"why do we have an editing office if no one writes anything?!?"
(this comment was fortunately not heard).

No one write because nothing has even been written, they're all focused on something else,
they watch their hands, pour water from bottles to the jug, from the jug to the glasses,
and from the glasses back to the jug: it seems that anyone ever drinks this water: the color,
or the lack of it, looks faded from the friction.
A disc gets rid of tension and comes forward, requested from the other side of the antennas.
The repeaters catched this wish casually.

"In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk to you
In dreams you're mine all of the time
We're together in dreams,
in dreams "

Not just the religious love of the requester unravels in a dreamlike dimension; the entire
station, with a burst of imagination, spiralizes in a dream. Fireflies describe circuits with
their own light inside the station's eyelids, exactly like human ones but made of steel.
A profusion of blankes comes down from the top of the mountain, with small earthenwares
star-spangled with coldness.

[Anonymous No.5728431]

thrust your head into the flower
bundle of grains
asleep in an empty bath
horseshoe shaped drain

like an insect on your back
a little bundle of poems
breaks open like a lock
its hard to imagine
anything more astonishing
a sweet nectar, a comet
a long spur

this is the predictor
under night vision camera
exactly the same length
as the distance from where you are
to here

Start at the top
and work your way to the bottom
picked the scab off my arm
and saw the man of tomorrow
pink and premature

[Anonymous No.5728449]

The latest installment in the grand epic The Vampire Trilogy Chronicles.

Rhyce the vampire has reached the stronghold of his brother Flashbird (also a vampire), and runs afoul of Flashbird's henchmen.

Will Rhyce make it inside and finally face his brother for killing his gf in front of his eyes?

Let's watch...

[Anonymous No.5728490]

Can anyone give me some information about the painting in OP's post. I know it is by Raphael but I can't seem to find anything about it in English.

[Anonymous No.5728537]

>>5726540
This turns me on

[Anonymous No.5728548]

The camera nodded.

She counted the things he was on her fingers. ‘A liar, a cheat, a manipulator, a… a…’

‘A dick,’ the voice behind the camera offered.

‘A dick!’ Her hand slammed onto the table as she said it, her voice furious but restrained, like the growl of a muzzled dog. The hand lay there for a moment. Then it rose and brushed at the polish, slowly, brush, brush, brush, as though there was dust there that could be rid of and prevented to return, so long as it kept at it.

Then the hand resigned to its partner in a neat interlock on her lap. All that belied them were her eyes, still fixated on where she’d swept. They seemed to search for something the camera could not; some sealed and hidden dust that her gaze might penetrate and resurface to be brushed away too. But the surface, for the moment, stayed clean.

In time, her eyes resigned too, and returned to the lens — like her smile, suddenly, when she saw and remembered it. ‘Oh, I’m over him though, of course.’

>and prevented to return

Does that make grammatical sense

[Anonymous No.5728652]

>>5728548

> prevented from returning

As opposed to 'prevented to return'

[Anonymous No.5728739]

>>5728652

THX

[Anonymous No.5728813]

http://vocaroo.com/i/s16JpxqSI8Sh

[Anonymous No.5729418]

http://pastebin.com/gAgwKFuf

Hey, check it out.

[Anonymous No.5729466]

>>5729418
read it.
i am not very good so don't take my critisism seriously.
you use drop off twice.
the hair loss doesn't have an emotional impact.
we don't get a human reaction from the protag.
again don't think too much of this since i don't review stuff often and sorry for my stiff english.

[Anonymous No.5729502]

>>5728813
A reply in the key of Gay:
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0kM9mif6jM5

[Anonymous No.5729527]

>>5729502

I listened to the whole thing. Thanks for the background music

[Anonymous No.5729532]

>>5729466
All criticism is welcome. Thanks for reading it.

[Anonymous No.5729543]

>>5727981
>First paragraph is useless
tfw when most positive critique

[Anonymous No.5729645]

>>5728813
>>5729502
A reply in the key of Fedora:
http://vocaroo.com/i/s03B8m6SQrhg

[Anonymous No.5730492]

>>5728449
First the robot and now henchmen, Flashbird always getting others to do his dirty work.

[Anonymous No.5730787]

Just poetry or are other mediums allowed as well?

[Anonymous No.5730835]

>>5730787

Several people have posted prose ITT, so go for it.

[Anonymous No.5730841]

What does 'popping [someone's] cap' mean when it's the subject of rhapsody in a hip-hop song? It might be 'poppin' caps' actually. Are these two different things?

[Anonymous No.5730846]

>>5730841
Shooting a gun at someone

[wolfe !!0H7lwQ+D+jI No.5730847]

>>5730841
It means to fire a bullet/shoot someone.

[Anonymous No.5730852]

>>5730841

The correct answer would be "to shoot a bitch right in the face".

[Anonymous No.5730863]

http://vocaroo.com/i/s167ZxYmasQw

[Anonymous No.5730876]

>>5727933
benatar pls go

[Anonymous No.5730904]

>>5728151

[Anonymous No.5730922]

>>5730841
a cap is like the top of the bullet, the actual bit that flies out, the rest uses science to explode or 'pop' that cap

for example, get a 1.5 liter bottle and add baking soda and vinegar then quickly screw the cap on real tight

eventaully it will explode and the cap will fly off

[Anonymous No.5730926]

>>5730846
>>5730847
>>5730852

Yeah, that was what I was thinking. Thanks guys, I was worried my hilarious satire wouldn't be as hilarious if I accidentally misinterpreted the terminology I was making fun of.

[Anonymous No.5730933]

>>5730922

That is brilliant. You might have actually given me a line's worth of material there with the 1.5 liter bottle and add baking soda comment. We're talking about a carbonated drink I assume?

[Anonymous No.5730941]

>>5730841
A cap gun is a toy that simulates the sound and flash and smell of a real gun. The hammer strikes (pops) a blister of gunpowder (a cap) and causes a small explosion.

The joke is that a gangster would clearly be using a real lethal firearm and not a toy.

[Anonymous No.5730942]

>>5730904
Your head is metaphorically a penis. That means you're a dickhead. Chump.

[Anonymous No.5730950]

>>5729418
I'm going to be honest. The concept behind it is too obvious, too predictable.

When it described him masturbating in the mirror I chuckled.

The prose is decent and pleasant but you didn't really capture the horror of Mr. Hubris when he was deteriorating. The description of said deterioration could also have been much, much more explicit and horrifying

[Anonymous No.5731283]

>>5728219
Very nice. Your prose is clean without being dull. I liked the animals too.

[Anonymous No.5731842]

>>5728133
You got me with the Chinese armament line. :)

I like the flow of it, although if I wasn't very familiar with westerns I wonder how well my mental image would have matched your own.


Anyway, after reading the prose in this thread, I feel like I'm an alien to my own language. Ya'll write pretty, for real.

Here's a short story I've been working on.

http://pastebin.com/hcGXc5Qp

Sample:

The Tarnuke mountain range is the perfect place to suffer a solemn and silent death. Listen to the locals: they say you’ll fall in love with the constant snowstorms, treacherous valleys and extreme dearth of both food and shelter. Of course, they aren’t that many of them left these days.
A lone Tarnuk ranger trudged slowly through the snow, wrapped tightly in thick furs to protect him from the biting cold. Around his neck was a soaked red cape, so his comrades could spot him if needed. The Tarnuk were not unlike wolves, but they walked upright and had a more reptilian snout, complete with a goofy row of protruding teeth. They were dragons of a sort, but tinier than one might expect, and covered in a thick fur as opposed to the shiny scales of their brethren. They had lived in this arctic wasteland for as long as their recorded history could say, and they faced little competition from outsiders.
The ranger approached Tarnu Pass, a deep groove in the earth that began in a nearby valley and extended up over the midsection of the mountain range, providing a somewhat reasonable path for travellers, carts and even horses if they didn’t mind the frostbite. Up the pass and near the peak of the range was the empire’s northmost point, and the last checkpoint before the neighboring sea. Nobody ever used the pass, and nobody ever crossed the border, but that didn’t bother the ranger. He was hungry.
Far behind the ranger, wrapped in her own set of dull furs, a Tarnu native tracked her prey. She had been tailing the ranger for some time, taking care to remain hidden.
“He hasn’t looked back once” she mumbled to herself, wondering if perhaps the ranger was lost, confused, or maybe leading her into trouble. A growl from her stomach distracted her for a moment, and when she looked back toward the pass, the ranger was nowhere to be seen. “Where’d you get off to?”
Not eager to lose him, and possibly her only chance at finding food and a warm bed, she decided to take a shortcut through the range. The shortcut would wind above the pass, giving her a full view of the mile-or-so stretch of land. The entrance to the shortcut was on an elevated ridge above the entrance to the pass, but with her sharp front claws and strong hind legs, it would be an easy climb. As she approached the entryway she saw that the ranger’s prints went unmistakably into the mountain pass. She wasn’t sure exactly where the Keroktuk outpost was, but based on the clues before her, she thought it was likely to be on the opposite side of the range, facing the north sea.

[Anonymous No.5731915]

Posting some more excerpts, been polishing a bit.

_________________________

Grim Brandt hated the Red Line. The carriages were always gritty and the seats all filled with working stiffs who more often than not smelled of cheap whisky and synthetic coffee. When he boarded, he was met by dozens of glazed eyes; empty, staring orbs that he was sure watched everything yet saw nothing. Burnt out from the grind, they were lost in thoughts, dreams and fantasies of greener pastures forever out of reach.


He pulled his matted keffiyeh up over his mouth and buried his chin deep in the collar of the knee-length leather coat to ward off the cold, soot-filled and damp wind that followed him in as the doors closed behind him. He walked with purpose down the narrow corridor, away from the laborers and found to some joy on his part an unoccupied quartet of seats by the end of the carriage. The tags, the intricate letters in runny, marine-blue ink spelling out “AkZiP” against the once beige fabric, appeared at least day-old and dry at first glance. He was too tired to worry much about the fate of his coat, and flung himself limply into one of the window seats. He closed his eyes upon the familiar sound of the generators powering up and dozed off almost immediately, only to awake with a start at the sharp acceleration as the train pulled out of the station.


The MagLev Commute, or Maggie, was not the worst way to travel. Other than the alarmingly rapid accelerations, a few hygiene issues and the ever present electrical hum from countless magnetic field generators, the frictionless journey through the landscape went all but unnoticed. He yawned deeply, pulled off one of his gloves and began going through his right front pocket. After fishing out a keycard, a crumbled packet of cigarettes and a broken biro pen that he distractedly dropped to the floor, he found the vacuum-form sheet. He sighed and frowned at the lone pill left on the sheet, snapped the packaging and swallowed it dry, but eagerly. Caffeine pills were hardly what one would call the nectar of the gods, but synthetic coffe was completely undrinkable . He couldn’t recall the last time he actually saw a cup of the genuine article, the adds on the feeds advertised packets of a hundred grams of mediocre beans for the going price of his monthly salary. He’d close it and pop another one of the pills.


Coffee was, like so many things, but a nostalgic memory on which to dwell. He could remember quite clearly the smell of it in his parents kitchen growing up; the smell of coffee grown from the earth, the taste of meat not grown cell-by-cell, pre-packaged in a laboratory to the perfect consistency of a fresh rubber sole. The very thought of the store shelves advertising the abomination as ”meat” sickened him, and he'd feel his stomach turn in protest even before reading the fine print.

[Anonymous No.5731926]

>>5731915

He stepped off the train, the cold already forgotten and he shivered as he felt it creep down the collar and along his spine like a drop of liquid ice. He huddled up and squinted against the fine particle drizzle that fell from the peasoup sky. Heavy clouds stretched in all directions like a formless quilt, reflecting the light pollution from the city below and lit the rugged February night in perpetual twilight. He lit one of his crooked cigarettes. The hydroponic Virginia tobacco was dry, the smoke ragged in his throat and tasted vaguley of leather. The platform lay all but deserted, save for a few bums sleeping on benches along the stations wall, bathed in the sterile, light-blue shimmer of the holoscreens advertising the hottest new stim programs... Caribbean Nights Beach Bonanza. He glanced at the sky again and admitted to being sligthly tempted.


Outside the station, the streets were buzzing. This was a part of Stockholm that rarely, if ever, slept; the respectable day crowds giving way to the sleeze and the hedonism with the setting of the sun. He set off down Fourth Street, making his way through the dense crowds in a zig-zag pattern, frowning at the various food stands and doing his best to shut out the cacophony of music, shouts, chatter and all combinations of the three. Along the street and its alleys, in the shadows of the rubbish and the bins at its sides lurked the junkies, the bums and the destitute in clusters of emaciated and worn bodies draped in layers of rags.


”Hey! Hey, buddy! You holdin'?” he felt bony fingers grasping and tugging on his arm. Fucking junkies he thought, exasperatedly.
“No, get lost!” he sneered, pulling his arm back roughly. The thin, bent woman held up her hands as a silent apology and retreated back into the shadows once more.


There, on the corner of Fourth Street and Hallers Avenue between two large prefab blocks lay a dead-end alley. He rounded a large container and came upon the old, sagging building at the bottom. The house was a striking anachronism, aged mortar had slowly crumbled to the elements, exposing the red brick below that stood in slanted lines against the mathematical precission of the buildings that surrounded it. He felt it looked rather like a giant dollhouse thrown out amongs the litter.


The Western Gates was an orgie in false advertising. The storefront was dressed almost exclusivly in fake wood panels of painted plastic with peeling finish, a rusty plaque depicting a pair of brass gates hung above the entrance. It tried to present itself as a classy pub, the kind that served aged whisky and fine brandy in fancy cristal glasses. The shelf behind the bar was stocked with countless bottles promising high quality liquor of repute, but these were, in fact, filled with moonshine with a few dashes of amber coloring for the authenticity. It was, to put it kindly, a dive..

[Anonymous No.5731941]

>>5731915

I've seen you post this several times

pro-tip: finish your story before editing it

otherwise you're just going to obsess over a certain excerpt, that is in all likelihood going to be changed once the entire thing is finished

unless the first draft is done, and you've just been posting the beginning for criticism, in which case nvm

[Anonymous No.5731953]

>>5731915
stopped reading after the first two words. new record.

[Anonymous No.5731964]

>>5731941

The first two chapters are done, but this is pretty much what I have translated. Given that it's a translation, feedback on the story itself is more helpful than grammar and specific words and such.

I see your point though, I don't think I believe in the story fully yet, wanting to know if it's worth pursuing before becoming too invested.

I did finish a short "story" earlier. Just an 800 word 15-minute speedwrite. Unpolished etc.

http://pastebin.com/2T7MzVg0

[Anonymous No.5731969]

>>5731953

Cool. So you hate the name then?

[Anonymous No.5731973]

I open with a unique, memorable first sentence. Maybe a pithy observation or a cutting piece of social satire. It leads into a whimsical transition to the main character. He is doing something - what is it? I tell you. Oh, how it’s all revealed. You thought it was that but really it is this. And what now - is that a secondary character? No, it’s the villain. So early? Of course! This is literature, friend. We like it fast. What is he doing? How very droll. You can see already the seeds of his evil. I shouldn’t say evil, that’s far too black and white for this book. Ah, the hero replies. It’s a strong one - you can see why he’s the main character now - but do you feel it? That faint undercurrent of a flaw? Now it opens up - oh it’s insurmountable! Whatever can man do against such things as this? The villain is a mere sideshow against the yawning cavern - no, that’s overdone - against the unplumbed, unplumbable depths of human failing.
What do you mean you don’t like it so far? Trust me, it gets better.

[Anonymous No.5732057]

>>5731969
Unorthodox names have been trending since the sixties. I think it's time to give it a rest.

[Anonymous No.5732063]

>>5731973
I would read an entire meta-book written this way.

[Anonymous No.5732104]

>>5731964
>I don't think I believe in the story fully yet, wanting to know if it's worth pursuing before becoming too invested.

every writer needs a bit of validation every now and then, but I honestly think you're posting that way too often (like I've seen it 4 times in the last 2 weeks??)

it's just a bad habit to keep seeking validation/asking for help

[Anonymous No.5732151]

>>5731973
this is mocking and silly. i feel like it was written by peter pan. chill out and write something genuine.
>>5731842
first sentence has a nauseating amount of alliteration. the rest of it sounds like a travel brochure mixed with videogame fanfiction
>>5729418
no real depth or insight. pale.
>>5728219
subtle w/ originality. i think the further is supposed to be farther though, at the top. would read more
>>5728133
bit too reminiscent of hunter s thompson, both in dialogue and narrative. but more cheesy and comical.

[Anonymous No.5732180]

Can you see the red mother
Plump in ecstasy? She groans,
Withers in delight. Lit loins
Part, roots dig in, branches shoot
Forth and envelop lover's thighs.

Under moons they reap harvest--
Praise.

She gave birth to infant seed
And rots to fertilize soil.
The seer has germinated
And from him sprouts ripening
Vines twisting with fruits to bear.

Without fruit there is no seed.
Without seed their is no fruit.

Feel its nectar wander down,
Today we feast, at night play.
Sleep, seeds, sleep. Sink in soil.
Tomorrow we part and decay.

Burning in sunlight we dream
Dreams opened, laid bare.

[Anonymous No.5732190]

>>5731973

yeah this has practically zero literary value

[Anonymous No.5732199]

>>5729645
>http://vocaroo.com/i/s03B8m6SQrhg

thank you brilliant

[Anonymous No.5732200]

>>5732151
>this is mocking and silly
To be honest, that was the plan. I just wanted to write something silly, not something deep.

[Anonymous No.5732222]

this is my most recent piece:


But the Sun shines through. Day is restored.

Morning comes to me, finally. Ecstasy, uneasy mirth fills me. The day is here, the night is gone! I'm going to wake up early from now on, I say, knowing this is a promise I won't uphold. But that doesn't matter. None of it matters, not the pain and suffocation of the night or the troubles of my mind. I am safe and I am warm.

The sky overhead is blue, bluer than the deepest well in the greenest mountains. A pack of clouds looms near the Sun, threatening to swallow up my happiness, my life, but the fear is no longer here. The skyscrapers reach up to the sky, grabbing fistfuls of air, tearing the world asunder; but the Sun shines for now.

I continue down the light grey street, its melancholy illuminated by the light, the purifying sanctity of heat. Heat heat, wash away the street. These people, they don't realize, they don't realize the day is here! They're still hurrying indoors, looking to get off the street, away from the life that we find outdoors. Why can't they see?
"Only we can see."
Only we can see, I repeat. Will it always be like this when I find it?
"It will always be like this. Everyday."
I can't wait, I can't wait for the Sun.
The day affirms my purpose, so I jog forward. Antonio is probably asleep, I reason, ducking away into a corner shop. I don't bother checking the sign. It's not like I can afford whatever's inside, anyway.

It's a bookstore, indistinguishable from the hundreds that line this city. Peddlers of love and knowledge, of dreams and deaths. You sell us life, we give it in exchange. Lovely transactions, sir. Son of God crucified a thousand times, a thousand times a thousand. Each time a man claims your sacrifice as motivation for his jihad, for his holy crusades, another nail pierces your skin. Oh Lord, when will you be able to catch the sunlight I have found? When will you taste the sweet, fragrant kiss of the morning?

[Anonymous No.5732230]

>>5732151
>first sentence has a nauseating amount of alliteration. the rest of it sounds like a travel brochure mixed with videogame fanfiction

I've axed the first paragraph. It really isn't necessary.

Video game fanfiction... would you mind elaborating on that criticism just a bit? As in, not enough world-building, too RPG-like, etc?

The closest thing I've read to video game fanfiction is dungeons-and-dragons universe novels.

[Anonymous No.5732242]

>>5731842

show don't tell nigga

your excerpt are basically infodumps

aint nobody interested enough in your worldbuilding

you need to work on your descriptions, moods, characterization /a lot/

[Anonymous No.5732247]

>>5732242
Speak like an adult

[Anonymous No.5732269]

>>5732242
Thanks, I really need to practice that.
I always worry I'm not giving the reader enough info, but maybe it's not even necessary. I don't read much genre fiction, so perhaps I need to hit up some GoT or something.

[Anonymous No.5732486]

>>5732151
good. i hope it's comical. it's a stupid, comical situation.

[Anonymous No.5732540]

We sat huddled up to the fire and relished in the warmth of the licking flames that bloomed from the fallen bookcase. The ceiling was all but gone with only a shred of timber clinging to the last standing wall of the cottage. A vicious wind from the north howled and ripped against the lone wall. You shivered against me as cold descended and I held you and kissed the top of your head as we sat near the fire amongst the debris under those miniscule planks that connected to that lone brick wall. You looked beautiful with your large blue eyes looking up at me. Wicked laughter and screaming carried on that wind and I prayed that you mistook it for the wind's natural howl. Through the shattered roof we watched as the lightning light up the heavens and it looked as if god was waging war with his angels. You began to weep as the thunder rolled in and shook that lonely wall and rattled the remainders of the roof. But it was alright baby, we had the fire and we had each other and there was nothing in the world of shadows and shades that could harm us. As the fire licked and waved the figures of faces in screaming agony began to take shape and the smoke that tapered off from the smoldering books and they were luminous as if its souls were making their divine journey as they rose up through between the gaps of the planks. The sound of rushing footfalls and rustling vegetation erupted from the void outside the firelight and you clung to me tighter and I kissed the top of your head once more while the shifting shapes of panicked animals ran from the north with that howling wind just outside the ruined cottage. The outline of a rabbit broke away from the pack and ventured inside our home and hobbled towards the fire. I told you to close your eyes and you did and with my thumb I pulled back the hammer of the snub nose that was clutched in my shaking hands behind your back as we clung to each other. You flinched at the click. The outline of the rabbit froze at the noise for only a moment but then it hobbled up to the edge of the fire and revealed itself. Half of the damn thing was burned fur and flesh and the other half was dark green and decayed with bare patches that revealed the pallid rotted skin and pale bone. It was missing half of its right front leg. It sat up on its twisted hind legs and stared at me with empty eye sockets. It opened its mouth and screeched and you began to scream and I covered your mouth with my free hand. I took aim at its head. Screeches and squeals and howling and that soul wrenching laughter echoed in the distance.

[Anonymous No.5732541]

>>5732540
The hand that held the pistol shook baby I won't deny it but we were safe baby we were safe. It didn't take long before the swine approached and they grunted and squealed and they trounced about snorting at us and at our scent. But they couldn't hurt us baby because of the fire baby they fear it. The pack of dogs came next and they came silently through the brush and when they started to growl I felt you choke back a scream. Your body started to shake real bad baby and I began rocking to calm you. The dogs danced in and out of the fire's light. They were truly horrible creatures that were naked and fur-less with bodies puckered with scars and faces that had cancerous looking boils and pimples and lesions that covered all but the eyes. But they couldn't hurt us baby because our fire will keep us safe forever you understand? The rabbit was still staring into me when laughter erupted above our heads. A shaded figure had stuck its head through the gap in the beams and started to laugh hysterically down at us. I pointed the snub nose up at where its face would be and it slithered up and out and disappeared into the darkness. When my eyes lowered back towards the rabbit I noticed the black figure of a large man sitting with his legs crossed across the fire. The animals that surrounded us ceased their antics and sat still and stared in our direction from the shadows. The outline of the man spoke with a broken voice in a broken rhythm. “How long...do...you....intend on running from...me?”
You were screaming into my hand as I replied to the shade. “As long as we got our fire.” Above in the heavens lightning cracked and the light from it revealed the man's face for a split second which was not a face at all but a skull yellowed with age. The image was just a flash and his state returned to being just a shadow with an outline once again. He spoke again. “We caught....more...of....your kind...tonight.”
“I heard the screams.”
“I...know but....we all spend more time....like...me...in the grand....scheme of....things. Your life...is just a tiny insignificant knot....on an endless thread.”
“If we are so meaningless why visit us every night?”

“You'll understand when it ends.”

“No. No we won't. We will have the fire always. You will never catch us.”

The shade stood up and said. “I catch everyone......not …...one thing in this..... reality.....can.....evade me..for time...erodes chance mortal.....but you....are worthy.....of conversation.....because you present a challenge.....for......me....rather than pleading.......with me...you remain vigilant.....and proud.....I look forward to our.......next conversation.” And with that he dissipated into the shadows.

[Anonymous No.5732544]

>>5732541
The animals grunted and snarled and squealed but reluctantly they left us and our fire and began to follow the vicious north wind once again. Above through the split rafters the heavens began to calm as the swirling conglomerate of black clouds began to rip apart. The horizon turned a shade of orange as hope incarnate rose and washed away the sin of our world. I kissed the top of your forehead and laid you down so you could sleep. I then went out into the new dawn to find tinder for the inevitable night. I won't let our fire go out. I'll never let it die.

[Anonymous No.5732787]

>>5732222
yoooo any critiques?

[Anonymous No.5732796]

>>5732787

It's nice, if a little stagey. I don't like starting it with "But". I probably would've years ago.

[Anonymous No.5732798]

>>5732796
Normal I'd agree with the "but" part, but it's actually from the 6th page of writing, in the middle of a paragraph, so I think it's excusable. And yeah, the staginess is something I'm worried about, but I think it's a byproduct of my adoration of Henry Miller.

[Anonymous No.5732809]

>>5732540
>>5732541
>>5732544
Please critique don't care if you hate it.

Just want some response to it please.

[Anonymous No.5732817]

>>5726550
nice rhythm and comma use!

[Anonymous No.5732818]

>>5732809
I'll give you a criticism tomorrow morning. Too tired now m8.

[Anonymous No.5732827]

>>5732818
Is it shit?

[Anonymous No.5732846]

Fuzzy bristling in the forearms precedes a torrent of potential articulation, stretching first in wide kinetic tracts up to the armpits and even penetrating the rib cage before doubling forward to its real home, the fingertip-palm-wrist system of manual control. The TV blares an ambulance chaser’s commercial jingle which is almost instantaneously filtered out into the background noise, almost, but not soon enough, for the tail end of the jingle remains in echo, bouncing jovial around his cranium, proud like a golden retriever after a good fetch, having done its job: save the familiar mechanical energy, the only thing he is aware of is the Law Offices of Caldwell and Baker’s phone number. Fair enough. Have it your way. Good timing for some content anyway, because the capacitors are nearly at… capacity. Any more of this and the thumb will pop right off like a pressure release valve. Buzzing to life, the organic servos in his microscopically robust main gauche twitch and tremble and the piquant inertia bursts like geyser into a graphological rainbow; reaching with feline violence for the fountain pen he beautifully calligraphs Caldwell and Baker, a feather-like stroke beneath, and beneath that the phone number. Flourishing, he adds his trademark smiley face/signature in the bottom right hand corner of the parchment. Things slow down.
He retrieved the blunt from the ashtray and took a second full bodied hit as his prize. Returning the pen to its inkwell and enjoying the sweetness of the mature sativa wrapped in Zig-Zag grape, he surveyed his creation. The C was a little lackluster, but the serifs were probably some of his best work.

[Anonymous No.5732847]

>>5732809
I won't comment on the theme or plot but at a purely mechanical level your sentence structure needs work. There is a lot of redundancy and so on that make it sound like it's *trying* to be lyrical, instead of just lyrical. I'm a fan of stripped-down writing so take this as you may but I'll rewrite a bit for you.

>There was only one wall remaining, and only a fraction of a ceiling, and the north wind was vicious as it howled against the timber. You shivered against the cold, so I held you tighter. We blended into the debris and the shadows under that wall and that once-upon-a-time roof, and the fire was brilliant orange. I could see the flames in your eyes - only a reflection - and they were beautiful.

>There was laughter on the wind now, and screaming, and I prayed you didn't hear it. There was lightning too, (and we watched the lights of an angry God waging war with his angels) (I don't like this metaphor, but that's how I'd put it in). The wall shook at the thunder, and you wept. It was alright though. We had the fire. We had each other. There was nothing in the world - not shadows, not shades - that could harm us.

That's my very loose edit of some of your work. I won't say that it's better than what you've written, but I certainly like it more. In my opinion, less is more.

However, you're free to disagree. If you like the long descriptions then power to you, but make sure that when you write them the grammar is perfect and the sentences flow. Sentence flow is often a function of grammar - our inner voice subconsciously interprets certain punctuation marks as certain pauses or noises - and that is where I think your work falls down. It doesn't flow nicely. I try and create flow by moving quickly and with few obstructions (hence, stripped-down writing) but if you don't want to do that then you're going to have to work very hard to make sure that your sentence structure is bang-on.

[Anonymous No.5732873]

>>5728219
that was a joy to read!

[Anonymous No.5732877]

>>5728219
are you from nz?

[Anonymous No.5732883]

>>5727994
it's not bad, just kinda cliche, is all. Re-work it and expand upon it and I'm sure it will be much better!

[Anonymous No.5732886]

>>5727933
are these lyrics to a RAGC! song?

[Anonymous No.5732963]

>>5732873
Glad you liked it.

>>5732877
Nah, Australia. Brisbane, in fact.

[Anonymous No.5732979]

Ascend. A light skyward to the field rise claimant to freedom.
Rise the erudite and penitent to sky and to send.
To send - Retainer soalesced a vision boards the skybarge to freedom.
Somnolescent rays emit now from the origin-known.
And remember Lebanon - hreem veils to scenic frees the photonic dove.
And descend - as ambulant propels up through anteveludian sky.
To send - Onward to terminus triumphal flight sheds object form.
Orbitainer eyes the absolute and freed - walk alone.

Traverse Cheopian field.
Rides out from red sun high above.
Prevades the salient wind.
Upward. From sun to cross the sky.
Traverse Cheopian field.
Rides out from red sun high above.
Prevades the salient wind.
Upward. From sun to cross the sky.

[Anonymous No.5733608]

>>5729418
Here, I tried to fix it. How is it now?

http://pastebin.com/RMLeGK7Q

[Anonymous No.5733624]

‘Cow dung
is sold in cans’
I heard this shit and I decided to go home, quickly. Put the peas in olive oil for frying, a hamburger for grill, light up a cigarette and start writing about my time. Writing about the post-post-post-modernity, up because we were so drained of our creative force by the huge mosquito of work that we couldn’t establish new denominations. Nothing is distinct now. Everything is relative, is its precept as well as that of the slap is the Christian’s. Not sure if you can recall, but there’s that horde of idiots in the Catholic Church who hide themselves behind biblical arguments and lighted quotes when in fact they have hidden sexual desire with blond transvestites called Margareth. You, artists of now days (since even this is an inaccurate terminology and may complicate the understanding, though I don’t have great appreciation for the terminologies) are just like them, or even worst. Well, the time has come to write about the second decade of the XXI century.
Then I realized that the peas were burnt. The damn burnt smell. It’s such a good smell, if not for the food wasted. Living of art, just of art, albeit receiving a lifetime monthly stipend from the government, even today, is madness. As the mother cited by Baudelaire, that would rather have given birth to snakes than to a poet, well, good poets meet a lot of people like these mothers. But what can I say about the contemporary itself?
First, starting with the most important, I see the absolute decadence of the bars. I mean the GOOD ones. Bars in which there’s a snooker table, good beer, snacks bums, plastic tables, good music, attractive and crazy women willing to forget life for just one night, once in a while, why not? Also fights, plus reasonable prices and peace to someone who wants to stay in a selfish and internal laughter. And a hearty laugh too, when the time asks for it. But above all, so that there is a bar there is something essential, something that cannot miss in any way: people. Real people. I'm tired of seeing bags of meat with deep dark circles so dependent on phones and electronic gadgets that would give his asshole for their iPhones if there was an app for that. It's terrible to have to share your time, your precious life, with people who are living just to kill time, have a snack here and there, adopting a pet and pampering him, hating street pets; using animals obtain sex, fuck a woman like who staples a page in a law office on a Wednesday morning. They are there, everywhere, and came not to bring anything. Cybernetic parasites of Earth, a monstrous fern covered with trinkets, a universal majesty with mantle silicon: the pure and dumb information crawling brains and covering them with mud.

[Anonymous No.5733688]

This is a porno I wrote last month:

"I'm here with your special devlivery" (whips out cock)
"Oh Pizza man! I didn't know I ordered extra meat! How much do I owe you?"
"15$, the tip is included" (becomes erect)
The woman begins undressing then pours garlic sauce on the pizza man's dick and performes filacio.

[Anonymous No.5733737]

Hey /lit/, critique my shitty story I wrote for my drama class, we were supposed to write a short story using 7 words, I got high and created this.

http://pastebin.com/VDMFzZjG

[Anonymous No.5733788]

>>5733737
In it's current state it was a fun read, nothing more. Grammar was lacking in some places, I imagine more due to a lack of editing than actual incompetence, and the plot was short, sweet, and simple.

I read the whole thing, and that's more than I can say about most of the stuff in this thread.

Overall, 6/10, maybe 7. Above average quality but not by much.

And yes, you were definitely high.

[Anonymous No.5733807]

>>5733788
Thank you very kindly for your fine critique. English is my second language, and I frankly didn't bother to make it "good", I was fully expecting to get told to fuck off and instead it was hailed as one of the best stories that class. I guess that says something about my classmates.

Still, thank you for reading my story, and the kind words you gave me.

[Anonymous No.5733811]

Wake up. Nose feels clogged, head hurts. Fucking head hurts again. It does all
the time lately. Check my phone. It's past ten. Five hours sleep. That's okay. No
new messages, thank God.
I go to the bathroom, look into the mirror. I look okay. Tired eyes. Tousled hair.
Go through it with my fingers, wash my face. Blow my nose into the sink. It's
bleeding again. I feel vaguely worried about it. Touch my nose, feel my septum.
Feels solid. I laugh for some reason, though I feel like shit.
Go into the shower to wash off the filth, all of it. Water is still cold. At least it
kills my tiredness. Think about a girl. She looks like Jenny though Jenny
probably looks different now. Head still hurts.
I leave the shower, towel myself off. Wonder what to wear. Does it matter? I
suddenly feel frustrated, don't know why. Choose an anthracite suit with a
black shirt, grey suspenders and a violet tie. Windsor knot today. I need some
80's shirts, white collar and different colour for the rest of it. Might go to the
tailor today.
Tie the tie on my way to the next room. Look for pills. Can't find any. I turn on
the music to distract myself. Huey Lewis. Did I listen to that yesterday night?
Don't remember. Too much whisky, not enough blow.
My nose is itching. Not sure if I'm overdoing it. And my head still hurts. Search
harder for pills. Find some, finally. Take two, swallow them dry. I close my eyes
and wait for them to show any resemblance of effect. Nothing.


Am I BEE yet, /lit/

[Anonymous No.5733822]

Climbing a windmill is a challenge of the psyche and the body.

Climbing almost anything is a challenge of the psyche and the body.

Jorb wasn't prepared for the challenge in his psyche and body while climbing the windmill.

It was Jorb's first day on the job, and still his employers were wondering why on earth they would hire a man named Jorb who seemed to have half of his body sideways and the other half backwards and possibly- probably- an organ or two missing. Jorb seemed to have been born in a cage, and was prone to twitching every other second, usually several times in an episode. He had one other job before this one, and that was no more than licking stamps professionally- not the kind of job a normal person would want to give up. Licking stamps professionally is also a challenge of the pyche and the body; on one side, you've got the ever present thoughts of 'why am I doing this' and 'how did I get here' and 'what is this job for' and the ever present 'working in a mall would be more useful to society than this'. Jorb's psyche was most likely damaged from such a challenging activity as licking stamps, such a monotonous task, such a dull task, such a pointless task, such a difficultly easy task. Licking stamps for any more than five minutes leads to that sensation that can only be gotten from 1.) licking stamps or 2.) repeating any word you like, through writing or speech, for the amount of time it takes for that word to begin sounding less like something with a meaning and more like nonsense. If you say 'bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat' or read 'bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat bat', it's gonna start looking like the first two letters of baby followed by some other letter, and start sounding like some absurd sound only seen in a language halfway across the globe you didn't learn in school. I'm feeling that way about the term 'licking stamps' and the word 'bat' at this very moment, and I'm sure you are too. It's not pleasant, and could definitely be filed under a challenge of the psyche to do this kind of thing for more than five minutes, much less eight hours a day for a penny more than minimum wage.

'2.)' is a lot more obvious. There comes a point when you're licking stamps (or anything, for that matter) where your tongue just runs out of juice. It becomes a dry lump somehow existing in your mouth; you become aware of this strange mass hanging out in your mouth that you're normally too used to barely using to notice; you become physically sick at the now nearly intoxicating fume and feel involved with sticking a stamp near your mouth.

[Anonymous No.5733833]

>>5732104

I keep posting it mainly because the only response I've received about it is "lel, the protagonists name sucks" (I've changed it accordingly, since it's the first sentence it's important). Not gonna lie and say it's not about validation though, I'm not that deluded, but still.

[Anonymous No.5733921]

The pianist.

I drew the heavy bulk of plastic from my shoulder, hurling it forward onto the metal stand. A dull ache pulsated in my forearms, and for a moment the faint pain's whispering echo rolled through every inch of my body. I was tired, hungover in fact from a heavy night of drinking. As often before I glanced lazily into the audience, studying each face clumsily. The expressions seemed worn and confused, as if each one were recovering from some great battle or famine. And suddenly it all fell away, an eternity in that moment, the reality of the room seemed like a distant fantasy now. Bach had taken over, frantically each pitch rose and fell. In one brief moment the immense tones danced like a flame and then dissipated into silence. Mozart was there too, babbling like a newborn. The image of dead bodies piled upon one another in unmarked graves was a sober reminder of what was to come, perhaps for us all, and yet Mozart delicately laughed at death it seemed with each passing phrase.

[Anonymous No.5733932]

lol why don't you let her die she doesn't mean anything won't have any use suicide big deal lol people are idiots so are those who can't understand the pointlessness of suffering and futility of existence eh whatever we are ignorant kill yourself already faggot you're too much of a piece of shit some dude's bitch who can off himself herself you're a transfag anyway probably lol outlet like 3000 hours on dota 2 to ease the suffering why don't you do the ultimate ppppppp post post meta modern narrative and be so successful you die like a workalcholic instead of avoiding the banality of work whatever sit in your fag room and play your fag games and smoke your fag drugs and jerk off to girls you're too faggy to even talk to you collossal mega shitstain spagetti conformist transsexual faggot!

[Anonymous No.5733948]

>>5733807
No problemo. I kinda guessed English wasn't your first language, but you speak it better than some for who it is their first language.

[Anonymous No.5733955]

Maybe ill find security in populist traditionalism.
The Tea Party never gave me a ticket, doesn't that makes them the good guys.
The conservative right will finally make this country RIGHT
But I bet you still would never hear Amber alerts for the Amber colored children
Police sirens have become the theme music for the super hero's of this country
But a trepidation for everybody who doesn't live in the suburbs,

And where is the utility in that.

[Anonymous No.5734098]

>>5728424
>>5728429
no one wants to give me some critique?

[Anonymous No.5734122]

>>5733948
>you speak it better than some for who it is their first language.
Literally impossible.

[Anonymous No.5734148]

>>5734122
>Literally impossible.
You are a retard.

[Anonymous No.5734160]

>>5734148
Native speakers are the benchmark against which all other speakers are judged. Native proficiency is the best you can have.

[Anonymous No.5734164]

To live a life of peace,
is to live with open hands.
And if he was to clench his fist,
he fears to drop his sand.
Folly! then for a mortal,
to discard the gifts of life.
To sate his sanguinity,
and to feed his fearful spite.

[Anonymous No.5734181]

Sitting in the bloom of May,
Whose blossoms crown the tips of trees,
Where children play
and dance all day
Amongst the crunch of ancient leaves,

You rest your head upon my chest
Until I gain the strength to say
‘When sunlight fades
And winter shades,
Let me love you in those darker days.’


Smog blooms over the horizon,
As the heart of the city melts
Its bitter sweets over the darkening skyline.


You answer with your shining eyes
‘Against this world of bitter grey
Where concrete shades
And beauty fades
I will love you in these cold, dark days’.


Old Phoebus plunges below the surface
Where the whir of ancient machines
Stir softly the slumbering giants.


The nights grow cold from winter’s thumb
While under watch from crescent eyes
The fox awakes
The early drake
With hounding teeth and bristled tongue.

Deeper down into the dark,
Of blistered stone and acrid rust
Where evil dwells
In human shells
Who leave the streets a hollow mark,

The fox he prowls the bitter cold;
Gazing out at concrete moors,
He turns his head
Up from dread,
Vision fixed by crescent hold.


And well beyond the looking-glass
That sails the dreary darkness past;
Softly do we sleep in snow
That does not fall but ebbs and flows.

[Anonymous No.5734183]

>>5734160

Are mentally retarded people not considered 'native speakers' in your calculus? Because I can very easily imagine an intelligent foreigner attaining greater proficiency in English than a MR native speaker.

And that's just a really basic example. What about someone who isn't MR, but who left school at fourteen, has never read a book and has a very limited vocabulary? Does their level of proficiency represent an unattainable summit of excellence from a foreign speaker's point of view?

Super rare, to be sure, for a foreign speaker to acquire proficiency equal to a typical native's. "Literally impossible"? Christ, no.

[Anonymous No.5734195]

>>5732979
So those thesauruses, good aren't they?

[Anonymous No.5734201]

>>5734160
>Native speakers are the benchmark against which all other speakers are judged. Native proficiency is the best you can have.
If you map language skills onto a scale of five fucking terms, yes. The map isn't the territory, however. Despite the fact that you can't phrase it that way on your CV, it's still possible to be more proficient in a language than some native speakers.

[Anonymous No.5734209]

>>5734183
>Are mentally retarded people not considered 'native speakers' in your calculus?
Depends if their linguistic capabilities have been affected. I don't know much about retardation.

>What about someone who isn't MR, but who left school at fourteen, has never read a book and has a very limited vocabulary? Does their level of proficiency represent an unattainable summit of excellence from a foreign speaker's point of view?
Yes. Even people who never went to school are just as proficient as somebody who has a Ph. D. I'm sure there are plenty of non-native English speakers who have better vocabularies than I do, but that doesn't mean their overall proficiency is better than mine.

[Anonymous No.5734218]

>>5734181
I like this one a lot.

[Anonymous No.5734219]

>>5732979

A muddled puddle.

[Anonymous No.5734222]

>>5734209
Just a thought, but what about people who as a child are taught to be bilingual, and therefore have two mother tongues?

[Anonymous No.5734228]

>>5734209
>Even people who never went to school are just as proficient as somebody who has a Ph. D.

Yeah, this is complete nonsense. Non-native speakers who know what the word 'proficient' means are already one step ahead of you, for example.

[Anonymous No.5734240]

>>5734222
Yeah, if you learn 2 languages from birth you'll be a native speaker of both, unless maybe you stop being exposed to it at a young age. I'm just talking about people who learn a language in adulthood.
>>5734228
Would you prefer the term "linguistic competence"?

[Anonymous No.5734267]

>>5734240
>Would you prefer the term "linguistic competence"?

It's not about preferring a term. It's about whatever delusion you're harbouring that all native speakers are equally competent in their native language. I mean, I am on /lit/, right? I wouldn't have thought to encounter any controversy over the idea that some people are better with words than others.

Check out the guy in this vid:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjuNuqIev8M

The position you're arguing would suggest that his "competence" in English is superior to Nabokov's. If you honestly believe that, you need to have a fucking word with yourself.

[Anonymous No.5734283]

>>5734267
I would say his competence is at least equal to Nabokov's, if not his eloquence. Besides, I thought Nabokov grew up speaking English.

[Anonymous No.5734300]

>>5734283
>I would say his competence is at least equal to Nabokov's

Then you're delusional. Or, at best, utterly incapable of conceding a point on a Burmese Rorschach-blot website.

[Anonymous No.5734583]

'The only people to invent social media before a writing system'
by me

Unfinished, first-draft, WIP & everything. Would you read more of this?

http://pastebin.com/SzxY3DGF

[Anonymous No.5734596]

>>5734164

It's ok

[Anonymous No.5734602]

>>5734583
oh shit i'm missing a 'the' in first sentence

[Anonymous No.5734613]

All horses are the same color,
and have the same rider.
They all neigh silently
and trot loudly, and
their insides are stuffed
with emptiness and disco balls.
And, if you were to mount one–or none–
you would surely fall,
because they only travel
on slippery slopes in Africa.
And, they have blinders too,
causing eternal tunnel vision: myopia.
And, with such stiff necks and cramped legs,
they cannot look around, but
only towards their unspecified destination:
the converging point
at the end of the road.

[Anonymous No.5734637]

>>5734583
What's the backstory behind this? What's your idea? I like it.

[Anonymous No.5734641]

Although many technical advances have recently been made in the development of plant transformation systems and plant-gene identification and isolation approaches, some of these approaches are either technically or practically not feasible for many important gene systems; thus alternative approaches are required. Two innovative approaches for gene cloning in plants are discusses here, namely, shotgun rescue and chromosome-oriented approaches. Emphasis is placed on their methodology, scope and advantages. Finally, potential applications of these approahes are proposed with reference to the isolation of genes for which mutations are available, the development of artificial plant chromosomes and their possible use and chromosome-mediated transformation involving butt-rape.

[Anonymous No.5734684]

>>5734637
Thanks. Donald Barthelme was kind of an inspiration for making a contained, coherent yet unreal world like this.

The idea for the story was what if writing emerged from shitty emo bedroom poetry rather than (what I guess were) economic or judicial reasons. The ending I've written is some stupid typographical joke about her drawing a sideways stick-figure on her cave wall and it looking like 'OK'

[Anonymous No.5734766]

>>5734596
Thanks!

[Anonymous No.5734829]

Dear world,

The interest I am taking to write this letter to you, dear world, is that I am genuinely intrigued by what you hold for us in your immediate future. Though I wouldn't call it immediate for us, simple inhabitants of your lofty globular body, since you exceed in repletion of years our comparatively ephemeral lives. But still, however, the question validates itself, because I hold the same troubles of people in alike complexion as mine which inhabited you years back and, I confidently think, years to be. So tell me, if with a mere secret whisper of the wind and nature's speech through the beauty of the animation that is as simply as boughs and their rustling leaves' lovely irritation, what pain will pierce the hearts of people yet to be? What anxiety will preoccupy the individual's mind?

Now, as far as my eyes can see and my mind can infer, the days are as preoccupied with individuals' rights as it was, even when we think it won't no more, in all the ages past. New movements are constantly brought up about for the freedom for the oppressed, now shaped as feminism, now as Swedish toleration. French revolution, it's true, brought the world into state of profuse art, but how much further the freedom can go without losing such thing as an art? I tell you I am very concerned, when some of these movements try to deny the nature's foundation, about art's complete dissolution, and so a stop for its appreciation. Yet, if we look back at history in the search for an answer, we can discern a hope, a prevailing disposition of the people to stop just that from happening. So, at least, this will make us calmly sleep.

There is of course a chance for you, dear world, to prove opposite of my ominous prescience, not only to make it prevail, but to lift peoples' minds to greater lengths than ever before, for there are, looking to my closest approximation, bright Lithuanians seeking for a clearer understanding of the world, their minds like birds soaring for the clear sky. And to hope that no one forgets their part in the world, not to sell their culture, their being, for temporal electric transitions. To keep to themselves in a close unity, not to sell this congruity of common feeling, prove to be different than the people in Baranauskas poem "Anykščių šilelis". But enough questions and more actions, time is short and so we should make questions that make actions, and, however unfortunately, now seize questioning the world for an answer, for we need more actions first, only then seek a fulfilling answer.


Please say it's better than 10th grader

[Anonymous No.5734869]

>>5734829
Why are you writing in that kind of register? Is this like a parody?

Also some of those sentences are really overwrought, and I get that that's the style of the voice, but they're confusing and often just ugly. It's already super hard writing long sentences that are also beautiful and clear when using a regular style, I don't get why you would do this to yourself.

[Anonymous No.5735202]

timepiece

this is just one line, one rhyme
one moment suspended in time
like attention fixes perspective
stretches out the subjective into a sign;
a shimmering hypersigil, communicating
a shared understanding
of an abstract refined.
or were these moments wasted,
infinity tasted briefly, sweetly, as illusion
my own collusion making narrative
out of abstract
to allow me to examine the famine of meaning
at the hollow centre of it all,
can't make any sense of it all,
it all blurs into one thing,
me looking out through my eyes,
wearing this disguise of metal rings,
ink and skin,
learned how to sink and swim,
think rationally, reject God,
and at Christmas, sing hymns.
a parallel contradiction,
lie bursting from constructed seam
to merge into truth, fiction,
and elements of a dream.
so which is it?
the mash up and the melee of a story told
the gory details sold and reproduced,
elements distilled, product produced?
this frozen time, my stolen rhyme
which makes you stop and listen in
to find the kernel within
the pretty lie.
or is in truth this moment not the living proof
that nothing matters,
all is empty:
only you and I present
as I narrate the present
and it passes into the past
an infinite number of grains of sand as they
trickle through the glass
for as long as we stand here
to witness them pass...

[Anonymous No.5735211]

Classical music in my Panamanian canals
sends ripples via telegram to my lips,
chapped and brittle, and makes them sing.
The sound of yellow: a courageous hark,
dipped in Jell-o and doused in Elephant pee,
why don't you re-tell the story
about the world's most dangerous game?
Probably because my voice throat-back
ran out of batteries on me. So the the begging
gypsy children in Roma aren't the only ones
who can't scream their hearts out of a stoma
because of a lack of something that music
can't define.

[Anonymous No.5735224]

schrodinger's zoo

the house that jack built
upon a church
upon a mosque
upon a synagogue
upon a Masonic Lodge
upon a stone circle
upon primordial soup

the burden of proof
lies
with
too many cooks

[Anonymous No.5735235]

love the government
hug the government

we're drowning in
black water
money's the only factor

i say mercenary
you say contractor

[Anonymous No.5735254]

>>5735224

The merry-go-round goes
round and
round (ad infinitum)
and then,
the conductor croaks.

[Anonymous No.5735295]

>>5735224

I liked this, dunno why.

[Anonymous No.5735304]

despair resistant

how are you and is there anything for you
that I could do?
would you like a drink of juice?
would you like a brew?
should I make it milk and two?

should I take you to the loo?
skate you through and wait for you
to urinate or take a poo?
or change your nappy? strangely happy
to be doing it it's true enough
involves a lof of stuff with poo on it

and when it's spew, it's rough as anything,
it's many things but there's one thing that
it's not:
and that's the sort of job that makes you
more unhappy with your lot

I've got my youth, I've got my health
I've got an unfractured sense of self
I've got my faculties intact

and if I'm attacked defence as well
my sense of smell's doing swell
it's undiminished

when beginning a task no need to ask
I'll tell you when I'm finished
don't lose my patience with my patients
though my patience they are trying

constant tissues I'm supplying
almost every want and need I'm satisfying
nurse them when they're dying
comfort families when they're crying
sighing as I watch them fade away then I say

I'm the despair resistant care assistant
fair to say my care's consistent
distantly I feel it wear me down
when they're persistent

I'm the despair resistant care assistant
fair to say my care's consistent
distantly I feel it wear me down

[Anonymous No.5735308]

my octopus could beat up your
octopus,
then where would that
leave us?
consider the impasse
of a
one octopus universe

[Anonymous No.5735341]

Dead leaves made crackling sounds as they were swept up by a strong gust of wind, the same wind which made a shrill howling sound as it blew droplets of rain into David's face. To be bereaved of a dear friend was to him a new experience despite how often he'd inflicted the very same feeling to others; all worldly sensations seemed to glance off him, unable to win the slightest bit of attention in his thoughts. He walked on another man's legs, breathed cold air into another man's lungs, carried the bouquet of lilacs in another man's arms. They hadn't been her favorite, but he knew William would have gotten the white lilies. Sure enough, the tall man who walked beside him had done just that.
Although they'd paid for the coffin and the ceremony, the tombstone was out of their control. It was a bland slab of granite, generic in every way conceivable. But for her name and years of birth and death, it was vacant. There were no endearing epitaphs or treasured keepsakes to distinguish this tombstone; to an outsider, it would have appeared as though it marked a woman who'd died alone and unloved. Remilia's recently departed mourners, David knew, hadn't ever seen through the precautions she'd taken. Because of that, they had barely known her.

[Anonymous No.5735367]

I think I'm starting to get the hang of this poetry thing but then again probably not

Staring at the waste as it's king
broken bodies loiter around me
ghastly green lights joyfully sing
evergreen chants once chanted at sea
Now their wails and their pains
pierce like needles, euphonously
My kingdom, my home, my chains


Wandering spirits, breathing
moths circling the light, flickering
Among the broken glass and stains
my head on the curb, breathing
droping further deep down my veins
thought in stasis


Cacophonously I think of death
backtracking through the melody
shards stuck in my breath
tinted shades of hope and zealotry
are all I can see


Mouths grinning, eyes staring
plates spinning, floor caving
were these walls always so tall?


Forget the tropical shell
Venus is instead Hell
we rest on a broken bed
time has shown it well
Mars is Earth's brother instead

[Anonymous No.5735490]

Aftermath

Blurred face of “I have just been fucked,”
eyes running red, and green; glassy
Drip drip, drip from the left side cheek
Collarbone: thum thumpthump thumpthump
rung round with new red roses raw.

Idle fidgets in the fingers
Curl of the plum nail polished toes
whimper, a coo, a cry, but wait
courtesy? ah, oh ah, oh God…
No, I’ve done good haven’t I dear

[Anonymous No.5735622]

There's a termite colony in the Queen's pedestal
and a flea circus in her court.
The Leading Magistrate's son
has just been caught for public masturbation.
The morning dew coating the royal grass
smells like Columbian rocket fuel, and cherries.
Chickadee! Chickadee! Oliver Twist yells
as Prime Minister and occasional transvestite.
The London Bridge, she burns like the fire in my heart,
like the national pride of her people,
and November 5th it is not, not at all.

"Off with her head!" God said,
saving not the Queen.

[Anonymous No.5735641]

>>5735254

>fixed

The merry-go-round merrily goes round
and round
and round
and round
(ad infinitum)
and then,

the conductor croaks.

[Anonymous No.5735687]

>>5735641
>The merry-go-round merrily goes round

No.

>The merry-go-round goes merrily round

l2mellifluosity n00b

[Anonymous No.5735773]

>>5735687

But, the point was to directly convert the noun into a verb, not to be mellifluous. It's a deliberately awkward poem, not a love song.

[Anonymous No.5735796]

>>5735773
>the point was to be ugly on purpose

Awesome point.

[Anonymous No.5735903]

TRANSPORTATION

The tRAIn

U-Bahn, XMAS T-minus eighteen days, his nipples tingling still with the passage through the WALL, Starling leaned most of his length over the rail of the mezzanine. There was a happy stall of Karamell-Kuche below and the filthy little orphans had gathered around it. This was something to write about. Starling was so astoundingly aware it was said his olfactory nerve alone could smell the anxiety of an INCIDENT. But this was a deviation of happy caramel. His nostrils had very particular tastes, of which, he supposed, caramel must be one; they were INDEPENDENT, see, and fully aware. CHILDREN. Were they to look up, there would be only the gape of Starlings obtuse nostrils. Starlings knowing nostrils that observed them. Caramel and children and new suitcases that HADN’T been WASHED.

– Mr. Starling? Yes, Mr. Schmetterling is quite ready to see you, now.
– Excellent. I hope I’m not interrupting the ELECTRIC goings-on.
– Ah, absolutely no-maybe-about-it, Sir, said SECURITY man BUCHSTABENSUPPE. I would say he quite enjoys the occasional company. Better so if said company has a REASON.

Starling hoped he wouldn’t appear a fool. His German was of a lowly scholarly variety and resembled none of the esteemed vernacular expected in general chit-chat. Was Schmetterling responsible for the anNOUNCEments? Was his occupation designed to deal with the linguistically inept? God he hoped not. He heard what these people did: they joked in their booths over quotidian coffee and awful Lebkuchen he’d heard could be ground up to make mortar. CHILDREN, shouting down below about a ball gone onto the tracks. There was a little girl with a long globulous scoop of CARAMEL, suckling like a hummingbird all lost in the cold. I am one of those children, Starling thought, compared to the likes of Schmetterling. What a name. What a symphony of a name. And I, a dowdy wing beater. SHAME.

– Mr. Schmetterling? The journalist, Mr. Starling, is here for you.
– STOOL. Bring him a STOOL.
– Of course, sir.
– Mr. Starling, said Mr. Schmetterling, Mr. BUSCHTABENSUPPE shall bring you a STOOL. Mr. BUTTERFLOSS, take over, if you would so kindly. Mr. Starling, I cannot offer you a chair, I’m afraid. We are deathly afraid of chairs.
– That, said Starling (who had always reserved a quiet contempt of stools since SCIENCE in SCHOOL), will be perfect, thank you.

Schmetterling was dressed in orange oilskin and gleamed beneath the subway sparkling lights, and he swung his arms out and over and dared to condescend a handshake with Starling. It did not appear rude. IT appeared WUNDERBAR. He smelled of Hyacinths and petroleum. Starling’s nostrils burst into DRIPpings of MUCOSAL misery.

–Now, said beautiful Schmetterling: THE TRAIN.

[Anonymous No.5737263]

1/2
Classifying days into the categories of “anorexic” and “non-anorexic” imbued me with a sense of excitement for the coming week. The classification was mainly based on when the physical effects of not eating would be felt. Based on experimentation, I found that limiting his daily caloric intake to around 100 would cause muscle pains after three days. Any longer and general fatigue and nausea would start becoming issues. This allowed me to decide that Monday through Friday would be marked as “anorexic” days and I would subsist solely on coffee for the weekend. On the weekdays, I planned to eat maybe one apple a day and down as many diet cokes as possible. I paused for a second after realizing that the upcoming week would be demanding in terms of coursework, yet the desire for an extra dimension of sensation left him pushing these thoughts to the side and cementing the plans for this schedule. Feeling somewhat satisfied, I pushed my legs over the side of his bed and dropped to the floor of his two-person dorm room. Noting the contrast between my side of the room, which was characterized by dirty clothes, candy bar wrappers, and stacks of books, and my roommate’s side, which was neatly ordered, left me with a grim sense of satisfaction. Although I sometimes fantasized about murdering my roommate, the silent, passive rebellion against my roommate’s sense of neatness would have to do for now. My roommate’s ignorance to my hatred only added to my sense of revulsion. While my mind frequently went blank with rage when my roommate moved in a certain way or when he covered himself with a blanket, my roommate just tried to keep the relationship as cordial as possible. Kicking my roommate’s chair against the wall, I made my way to my dresser and extracted an old shirt from a science fair and khaki shorts that were going on their 3rd day of being worn. After masturbating in the shower and deciding upon “For Emma, Forever Ago” by Bon Iver as the soundtrack for the day, I exited my dorm and tried to get to a bus stop without making eye contact with my peers.

[Anonymous No.5737279]

>>5737263
2/2

I felt slightly disgusted as an obese girl took a seat next to me. For a moment, I thought that turning Flume up to full volume would ward off her encroaching fat in the same way that loud music is good at drowning out the deep vibrations of the bus engine. Realizing that the thought made no sense, I decided to pull up the pornography that I had used in the shower on his phone. Apparently not noticing or pretending not to notice the 18 year old blonde boy getting fucked by two middle aged black men, the obese girl continued to occupy the neighboring seat. I was fairly close to ejaculating a scream in sheer frustration at the thought of having my peaceful morning consisting of soft indie folk and no physical exertion destroyed by this bitch who couldn’t lay off the Lays for a month. Making a quick mental note to use that pun when this story was related to my friends over Facebook later, I decided to stand up and move to the seat directly across from the one that was currently being suffocated. After snuggling into the seat, winking at the obese girl, and getting back into the soft music that was blasting through the my Bose noise cancelling headphones, I decided to just skip my morning math class and stay in this bus seat for the next hour. I figured I owed it to myself to relax a little after the unpleasantness with that girl – whose name was probably Bertha or Shannon.
This relaxation was cut short just as For Emma began. I noticed that a girl who was on the bus during the beginning of the ride was now entering it. I panicked as I thought she would notice that I had not exited the bus after 30 minutes. While the word “fuck” raced through my head, I managed to bury my head into the sleeve of my sweatshirt in an attempt to appear sleeping and to remain hidden from whoever this cunt was. Yet, because the seat that was previously murdered through strangulation was apparently the most prized spot on the bus, the girl found her way to said seat, effectively dismantling any shielding that my arm was providing. I smiled widely at the girl and laughed a bit to myself in a last-ditch effort to avoid any further interaction. Either not believing or not picking up on my subtle attempt to appear socially autistic, the girl nodded, smiled back, and began to introduce herself.
“I’m Julie,” said Julie.
“Oh rad. I’m Keegan,” I yelled back.
“I think I saw you here this morning. Do you just ride for fun?” she asked.
“Uhm yeah I guess I do. It’s nice to just sit and listen to music. Otherwise I would probably be in class, trying to appear interested but actually hating every second of it. Can you dig that?” I said, thinking that my retro slang would scare her away.
“Yeah I totally –,” began Julie.
“You know I have to actually really get going here. It was really amazing talking to you,” I said, winking at her.

[Anonymous No.5737457]

>>5735796

And your point is to offer back-handed criticism to make yourself feel better? Either give advice kindly or shut the fuck up. Because otherwise it isn't advice, it's a pathetic attempt to assert anonymous dominance that provides zero constructivism. Either help a brother out or take your deep-seated insecurities elsewhere.

[Anonymous No.5737467]

>>5737457

I gave advice. It was rejected. The person rejecting it offered a shitty justification for their poor choice. I criticised said shitty justification. Not sure what more you want from me.

[Anonymous No.5737495]

Absorbing a scene of nature,
any scene: the grand canyon
Old Faithful, the Swiss Alps, Heaven's falls:
pastimes of antiquity old.
Now the sights of nature
encompass modern architecture
physical and technologically ephemeral.
Where does one go at their desk?
From China, to monuments ideas, to kiddie porn.
The beauty of natural phenomena has become an echo.
(echo, echo, echo, echo: reverberations)
bounced of the walls of wires and prepubescent societal
constructions created out of thin, electromagnetic air
as with the digital letters screen in front of you.
Desperation, this word is the last forefront
of vapidity and the world brimming with unliquidated
cash settlements that don't involve cash, but
the catastrophe's of modernity: the last benchmark of yesterday.
Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will annihilate
the tendency to pursue individual nature hidden by invisibility,
for distance isn't restricted by physical separation but
the very fact that social enmeshment defies camaraderie
between not only people but statistical love sucking
the life out of life which is a thing that defies being
a thing. Love thy neighbors, they say.
But the thoughts manufacturing the words
are hardly ever anything more than impulsive nonsense
as dictated by generations of crippled perspective
wrought on by a mirror of relationships between
not only people, but the multifarious influences
that categorically ignore the labeling of a disparate
but wholly homogenous mixture of deceit
that is documented by the receipt of a loveless
desire to be a part of a whole that is riddled
with craters that formed through the absence
of thoughtful defense and the hope that hope
can someday because more than a dirty 4-letter word
but a means to follow aspirations that spawn
from the thing inside your mannequin mind
crafted by a global factory of profit managed
by crippled bosses that like to stroke
more than their secretaries. No,
in the end, there is no end,
only the beginning of an inexplicable something else
that may or may not serve up ambrosia.

[Anonymous No.5737508]

>>5737467

It's simple. I want advice that isn't simultaneously insulting. 'n00b' is an pejorative that causes me to react negatively to advice, regardless of the quality criticism. This is why it was back-handed comment, and thus poorly received on my part. That being said, in terms of creating a better sounding poem, your advice was good. But, your delivery was insensitive and shit and therefore emotionally compromised your entire 'desire' to help. Just be fucking conscientious when trying to help people out, because otherwise they just get pissed, which I honestly did.

[Anonymous No.5737516]

>>5737508

Oh, fuck off to some hugbox until you get a thick enough skin to deal with the real world.

[Anonymous No.5737562]

>>5737508
#rekt

[Anonymous No.5737684]

>>5732222
continuation from this piece I wrote last night, any critiques (on either) would be lovely.


My eyes dart, magnetized reaction to a book in the darkest corner of the brightest bookstore in the nation. Defined, dream deferred, written in words that mimic actions, actions that a man was too cowardly to commit. Fate pursued his trails, dust providing a map for the lusty, buttered fingers of destiny; he was too meek to land the blow. Instead, his life has taken that of a tree, a tree more worthy than him, a tree that produced life without fail each day; what did you create, you shelled author? Ingrate denizen, spew your garbage on the street corner, but leave my life alone!

The cover is white, pure white. A single letter adorns the lower right corner, a golden treasure found in a snowstorm. Fuzzy white, fuzzy white. Overwhelmed senses, the traveler lost forever in the Arctic. I imagine a captain, a weary fisher of men, abandoned by those whom he held closest. Forsaken by his own spawn, the fertility of his manhood. Buffeted by snow, Jesus wanders through the tundra, knowing no respite from the ineluctable fate which greets him, the deathblow that kisses him. Softly, softly, he lies down in the snow, body causing an inch to melt. An inch however, makes little difference in a blizzard. He is lost, Judas lives on. This time there is no guilt, there is no reawakening. Man must suffer forever for his sins.

I turn away from the fate cherished within a Savior's death; I cannot stand the rising disgust. Robbing a glance over my shoulder, the air is warm, moist. Wisps of hair wrapping around my neck, asphyxiated sensuality, I am drawn to the middle of the shop, where the day streams in from a skylight high above my head, out of reach of our hands.

Murmur, murmur, they murmur behind me. Bitch with a lisp, lips lapping lascivious light. Your friend cares not for you, only for what you offer. But what if she does? What if they do worry, they all worry?
"No. They are automatons, they are lifeless, bloodsuckers determined to kill, to steal. Your lifeblood flows from the Earth; theirs is the melted gold in the hand of Judas."
I know that's not true. Most of it, anyway. We're all alive, at least.
"Pretending pretending. Their fertility is their greatest factor. Steal them before they steal you, burn them before they mock you."
I'm standing still in the center of the room. They've taken notice, but they give me no notice. No mention. I'm not worth a mention, a word. A concern. I am empty, you are fertile. Your womb calls out to me, but your lips are sealed.

[Anonymous No.5737686]

>>5737684
Part 2:

I grow tense again, the daylight has shifted. Too high above me, too cold in this place. Room is too close, closed off to the world. I have no one to blame, but my mind is racing, claiming a scapegoat for my lack of comfort. I can't stand it, I walk towards the entrance. A body stops me, a voice calls to me.
"Hey, are you sure you don't want to buy anything?" Masculine, dry. Wheezy, weak. A voice befitting the last of a dying monarchy, equally likely to originate from the mouth of a sickened Tudor as that of a virile vagrant. Virile, full of life, expounding life over others, life given freely, life taken cheaply.
"Umm, well. I actually just don't feel good." This isn't a lie.
"Oh are you sure? We have some new books for sale, in the adults only section."
Curiosity arisen, bread in the oven. I cannot stay, but I must see. Led by hand, I am dragged willing behind the curtain, into the neon darkness. Neon Iago, whispering misfortune in my ear. Lust aroused by scantily clad women, gracing the smutty covers of burning paper. The room glows with red fire, blaze illuminating the scene with desirous glow. I must escape, but I cannot say this to myself, self trapped, buried in a plot of immortal doom. I feel sicker than ever, nausea rising in my throat. I am not good enough, I cannot live up to this standard. I am weak, you are strong. I infect you with sterilized immunizations, but the virus catches still. The virus catches still, the virus catches still, fever rising to my head, head falling, body following, crashing into the void I have been thrust into. Thank you Father, your gift is too gracious.

[Anonymous No.5737692]

>>5737684
Just my opinion, but I think you should relax and take it easy with the big/important words. I think it would improve it instantly

[Anonymous No.5737701]

>>5737692
Can you provide an example of this? I know what you mean, but I'm struggling to find it in that.

[Anonymous No.5738248]

>>5737701

OK, I'll critique the first half of your first post.

Here are the bits I didn't like:
"eyes dart"; "in the nation"; "too cowardly to commit"; "Fate pursued his trails"; "lusty, buttered fingers of destiny"; "too meek to land the blow"; "more worthy than"; "without fail each day"; "pure white"; "A single letter adorns"; "a golden treasure"; "Overwhelmed senses"; "lost forever"; "abandoned by those whom he held closest"; "his own spawn"; "fertility of his manhood"; "Buffeted by snow"; "ineluctable fate which greets him"; "He is lost, Judas lives on"; "there is no reawakening"; "Man must suffer forever for his sins".

Here are the bits that I liked:
"words that mimic"; "I imagine a captain"; "Jesus wanders through the tundra"; "body causing an inch to melt".

Overall, I get the feeling that what you are writing about is not important to you in itself. Which is fine.
However, I also get the feeling that you're not sure what you are writing about, and so you've ended up trying to write 'impressive sounding nothing'.
It makes me doubt that you've even glanced at the Bible since Sunday school. Do you know it well enough to use Christian symbolism like this?

[Anonymous No.5738294]

>>5728431
nobody crit me?

[Anonymous No.5738307]

>>5727146
Doing acid and hookers sounds really neat now.

[Anonymous No.5738313]

>>5726545
True art.

[Anonymous No.5738318]

>>5728431
I have no idea what I just read.
Also form. Form is good for you. Have more of it.

[Anonymous No.5738324]

>>5728133
Pretty interesting. You could cut out some unnecessary words, though.

[Anonymous No.5738490]

>>5737279
Got more?

[Anonymous No.5738775]

>>5737263
>>5737279
I really like that one. It manages to sound absolutely disgusted without sounding like it's trying to. It feels authentic, not edgy. My only comment is that the structure and grammar is slippery, but competent editing could nail it down.

Did you draw heavily on personal experience?

[Anonymous No.5738797]

>>5737516

Go take your pathetic angst out on someone else, like your deadbeat dad. I know this is 4chan, but /lit/ generally rises above the status quo >kekekfaggotgokillyourself buffoonery.

[Anonymous No.5738809]

>>5738313

sarcasm or you actually like?

[Anonymous No.5738819]

>>5737516

Take your pathetic post-teenage angst out on someone else, like your probably deadbeat dad. And this isn't the 'real world' lol, this is fucking 4chan, and most people on /lit/ usually rise above the edgy status quo >kekekl2gokillurselffaggot

[Anonymous No.5738821]

>>5738797
Piss off you useless cunt.

/lit/ rises above the status quo *because* it's not full of touchy self-absorbed faggots like yourself who can only take criticism if it's couched in cushy caveats that allow you to escape all hurt feelings and consequently all desire to improve.

If you want to have your literary epeen sucked then I'm sure there's a subreddit waiting for you because that is where people who fall to fucking pieces when they called n00b *as a fucking joke* belong.

If you want to improve then you can come here.

P.S. Go ahead janitor. Delete this too, but it needs to be said. The power of the community lies in its ability to dictate its own standards, and that's what's happening here.

[Anonymous No.5738925]

>>5732817

Hey, thanks pal

[Anonymous No.5738957]

>>5738819
>>5738821

Nah, I deleted the original post because I left something out. Either way, your completely contradicting your initial, so sagacious statement of "this is the real world." And I do want to improve. I want everyone here (except the occasional hyper-autistic-fagg0t-turd) because I don't see the literary world as competitive as some. Great works rise, others sink like lead. So if you honestly want to uphold your viewpoint that this is a board to legitimately improve on your writing, then don't give people advice while fucking insulting them. Humans focus on the positive, and backhanded tips aren't fucking positive. I've been harshly criticized dozens of times here, and I don't take it poorly. I take it as, 'welp, i guess it was shit.' You neither said it was good or shit. You 'fixed' a perceived flaw in my poem, and then threw in a high-low-brow comment that implied this was my first literary rodeo. That isn't advice, that isn't criticism, that isn't a gesture that someone who genuinely wants everyone here to improve, that was a fucking under-swiping ploy at raising your own self-perceived intelligence and literary competence. If you honestly tried to help, you'd say something along the lines of "hey it might sound better if you..." Because otherwise you're just a raging hypocritical faggot who I'll completely forget about after this period.

[Anonymous No.5738975]

>>5738957
>Either way, your completely contradicting your initial, so sagacious statement of "this is the real world."

Guy who offered the original criticism here, that's not me you're talking to.

"l2X n00b" almost literally doesn't count as an insult, for what it's worth. I didn't type it with a shred of hostility - something like that will just make me smile if it's said to me. Now, I did get a bit ticked off when you reacted so poorly, sure.

And I mean, for the record, I'm not "someone who genuinely wants everyone here to improve" - I honestly couldn't care less if you improve or don't. But I saw an obvious improvement in your work and provided it. I'm not going to package every suggestion I make in some cotton wool insulation. You have no control at all over the tone of the feedback you receive and you're only going to stress yourself out trying to assert it. So I'd advise you to relax, basically.

[Anonymous No.5738978]

Pray to dios you had the chance to know,
Factually, even just to meet him,
Gladly having those, the shoes, to grow,
Maybe fill one day, one season,
Oh his kindness blessed souls,
Innumerable, yes in numbers lacking reason,
Incalculable, the good works toll,
If one still does, his pops persistent breathing.

[Anonymous No.5739000]

>>5738957
Jesus fuck, man. I'm not even that guy, but this is a ridiculous amount of mad over "lrn2noun." It's an off-the-cuff, at least semi-ironic piece of internet argot. It's not a personal assault.

>"hey it might sound better if you"
That's just as full of unnecessary tonal cues as the original criticism was. There are different tones for different contexts - anonymous image boards, believe it or not, are not spaces that mandate displays of respect.


And you have the gall to try pointing out to someone else that "this is fucking 4chan," really?

[Anonymous No.5739050]

>>5738975

Fair enough, I overreacted

>>5739000

And gall? Nah, I was just pointing out the fact that this is far from "the real world," it "is fucking 4chan." And, it wasn't so much comment, as it was what it represented. Constructive criticism becomes deconstructed when derision is involved, whether in a respect mandated environment or not. Anyway, I'm over it, I won't act like a screaming toddler again.

[Anonymous No.5739056]

i kind of abandoned this a while ago but i've been thinking of going at it again

http://pastebin.com/0S9Vd8YL

[Anonymous No.5739076]

>>5737495

Some neat ideas, but dude your structure, composition, meter, rhyme, almost everything is unpoetic. It's practically free-verse with line breaks.

[Anonymous No.5739190]

>>5739076
Isn't that just free verse?

[Anonymous No.5739200]

>>5726540
>this thread doesn't have long so I'll repost later
It's difficult to express what was left once he'd opened his eyes. He had been stained by some strong sentiment for sure, but sentiment is diluted in the eyes of a sober mind and the dew of last night's dreams would dry in due time. (ps I hate Jews)
A frustrating attempt to capture the blunt, awkward emotion of the piece was made on a scrap of paper by his bedside: Soaring. Expressive. Nirvana-like? He obviously wasn't cut out for poetry.
Fortunately he didn't need to be, as far as he could recall, the music needed to blow fresh air into a stale mind, was purely instrumental.
At last! Half a thought to grasp at. Dim eyes need bright lights, but this end offered a fleeting lucidity. Orchestral and choral, surely that was it, sweeping and exhilarating. Having never trained classically, specific instruments still eluded him, but it definitely involved strings. The voices were more familiar, soft and comforting amongst the bandsmen's melee. Deep and drawn out like a steady hand on his shoulder.
His transcendence was short lived and as such would not excuse him from going to work. However, for lack of a better description, he certainly felt different.

[Anonymous No.5739538]

>>5739190
no

[Anonymous No.5739575]

>>5739190
>>5739538

yeah, nah

[Anonymous No.5739670]

>>5726540
The subjectivist in me
says I’m already Shakespeare
But I haven’t been paid for my writing
since 2010.
(And I haven’t been paid to write
since 2009.)

I shoot classicists the Jaden Smith brow
when they dare suggest that
Tao Lin, E.L. James and Thomas Pynchon
aren’t inherently equal as artists.
I take the Costanza batting stance
when someone calls Schubert inarguably better than Nickelback.
That’s easy. If you’re real you’ll
kill yourself
mort de l’auteur motherfucker
mort de l’auteur motherfucker

I’m better than Joyce
I’m better than Wallace
I’m better than Cervantes
I’m better than Dante
I’m better than Pound and Stein and Homer and Hesse
I’m better than the whole canon and you can’t debate that
without defining your terms

define “art”
define “linguistic construct”
define “define”
define “better”
define “fuck off you edgy Marx-via-Batman Turdwig Shittgenstein”
define “fuck your postmetamucil”
define “stop viraling your shit on /lit/ you aren’t tao lin”
define “I would insult you by calling you an undergrad but you’re not even that”
define “literary giant”
define “arrogant”

[Anonymous No.5740032]

>>5739670

kolsti, with such an fine way of putting words together, you sure do have a pretty paltry output. write something new kid

[Anonymous No.5740103]

Let's make the critique thread an official /lit/ custom.
Support the idea here >>5740059

[Anonymous No.5740215]

>>5739200
pls critique this, so I can critique your critique

[Anonymous No.5740219]

>>5740215
Read more Stendhal.

[Anonymous No.5740256]

>>5740219
I'd rather wait for the films to come out

[Anonymous No.5740648]

Hey guys I just did a poem. I annotated some parts I'm especially unsure about. Would really appreciate feedback.

Oh, oh the great flood
has come
pouring forth the portentous stone (not feeling this line so much)
my senses numb
Oh, oh the great sea
has risen finally
Oh pure water surrounding me
tastes like blood
(in fact not sure about like half of this)

Oh water of the end days
crushed by the weight and dazed
through spiral and maze
the light faint shines
and a lark's cry, scarcely heard
ode and requiem for a sinking herd

It started like this
by a drop that made the snake hiss
by a drizzle the ark set ablaze
by the rains caving to panic and craze

(is this break necessary?)

And in the final hour I lay
in my watery grave
and I recall someone once say
"You must pay back what you crave" (I should think of something better here)

In grey bedrock I heave weary
shadowy weave sorrounds my throne
I can heard the falls, their enraged moan
droplets falling red like cherries

(again, is this break necessary?)

The rain pours but I am freed
of what sin was my soul cleared?
Not a shadow of being in sight
now how have I earned this hollowed plight?
In this desolate place I found beauty
a stare with cruelty, eyes like ruby (again, this line could be better)

Now my mind came undone
it's cages but rotten bone

The primal sea has dried
bedrock lay exposed and linked
but the chasms remain deep
in fear our eyes are inked
eyes avert the thoughts that creep
they scream "hope in me has died" (really need a better ending than this)

[Anonymous No.5741508]

Fifty-one dreams that drown into the sea,
Bay that wakes at dawn slumbers within me.
Translucent crab claws crawling in the deep
Find homes for stragglers that I sow, you reap.

I see pearl divers hugging dim shores;
Sirens sleep, laughing loves away--Why more?
Children on the beach mix tears with oils
Rubbing such sweet scents on sweltering boils.

Cooing, cawing, calling flying ragged birds--
Glancing upwards my dreams have learned the words.

_ Fleeing,
_ Floating,
_ Flight.

[Anonymous No.5741526]

>>5733822
goant

[Anonymous No.5741611]

>>5740032
I'm not him. I'm not sure if he's done more since.

[Anonymous No.5741617]

Windmill climbing is an occupation that normally involves the technician opening a compartment in the side of the windmill and journeying up a long, cold, somewhat slimy and somewhat small ladder, to do what ever the technician has to do to the poor windmill. Sometimes it involves climbing onto parts of the windmill itself with many ropes and safety gear and potential death looming, always looming, and never afraid to drop on you and send you shooting down to earth like a fallen angel.

Chapter 2
On Jorb's first day climbing windmills at 3:30 he went shooting down to earth like a fallen angel. Pow! It was a sight to be seen, and sadly wasn't seen by anyone. In the comfortable isolation of the countryside, windmills towering like giants of the 17th century, Jorb crashed to earth with the force of two or more suns.

Chapter 3
After Jorb had dusted off his white worker's overalls (now grass stained and wrinkled) and applied a few bandages to his wounds, he immediately started considering his options. He sat down for a moment, watching the giants' automatic arms swipe at something that wasn't there, only to make the same mistake in a few seconds. So many of them, at least forty out here. The sun shone, sitting on the hills and bouncing off of the windmills and directly into Jorb's eyes. He felt like sleeping, felt like laying his head on the grass and turning his head to the stars and feeling the sensation that he may be carried into the sky and through the orange heavens into a space of cold nothing. He shut his eyes, and wasn't lifted off. Woosh! Woosh! He could hear the arms cutting the night. He could hear the chirps of the crickets. He was lifted off into his own mind, and that was

Chapter 4
Then the alarm went off, and at 3:30 AM he went shooting down to earth like a fallen angel. Pow! It was a sight to be seen, and sadly wasn't seen by anyone. In the comfortable isolation of his own home, Jorb crashed to earth with the force of two or more suns.

[Anonymous No.5741803]

He sat alone on a bench in the Sun. The sky was blue, the air was clear, the trees were emerald, shaking and bending in the slightest breeze, narrow necks flexible in the wind. The buildings to the right and left of his seat were plain, tan and made of brick, stacked high, reaching beyond his highest grasp. The street ahead of him, directly across the grey cement courtyard, buzzed with lazy life, activity echoing through the corridor, the day having only begun. His legs were crossed, his hands were folded. His shoes rested untied.

Clouds above him formed images, he looked up and saw little; flowers, dogs, trees. Nothing of note crossed his mind; he was numb.

Behind him, the door opened and footsteps echoed faintly, growing louder as the form approached. She was wearing heels and a dress, her shirt was buttoned to the final button. Her hand rested on his shoulder, he didn't flinch. The breeze died, the sound of the traffic died. The day was quiet, quiet enough to hear him quiver, to hear his chest puff out, ripe with dignity and pride, a facade covering vulnerability and pain.
"I'm so sorry Stephen."
He didn't respond, the breeze picked up again. The trees shook once more, their roots strong, but their branches flimsy and pliable. The leftmost tree, its leaves casting a shadow over the building, cooling the personless roof. The Sun still shone on the courtyard, the young boy and his mother included.
"I'm sorry."
Silence echoed, smothering the noise in a white blanket. Comfort in silence, comfort in silence.
"You couldn't have done anything about it. It's not your fault."
He knew this was a lie, but he didn't say anything. His shoulders fell, his head collapsed into his waiting hands. A line of ants below, searching for food, passed by a drop of water, dropping from his eyes. Whose are these? he thought, the answer appearing obvious to him. Her hand was still on his shoulders, her breath now on his neck. Her head rested on his shoulder; heavy, unreal, impossible. She gave him no comfort, but only added to the weight, pressing down on him. Newton's curse had moved to him, the youngest of his line. The last of his line. The breeze picked up, the Sun still shined. It shined on him, it was warm; the Sun was safe, the life it gave invigorating. Invigorated, he cried. Her head fell even harder against his shoulder.

[Anonymous No.5741810]

>>5741803
I awake on the carpeted, knitted floor. Someone's hands on me, someone feeling my forehead. Moist, my entire body wracked with perspiration. Voices, distorted at first, ring in my ears. Alert, concerned, annoyed. Angry. Angry concern, listing into my open ears. My eyes opened, seeing clothed, concealed ankles. The floor is hard now, the voices are hard now. The red neon light filters through, shades of indecency blind me.
"Hey man, what's wrong?"
I sit up, finding the source kneeled beside me. Blue jeans, washed and worn, paired with a red shirt, buttoned halfheartedly to whatever altitude was deemed necessary in a drunken haze that morning. His breath is warm, vile. Sickening, his goatee is venomous. His words are delivered in a lukewarm vial, and I drink them in an urge of disgust. They go down like a walnut, caught in my throat, caught in my ears, caught in my nose. I can't breathe, I can't smell, I can't hear. I can only hear him, my assailant, my redeemer. I sit up, back stiff but sound, body moving mechanically, if not in my own control.
"Oh you're okay?" he says, standing up, stepping back.
"Yeah, I'm okay," I echo, unsure whether or not that is a lie.
"That fall was pretty nasty, man. I was worried you might have hit your head."
Did I hit my head? It doesn't hurt, but nothing really does.
"Is there anyone I should call?"
Alert, I am alert, afraid. Antonio, where is he? I know where I am now, but I am alone. I pull out my phone in an anxious fit, flipping it open to see the time. 10:44 AM. Hours to go, time hardly passed.
"You weren't out long, so I don't think there's anything to be worried about, but..."
"No, thank you. I'm okay now. Umm, do you have a bathroom I can use?"
"Well yeah, but it's for paying customers only...I think I can make an exception this time, though."
His kindness, mechanical and thoughtless, is accepted. I rush into the restroom, following his finger to a rundown hallway. I open the door, assaulted by white. Dirty, stained white; torn and ragged. The room appears clean, pure, white; but the filth too is evident. A contrast between cleanliness and dirt, like day and night. I step in from of a scratched mirror, initials of long forgotten customers etched within its looking glass dimension; projected on the surface, existing within. I see myself in the blurred reflection: dark brown hair, long and unkempt, streaming out in all directions from my scalp. A green jacket, vagabond and weathered, shields my white shirt from the eyes of others. Blue jeans, plain. My face is red, as if the neon lights has changed my complexion, washing me in a flood of unnatural lighting. The flush is fading, the neon backroom is fading. The fainting is fading, and I am growing stronger, more resolute. The room has disappeared, I am here once more.

[Anonymous No.5741816]

>>5741810
I splash water on my face, water on my jaw. Unhinged, uncontrolled, it chatters, twitchs. My reflection is the same, but I am not. The picture is the same, but I am not. I see her again, hand on my shoulder, face on my shoulder. I couldn't do anything then, but now, now I'll be able to. The light flickers, the toilet to my right flushes, the jangle of a belt filling the room as its patron rises from his seat, prepares to enter my space. I get nervous, afraid to be seen, so I scurry out of the room, slipping around a customer in the main room of the bookstore on my way to the street. The closeness is choking, the room's walls are entrapping me. But the street, the light tickle of wind on my exposed cheek, comforts me, encloses me. I am wrapped in your revelation, I am bathed in your sanctity; your sunlight warms me and I am no longer cold. The street is my shrine and the city my temple.

[Anonymous No.5741822]

>>5739670
Why do people like this? It's trite, written by someone pretending to understand Wittgenstein.

[Anonymous No.5741892]

>>5741822

It reminds me of a song I really like, which shouldn't be taken to indicate that I like it.

[Anonymous No.5741910]

The roots of the tree
extend deep beyond the stone walls.
The velvet moss shrouds the base,
concealing the humble genesis
of the now mighty tree.
Leaned against the wall,
you cry for a memory of a past life unknown
as the wind writes a poem in your hair,
the disheveled locks forming intricate and exquisite verses
indecipherable,
forever lost in the next gust.

[Anonymous No.5741969]

Vacuous eyes, emptied into
Olfactory bulbs, you are nineteen yesterday
Tomorrow twenty years old
Life has been
A rushing whirring ride on the asphalt
You claim that it has been worthwhile
But if you ended it, no one would say you
Were at fault.

[Anonymous No.5741982]

>>5741969
oh yeah, also:

Drumbeat rhythm, echo in the background
Enter into a trance, you think
"Empty, he'll like what he's found."
Sip cup sip cup back to childhood
Giving out yourself
Like you promised Mom you never would.
The lights flash, flush, reflect off the wall
Don't worry darling: given where you started
This wasn't much of a fall.

[Anonymous No.5742034]

“Go get dressed. We can go to the park,” said Alice as she passed down the hallway.

Dan nodded and walked into the bedroom. He opened the closet and all of his things were in the order that he remembered putting them, but Alice’s clothing had displaced everything leftwards. Dan had no idea how everything in this place was so perfectly readjusted to include Alice. It made him question if Alice had actually ever existed before this moment. Dan picked out a roughly matching set of clothes and dressed himself. He walked down the hallway and into his living room.

Alice was standing near the front door. She had already put a leash on his dog, Lucius. The brown terrier pulled the lead out of Alice’s hand and jumped into Dan’s arms. Dan laughed and scratched the dog behind his ears. Lucius squirmed and tried to lick his owner on the ear. Dan hadn't seen his dog for days but this Lucius had been with him in the apartment since he was brought home as a puppy. This Dan, whoever it was that existed before he himself stepped out of the darkness, most likely went on the ritualized morning walk with Lucius down to the bakery. Dan found it amusing that, for once, he and his dog’s feelings of joy after mere hours of being apart were equal; although, in this reality, Dan’s separation was supposed and Lucius’s was actual, and in Dan's reality, his separation was actual, the dog's assumed. He thought back to to the voice and their conversation about the meaning of time. Perhaps it was truly arbitrary, even in a world where ticking clocks and office hours seemingly confirmed its concreteness. Dan had always considered his dog’s supposed short term memory to be a comical oafish trait of a household pet. Perhaps dogs, with their lack of foresight and complete adherence to animal instinct, had no notion of time. They existed in a continually evolving moment and faced hardship as it appeared before them. Dan had found himself doing just that for the past few days, or what he assumed to be days. It all made no difference now.

[Anonymous No.5742069]

In Sheol, nestled deep in the poorest quarter of the city, buried in a forgotten slum under a sprawling tenement complex, out of sight of the royalty up on the hill, lies a special, hidden Museum unlike any other museum in the whole world. Finding it on your own is nigh-on impossible. You’d never know it to look upon it, as its façade is utterly nondescript. I don’t mean to imply it is generic, that it matches the buildings around it, or anything like that, but rather that it has been designed in such a way that it simply defies description. I can only describe it to you in contrast to other buildings, by telling you what kind of building it isn’t, but frankly, I’m not going to waste my time. The brilliance of this utterly unique design is such that you wouldn’t notice anything unusual about it, unless you had an intimate knowledge of it already. It is truly that subtle. I know this is hard to believe, but please, write back to me again when you do at last find it. If you can tell me what the Museum looks like then, I’ll buy you a beer. In any case, if you want to find the Museum, you will need to know its address, and to learn its address you need to know its name, which I won’t tell you here, because that would ruin the fun. This is the trouble for the many young, lonely art critics, painters, photographers, architects, designers, novelists, and playwrights seeking their audience in the Museum, but I’ll help you out just a little.

would you continue reading?

[Anonymous No.5742097]

Half of the Marquessa’s gold piece, she told herself, willing her mind to shift from the boy’s death. Half of the doubloon to make the Key, half of the remainder to be split with de Alcoçaba. She ran the sums in her mind, concluding that she’d come away with something between one and two fifth’s worth of a doubloon in gold. “The same price the King receives for New World gold,” she said softly, amused at the thought of receiving a monarch’s cut. In a single day, she may double or even triple her life savings. If the prices in Havana were similar to those in Seville – and, she estimated, a drop of about half would not be unfair to reason – she had enough for a modest house, for good furnishings, for sheer clothes, a few months pay for a pair or trio of guardsmen, and perhaps enough money to provide for the girls in lean weeks. She beamed at an idea made real; she’d thought she’d need to extort huge fees from the officers of this ship to finance her own brothel once they reached Cuba, and here she would only need to spread her legs once to see it happen. She would have preferred to do it for Óscar or perhaps Jiménez – though for the soldier, she’d doubtless need to take a dose of mercury afterwards to ward off whatever plague he’d picked up from the whores of Holland and Sicily and Istanbul – but no matter, no mind. She clinked the silver coins in the purse hidden in her breasts, wondering what the sound of silver hitting against gold would sound like. Again and again she ran the sums in her head; each time she decided she would need no more, though she reasoned that with another month and a half left on board the ship, she could pursue even more capital, though at her own discretion. She grinned to the night sky, the spread of stars and constellations and a waxing moon, who were the only informants to her new wealth.

[Anonymous No.5742202]

Take these words with you, and please don’t return them,
rewind, fast forward, play them or pause them, they’re just stills
of the cheap thrills that weren’t had

Maybe now these chills will let me sleep.
But going to bed only thinking of you is blistering cold
You built a throne that no bone could reach.
This is as far as I’ll breach.

But even you can’t fit your own mold.
These legions of bacteria crawling with their stepping feet poison-coated, their torn banners filth-ridden,
their golden eyes gleaming with ardent fire
from your skin to mine.

This war has just begun.

[Anonymous No.5742280]

>>5741910
Quite lovely. Good focus.

[Anonymous No.5742285]

Carl was seated at the grimy old bar, one of his favourite haunts. The game was playing through a haze of fuzz on an old 6-inch television screen, and Kentucky had just won - the implications of this victory were at a loss to him. He drained his glass. Carl stood up with some effort and exited through the creaky old door that the owner in twenty years of management and twenty years of creaking had never managed, or bothered, to un-creak.
Carl got outside and crossed the street, getting caught in a streak of vomit sailing through the window of a passing taxicab - soaring gelatinous and brown through the air and splattering in a liquid gunk across his coat. Carl cursed the taxicab and made an obscene gesture, which was not returned nor responded to. It was one of those grey, fluidous nights on the cusp of winter; not cold enough for a coat, not warm enough not to have one. Carl was sweating under his rather heavy, old and now soiled coat as he sauntered up the steps to his pad.

Carl lived with three roommates in a one-bedroom apartment, but there were typically at least four others loafing about the apartment seated on sofas or floors. These others were typically his roommate Marcus' "friends," who lay in varying states of intoxication of various substances, the intensity of which, Carl noticed, seemed to have a positive correlation with the length of their hair.

Carl opened the door to his apartment and was greeted by a sour, familiar stench which promptly made itself at home in his nostrils and which he knew was impossible to evict. He saw in the dark a sleeping figure just beside the door, and shut it softly. Carl, on tip-toes, carefully felt his way along the wall, and just as he knew he was about to reach the corner of the room he had claimed for his mattress, he tripped and fell face-first on another sleeping figure.

"Waaagh!" the figure cried, and as if by magic the lights suddenly came on.

[Anonymous No.5743507]

>>5742285

It's very readable. But you want "lost on him" instead of "at a loss to him".

[Anonymous No.5743996]

>>5726540
I came here for the picture. I now have a boner. So much for SFW board

[Anonymous No.5744023]

Count Baldwin's Monologue

I came with God in heart, and leave with blood on hand
From Heavensent was wills of God to stain
the sand
Nicaea had fallen, by steel and by faith
We purged the land of Turks, we wore His face
The life of men had spilled, and born was lust
for grand
Godvera! Godvera! Oh, How I mourn your death,
for gone with breathe are claims to wealth and land
But Thoros, good Thoros, unable good Thoros
With cries for aid he came, oh morose
Forgive, Father, for Edessa I sin
For power, greed, and gold, betrayed are kin
Now Godfrey passed, the Holy Land awaits
So onward I travel, eyes fixated on Gates
May
I turn ill, stricken with grief
Return me God, adorn thorned wreath.

[Anonymous No.5744334]

My dad raped me.

[Anonymous No.5744927]

>>5726550
"written by T. E. Malick"

[Anonymous No.5744985]

I've been working on this for a week. It's coming together quite nicely so far.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WQaODp4D6GM3NTFLRqHakFROPKEpk1sgnKpYdU3hf_c/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.5745131]

Here, critique I wrote this a while ago didnt really do anything after it yet. Any recommendations and critiques?


He remembered his youth the fresh fruits, the tall grass, and the walls that once protected him all those years ago. He remembered the catacombs that laid beneath the city ; the buried the bodies and the ruins, the statues, the fire, the death. He remembered those in particular, the thoughts that overwhelmed his childhood memories.
The Suns rose over the great Aurie Desert casting twin shadows over the barren landscape. He halted, gazing into its magnificent beauty. It had been months since he had been able to experience such a sublime event. Their Splendor never ceased to amaze him. This feeling of wonder, reminded him of the days he would spend hours watching the suns paint the sky gold and violet. The days of innocence, ignorance, and safety,feelings that had long departed from him. The desert seemed to stretch before him like a wide ocean. A sea of dust and sand, only to be ended by mystic mountains which had no end in sight. This illusion filled him with both enticement, and dread. He refocused himself as he slowly made his way to the speeder, the volantis; sitting on its cushion. He stared at his destination the mountains; which lay beneath voluminous and dismal storm clouds casting their dark shadows. Beyond the mountains was where had to go he thought to the mainland...
He thought of the catacombs the corridors between the walls which which led to the underbelly of the city.He remembered what he had found.....and what had happened.

"I dont know why i would come" he thought. He could still see the lucid images of his burning city, his families charred bodies and his father's final words. He grasped the pendant around his neck, his father's final gift and it weighed heavy on his soul. He thought of his fathers last, undying words......

Silence.

He stayed on the cliff watching the sunrise; there was a legend which said if one were to watch the suns rise on Iggnimarri one could see the birth of life itself. He knew that it did not hold the secret to life. The stories of the mainland, the palemen their flying machines; childrens stories and old fables.
The suns slowly rose , their great illusion of twilight had disappeared. His time of idleness had come to an end. He activated his machine, it dispersed the surrounding rocks and sand as it moved forward.

[Anonymous No.5745159]

I realized I had forgot the feeling of sunlight
On the final day of rain
I withdrew my umbrella and looked in the mirror
On the final day of rain
I took up arms to break my defenses
On the final day of rain
I remembered who I had loved
On the final day of rain

[Anonymous No.5745181]

i’m Photophobic
thas why the shades
jus lifted em off the rack
an about
the jacket
it’s cuz ride
cuz can’t afford much gas
cuz the kid
is sick
he weren’t born right
cuz his momz a coked up cunt
cuz her dad did fuck ‘er
n’ so did
which’s why ’m in this
rut
cuz my dick don’t work
when ’m fucked up
so the rubber slipped right off
n’ rotten worm
foun rotten apple
ch’is why ’m in this
rut
ch’is why they
give me
hair gel free
n’ tell me
keep it real
cuz i’m the new damn Fonzie
n’ i guess i’m Cool
with that

[Anonymous No.5745183]

The tension broke with the rustling of leaves. Four eyes now fixated on the bushes across the blood stains across the tiled yard. Tarzan and Dixon looked at each other, both unsure of their apprehension as surely what they had just witnessed was far more terrifying than a creature in a nest. Yet, eight paws now snuck towards the source of the sound. Tarzan slowly stuck a paw underneath the twigs, and Dixon gulped at the cat's eyes suddenly going wide. However, the climax was verily disappointing. "Oh look. Lunch." Tarzan remarked, rather condescendingly, after uncovering the speckled rat. "Don't you try murder me too!" exclaimed Monty.

[Anonymous No.5745226]

>>5744927

Who is that/what am I missing?

[Anonymous No.5745302]

>>5745181
I can't really tell what this is but I like it. I'd change "rubber" to "condom" since the rest of it reads very Detroit Ebonics-ish and that part seems distinctly European.

>>5745131
Work on your grammar, m8, especially in regards to commas and capitalization. I think your idea is good, but the actual writing needs a bit of work. Is this part of a longer piece?

Can someone help me out with my thing? I've rewritten this sentence twenty times and I don't know if I should trash it or not. Any advice?

She liked two-dollar bills; envied their ability to brighten someone’s day not through some learned skill or developed talent (things accessible or achievable to anyone with enough time, patience, and practice; and therefore not special, she felt), but through their inherent, unworked-for desirability—imposed upon them by others like an outwardly-radiating light; a small, compact sun, swallowed and glowing.

[Anonymous No.5745317]

" I told you things I couldnt even tell myself."

[Anonymous No.5745364]

>>5745302
Yeah it's part of a longer story. I wrote It on my phone so it's kind of expected. Any tips to improve my prose?

[Anonymous No.5745367]

Oh god help there's an insert noun here stuck in high school poetry mode someone fucking kill me please inset noun here fucks the fucking fucker as the fucking fucker shitposts on the internet as insert noun here as insert noun here as insert noun here as insert noun here as dehumanize yourself and face to nothing dehumanize yourself and face to nothing dehumanize yourself and face to nothing denothingize yoruself and face to humanity dehumanze OH THE HUMANITY

[Anonymous No.5745443]

>>5733921
Way over-dramatic language. Not that dramatic language is bad in itself, but you're using it clumsily. Also, too much "strongverbed to the adjective noun." Not every word needs a description latched onto it like that, it makes the prose clumsy.

Not bad overall though, you clearly put emotion into the piece, and the scene was interesting. Good luck

[Anonymous No.5745623]

Hair

thread like strands
growing from cracks
in human skin
cut it,
cover it,
it won't keep you warm

[Anonymous No.5745640]

>>5745302

Thanks for the critique.

I think you might be belaboring your message a bit much here. The idea is interesting, and certainly a good lens for character development, but the prolix makes the meaning of the passage at once too obvious and a bit too didactic.

So, I would suggest reining it in some, letting the significance of the objects speak for itself.

The section in parenthesis is not necessary (unless you are really trying to drive home the incongruity of this woman's bitter objectivity/ fascination with objects of special meaning)

There is good meat here, it you can trim away the fat.

[Anonymous No.5747213]

Alright, I never post in these threads but I figure I could do with some constructive criticism. This is a bit from a short story I'm writing about a German soldier in World War II who's not only dealing with the horrors of war, but it heavily addicted to Pervitin. Pervitin is basically meth that was prescribed to German troops to keep them alert and awake.
A soldier lay dead against the wall, his uniform identifying him as German. The joy I feel at the sight of a body of one of my own is disconcerting. Mostly because I feel I should be more revolted with myself. Isn’t this the lowest act a man could do? Desecrating the corpse of a fellow countryman? Looting the bodies of your own army? It does not matter. He is dead, I am not. Not yet.

With a shaky hand I reached into the pockets of his trenchcoat and between the wool I find what I am searching for. That round cardboard packet, mostly empty but better than nothing. And what it contains is better than anything. Pervitin. I ran my finger across the label before pocketing it. The soldier’s other pockets were empty but for five rounds of ammunition. I took them. I would need one if I could not find any more Pervitin tomorrow.

I no longer sleep much. Instead I sit and think. I often wonder about the war. Are we winning? I suppose I do not care. I never did care. I feel no love for this country. No love for the Fuhrer who dragged me away from my home and family. I have stopped wondering about my family. I only pray that the Red savages have not crossed lines into my home town. I have seen the disgraceful acts they are capable of. That is perhaps the only reason I want us to win the war: to deprive the Russians of victory. But I suppose I do not really care.

What do you think /lit/?

[Anonymous No.5747336]

“All I can do is keep moving forward and hope that it all works out.” John said. “Hope that we can get back to the way it was, and all will be good again.”
“But it can’t.” I argued. “You can’t change the past, and the past is what defines the present. So how the fuck do you want to go about getting back to the way it once was?”
“How the fuck do I know Sasha? I just know that we were great once, and I believe that we can be again.”
“Really, John?”
“Yes, Sasha.”
“After what you did to me, and after how you tore my fucking heart out, you want to believe that we can go back!” I yelled at him now.
“Jesus Christ. We’ve been through this before, haven’t we?” He asked. “I mean, I have done worse things than just fuck around, and we have gotten over them. But now that I have done it for the god-knows-how-manyeth time, you have to get your tits stuck all over it?”
“John. You. Fucked. My. Sister.” I said.
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. How could I expect you to?”
“It was a Halloween party, everyone was wearing masks and we never took them off.”
“How would you feel if I fucked your brother? Huh?”
“Depends on the circumstances.” He said. “And this happened a year ago.”
“Oh, so because it was a year ago, it doesn’t matter as much?”
“Fuck this.” He said and threw up his arms. “I’m leaving.” He stood to go, and before he left he slammed his hands down flat on the table and looked me in the eyes. “Goodbye, Sasha.” And so, he was gone. I put my face in my hands and started to cry.
“Mom?” Daniel asked from the doorway to his bedroom. I looked up at him and felt my chest drop. Had he been listening the whole time? My hands were covered in mascara and I could feel the black tears running down my face.
“It’s okay dear.” I said and hugged him. Despite his small body, he wrestled free and went into his room, closing the door. “Daniel.” I spurted out, but he was gone as well. I broke down, sat up against the wall and cried my eyes dry.

[Anonymous No.5747356]

I'm trying an entirely new style to what I usually do. I'm wondering whether it ends up sounding overwrought, dreary or pretentious:

"As they left the field, pregnant with their morning's work they left behind the few trees their lands afforded them and the one gate that opened for the public with palms of rust and stilted shoving. From here on the world fell out into a hallway of cavernous ribs that swallowed in the grey sky and sucked its bones into the heathers and becks and pastures that worry livestock and children. The three of them walked in parallel deference to the drystone wall which dug across the families' property and which had never once retained a gap in it for more than three months. When Daniel reached out and touched the caps that covered the top It made him think of pretty things like blood and dirt and he wished his hands were covered in both. Twisted into the centre of the valley, perfectly visible but still miles from the men, was the family home which wore its maiden armour of slate and lime, the only addition that could be said to be new was the chimney that peeked out from the flags with smoke stillborn in its throat. "

[Anonymous No.5747410]

Clearing house list, please give any of these critique

Prose
>>5732540
>>5732846
>>5733624
>>5733811
>>5734641 (probably more troll than not)
>>5735341
>>5735903
>>5739056
>>5741617
>>5741803
>>5742034
>>5742069
>>5742097
>>5744985
>>5745183
>>5747213
>>5747336
>>5747356

Poetry
>>5726928
>>5727969
>>5732180
>>5733955 (benefit of the doubt on this one)
>>5734613
>>5735202
>>5735211
>>5735235 (it seems trolls have better form at times)
>>5735304
>>5735308
>>5735367
>>5735490
>>5735622
>>5738978
>>5740648
>>5741508
>>5741969
>>5741982
>>5742202
>>5744023
>>5745159
>>5745623

Trolls (who still need critique because 1/10 this is first reply)
>>5727864
>>5733688
>>5733932
>>5744334
>>5745367 (or severe pomo)

[Anonymous No.5747412]

>>5739000
he's right, though. the best and most constructive discussions on the internet are the ones where people conduct themselves like they would in real life. saying things like "lrn2noun" with a smirk would have you instantly recognized as an annoying twerp, the kind you're shocked and disgusted to encounter after high school, and dread to see open their mouths if you're unfortunate to end up in a writing workshop with. because they never do end up saying anything worth the snideness, and absolutely never anything more useful than what the people you look up to do.

[Anonymous No.5747422]

>>5747412
m8, you should read some real rejections. Veronica Geng had some great ones, and she was reviewing and esteemed by people like Roth. A competent editor is more worthwhile than any editor who cares about you as a person, that is not at all what they or you are there for. [not saying that guy's competent but that you're incompetent at judging real world critique]

[Anonymous No.5747442]

>>5747422
I'm not familiar with Veronica Gang. Did she also resort to childish pettiness and stock phrases in her criticisms?

[Anonymous No.5747484]

>>5731973

Continue this. It's a great idea.

[Anonymous No.5747518]

>>5747442
Geng, not gang. And yes she could be childish and use stock phrases but considering those are often a stylistic approaches, and she was the fucking master of stylistic approaches of all forms, that is hardly surprising.

Your butthurt about "a totally different anon to me being critiqued" suggests you won't have to progress beyond that stylistic approach because you're undereducated in the medium enough to not recognise Geng, the appropriate use of critique/style, and I'd guess this stems from being a girl, but my only reference for that is that I've only known girls to be this petty when cited with real reviews they'll refer back to their original problem with their bf ITT. I'm guessing full B cup minimum since you're also so adverse to critique based on the work, but seem willing to passively aggressively try to tackle any outside interference in your dogged pursuit of labelling some anon childish, even when that interference relates to good writing. I don't even know if he was childish because I can't be bothered to quote chain your argument, but your response from an adult could only come from someone abnormally sheltered from any actual criticism, which makes you more likely to be a girl most people watch jiggle rather than actually listen to. I'll follow their suit, maybe someone else will come make you feel less lonely later, but I have no desire to sort out your problems with your original boyfriend for this thread.

[Anonymous No.5747548]

>>5747356
I know you want to be like McCarthy but the whole idea of having super ornate Gothic style writing is to have a clear powerful image of despair. Before going to the extent of the new Weird, new Gothic or Southern Gothic writers with their Post-Symbolist hallucinogenic excess try to get the clear images of a Lovecraft or Poe. Letting things go wild gives rhythm but at the cost of the pure image so if you aren't a Kerouac who can maintain the style and the narrative basically this is not what you want to do.

[Anonymous No.5747553]

>>5747518
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40Dw1Q2jvsY

[Anonymous No.5747559]

>>5734098
fuck it

[Anonymous No.5747568]

lmao did someone really explode this thread over getting a piece of negative criticism

welcome to /lit/

[Anonymous No.5747576]

>>5747553
Add misplaced characterisation alongside the lack of stylistic knowledge problem if you thought the poster you were responding to was male from that sentence length. Let's not spoil the thread for everyone when we could squabble over thread related stuff: why not just link what you wanted to be critiqued and I'll point out positives like that time you didn't spell things wrong.

[Anonymous No.5747589]

>>5747576
>>5737508
jesus christ stop constantly trying to bazinga the other person and grow up you two

[Anonymous No.5747684]

>>5747576
I had no notion of the poster's gender.

Serious response: were the contents of Geng's remarks (and I assume you're referring to critiques and not saucy rejection letters) equivalent to "l2mellifluosity n00b"?

[Anonymous No.5747691]

>>5747548

Interesting advice. I will definitely give Lovecraft and Poe a read and try to work on making the imagery more concrete rather than sort of abstract. I am very much looking to make a powerful image of despair in this story though so I guess keep a similar style but try to be less, I don't know, vague?

[Anonymous No.5747738]

>>5729418
>http://pastebin.com/gAgwKFuf
i liked it

[Anonymous No.5747800]

>>5747213

The basic advice of "show don't tell" applies very strongly here. You should never write something like "I should feel more revolted with myself" in a story like his. These are some enormous concepts that you are dealing with here and you shouldn't be able to get through them in one small paragraph.

[Anonymous No.5747844]

>>5747684
Yes.
Probably why anon suggested The New Yorker editing and contributing staff could do their jobs excellently while being more mean than that.

[Anonymous No.5747863]

>people are still talking about my "l2mellifluosity n00b"

If only my actual output could generate as much discussion as my feedback. I've long suspected I was cursed to be an editor, lol.

Again, there was no hostility behind it. 'l2X n00b' is virtually the chan equivalent of "Here's how you should do it, mate" or similar. I don't even know how many years it's been since I used it or saw it used and felt or observed anyone else feeling anything resembling insult. Baffling.

[Anonymous No.5748189]

I need some help >
I have a main character with no ambitions or value for himself. He's in university and his roommate is a sociopath. I need a way to somehow convince my main character to kill people or help the sociopath kill people in some way.
I can't think of anything.

[Anonymous No.5748307]

"Do you know what the most convenient phrase in the world is? It's 'I'm sorry.' Anyone who hears such is obligated to forgive, no matter how angry or hurt they may be... There is no more disgusting phrase in all the world."

"It's used to displace your suffering onto others so you can escape your sins, as the moment you employ it, the suffering becomes the other person's. A thing can be unforgivable, but oh, if they apologize... I say there's no reason to accept that suffering. You don't have to forgive them. Cast aside the mask of your conscience."

[Anonymous No.5748314]

>>5747576
>>5747589

I dropped it already. That's someone else.

[Anonymous No.5748450]

>>5748189
Sociopath found his nudes and blackmails him.

[Anonymous No.5748470]

>>5748189
Sociopath springs it on him one day when they're waiting for pizza
>okay you get spanner this time
>...wat?
>seriously man I'll still dig the hole but I can't do all the work
>why is there blood on this spanner?
>your fingerprints are on it too. how did you think we were getting free pizza all this time?
>...i-i've been paying you
>okay fine you don't have to pay any more but you're digging the next hole out back
>dingdong.wmv

[Anonymous No.5748502]

>>5748189

And so I learned that familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer evenings may lead as well to prisons as to innocent, untroubled sleep.

[Anonymous No.5748678]

>>5746202

http://pastebin.com/32LTdM1P

> It did not seem right to the detective Z. Zhuang that he should be dying in such a clean and sterile room on such a bright January day. He had lived his life in the malarial heat of the narrow Hong Kong streets among the human fauna. He yearned for the smell and the feel of it all once again: the resinous, mossy head notes, that solid wave of damp air that crashed into you when you stepped outside; the ardent, polluted heart notes, black particles of exhaust spiraling into the atmosphere endlessly from engines; and the final, swarming, oppressive base notes, of congestion and people and industry.

feedback on my completed 1800 short story?

[Anonymous No.5748806]

My story moves pretty slowly, so i decided to use a "Chapter 0" as in media res. Would you give a story a chance after reading this?

Chapter 0. Where and How
Here I am, standing in the middle of the forest, with a dead body at my feet, a bloodied axe in my right hand and nutjob looking at me with a stupid grin on his face. He chuckles to himself and says.
 “I really thought you would pull out before this, wow man, just, wow”, he says surprised while looking at the corpse.
 I start feeling frustrated and respond, “What the hell are you talking about. “
 “Here you are, with the corpse of your gay lover at your feet. His blood and a murder weapon on your hands. His blood is covering your face. He sure was a squirter. How does it feel?”
 “What, the blood?” I say sarcastically.
 “I like how this is the first thing that comes to your mind now. After all this, you’ve really changed. No you idiot, I’m talking about the only person you ever showed emotion to being dead by your hand.”
 “I. I don’t know. I just sort of shut off at some point. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
That nutjob just looks at me, with his jaw locked into a smile while looking around.
 “Well? When did you ‘shut off’? When we met? When you and your lover here met? When we started driving out here? Tell me, Alex. When did you give up on yourself?”

[Anonymous No.5748881]

Breasts punned forward.
Tongue out flat.
Showercurtain stained with sweat.
Cold Tiles and pussy wet.
Naked feet and Hard nips.
I'll go on you first i call dips.

[Anonymous No.5748902]

h-hey guys, I wrote this really short philosophical essay today for the fun of it, i'd really appreciate any feedback I can get on the idea or writing. I know it looks a bit wall-of-textish, I haven't added paragraph breaks yet, but it's a quick read

http://pastebin.com/L6v8KX6i

[Anonymous No.5748936]

>>5748881
I lay you down softly on your back.
Bathtub bed i can't keep track.
I put my tongue between those soft lips.
With my hands i grab those hips.
You pant softly as i fundle your breats.
This is when the bed is not for rest.
I roll my tongue from mouth to nip.
Kissing your earlobe makes you flip.
The air becomes humid you start to pant.
As i widen the way you squeel and tremble.
The whisper of words makes your uterus reassemble.
You pant softly as i push my way in.
Lips tight i kiss and begin.

[Anonymous No.5748939]

(1/2)

Algernon is lying on the leather couch. He can remember being upright (yes of course, he was sitting right in the middle of the couch. He remembers spending quite a lot of time trying to center himself perfectly) but he can’t recall when his torso slid to the side. It doesn’t matter, now Algernon’s head is resting on the armrest, his arms strewn in front of him, limply bent in subtle angles. He tries to lift his head to see if his rear is still in the middle of couch but his neck gives out and his head drops back to the brown leather cushion. He really did put a lot of work into sitting on the middle of the couch. Algernon hopes his work hasn’t been undone. Suddenly the sound of Gerald’s voice slips back into his spectrum of attention. Algernon looks up at Gerald, who is pacing back and forth, leaning on his cane. He walks to the mantlepiece, steadies himself, then turns around and walks to the painting of the god Neptune on the opposite wall. Algernon wonders if the painting would be damaged if Gerald were to lean on it. Gerald’s words begin to clarify in Algernon’s ears.

“...and that’s all this is. What life is, Algernon. Dreams upon dreams. The individual can not tell the difference between dreaming and waking life. He can however be sure that he is not on a level of consciousness lower than his present resting place… consider a dreaming man. He is sure that he is conscious, which he is not, but if he was thinking dreams in his dream, he would know he was not dreaming in the dream, when in reality he is only dreaming… I’m having a bit of trouble making myself clear, Algernon. Do you understand?”

Algernon moves his head in agreement. Maybe less in confirmation of his understanding, but at least to show that he is listening.

[Anonymous No.5748944]

>>5748939
(2/2)

“Good. That’s good, Algernon. Where was I going… mm, the dreaming man. The dreaming man may not be aware that he is dreaming, but he is aware that he is not dreaming within his dream, which to him is just dreaming. Algernon, maybe a better way to visualize this would be to imagine a tall building with many floors. But these floors are made of glass, see Algernon? You can look below you and see all of the floors that you are not on, that are below you. However Algernon, no one looks above them. Everyone assumes that they are on the top floor because they do not see any floors above. Algernon, I am trying to look up and I know you are doing the same. I have not looked up yet, I am learning how, but I have embraced the idea that there could be many more floors above me. Perhaps this building is infinitely tall, and there is no highest level of consciousness. Perhaps the higher levels are reserved for the dead, maybe they are reserved for the unborn, perhaps for the enlightened. Or perhaps I am at the top level and my pursuits are without purpose. Either way Algernon, it is crucial that I find my way to look upwards. I feel that there is more waiting for me.”

Algernon understands and appreciates Gerald’s message but feels no need to respond. He shifts and slowly rolls over onto his stomach, his face nuzzled in between the couch cushion and the armrest. He hopes he’ll remember to take this position on the couch again some time in the future, it’s quite comfortable. He hears Gerald laugh

“Why Algernon, you seem to still be looking down! Don’t you want to learn your place?”

Algernon hears Gerald collapse into the loveseat.

[Anonymous No.5748950]

>>5748902

Not bad, isn't this basically kantianism, though?

[Anonymous No.5748960]

>>5748950
I honestly have no idea, I don't read much philosophy (starting to read more now) but I've always had that belief. I'll have to check it out thought, I've been looking for a philosophy that's similar to mine

[Anonymous No.5749121]

The night gapes. This is the first observation I recall making, as with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow I peered into the darkness of the trail. It had been a hard trudge. The preceding miles had been as cold and as bitter as the long hours of the troop’s winter parade. But where they had marched jovially, with instruments and weapons bourn to the sky in pomp and pride, we had skulked, with talking forbidden and a silence of foot and profile encouraged. Those who would become my fellows in travel had fallen to the readying of the carriage, and I commence this account myself cradling the fragile flame of a freshly stricken match:

Here's the first paragraph to the first draught of a book I've been writing. How does it sound? Do you want to read more?

[Anonymous No.5749141]

>>5738324

the unnecessary words are important for its bloated and bloviating funniness

[Anonymous No.5749338]

>>5748450
Include hyperbolic outrage about the implicit sexual assault of viewing someone's nudes. Parody J-Law but do it in a way that it won't be dated two months ago. Make it a general satire of sensitivity.

[Anonymous No.5751292]

>>5748902
Hey buddy, I read through it all. It's great; if you had written something like this a few hundred years ago, it might have made it into a textbook.
My advice would be to keep writing and expanding, and to avoid making any hasty conclusions.

[Anonymous No.5751413]

>>5748902
I enjoyed it, really nicely written and with good clear language

[g-g-g-garlic No.5751423]

http://pastebin.com/EDqP914Q

[Anonymous No.5752119]

When Carl exited the bathroom stall, he was not too surprised to see Malik stand across the room, washing his hands. Still apprehensive. To Carl, the room felt shrunken and claustrophobic, but to Malik, the distance between them was tremendous. Malik had practiced this beforehand. His eyes wandered along the mirror just in time to catch Carl's gaze. According to script, he shone up in surprise and turned off the tap.
"Hey!" Claustrophobic and tremendous.
"Hey." Carl replied and raised his brow.
"You were really good back there."
Carl walked towards the sink, it was his turn. "Oh, yeah, thanks."
"Was it hard to write something up for tonight?" Malik inquired. It was a shallow curiosity, Carl could tell, from Malik's slightly rose skin and wide stare.
"Sure, but we managed to pull it together." Eternal and ephemeral.
The two men looked at each other for a moment, Carl smiled at the other and turned for the door. "Hey, wait."
Carl knew what was coming, even before Malik's hand would fetch his. He knew that when he turned around he would see a pair of longing, confused, and disappointed eyes. And with it, a defensively happy smirk. Malik had a talent for making him feel guilty.

[Anonymous No.5752129]

>>5726783

[Anonymous No.5752911]

>>5726540
I can't help but feel
pity for the flower.
It lives a life of beauty,
objectified,
only
to wilt
alone.

It is fragile,
despite it's thorns.
Upon it's death,
no one mourns.
It's entire existence
is
irrelevant
in the grand scheme of things.

Perhaps I should
empathize,
for my existence
isn't
any
more
significant.

Even if I were
a rose
in a field of
flowers,
I can never be
beautiful.
I'm just like
all the others.

We are nature's slaves.

[Anonymous No.5754083]

Do you see?
Was it even meant to be?
Somewhere deep within
Lies a sin

Walking through the lonely road
You bring your hand out
But nobody dare holds
Your secrets start to unfold

Somewhere in the wilderness
Lays your soul and your body
Complete in it's own bitterness
One's disrespect towards privacy

[Anonymous No.5754459]

>>5726540
I sat upon my head the burden of trust; Many times have I failed, yet the weight still pulls me under. To Know me, I, have forgotten. Truth will never reveal to me, the nature of my aspiration.

Lost and awayness would guide my inhibition. Cold and dark surround me. perpetual stasis.

[Anonymous No.5754478]

I was burnt down to the core of my wicks.
I am broken, overused torn up chewed spit up and once Crossfaded
Moreover than drunk and high, I am full of spite, poisoned, full-on jaded.
My feelings and experiences are broke
I just can’t bring myself to cope
Maybe I’m weak, maybe I’ve already hit my peak
All I know is that I am rushing on my way
To bottoming out this ride and packing my bags,
Moving onto my next thrill on this highway or that
But it’s no roller coaster ride, I am carried out by a tide with this I cannot abide
This is how it goes:

Rise

Starts out vapid and indifferent
Just like any other thing, just like anything new.
The metal hook claws deep into your meaty cheek
You’re strung up captive in a world that you love
Love is always in the air when an addiction starts
That seeping sleepy vapor that conquers the room,
It brings you up into the sky and fills you with whatever it has
And you’re used and its used and you feel
Like you’ve found the thing you’ve been looking for your whole life
But it’s not that way, pleasure always blows the horn of coming strife.
And right after you’ve lifted your way up the steps to the orange juice sun
It fills you with chemicals, fills you with its semen and its spice
and you feel important just like those men in the history books
Or those singers and writers you all dance and make up in your mind
It is just the mad hammerings of brains trying to see the world in a false light
A place of just objects and nothing else, a place that is what it is.
One day you’re out and about, you see it like it is and you feel a cloud come out
It’s here to stay, pleasure doesn’t hang on for the long ride

Descent

Too big, too small, people are ugly and you are pretty.
You can’t see your reflection you don’t see with your eyes
You brain makes it all up it is just a poor disguise
The place turns down It all goes to hell quite fast
Your life is gone, your goals all a blur
It is just a moment among moments
It’s not like living in the present, it’s not like living in the past,
It is living inside of the embers of that broken kingdom that you thought would never die
It is just orchestra though, it’s all predetermined.
But the cycle won’t end.
You can’t stop it once it has started
the gears can’t be undone you won’t set yourself up on the wheels


Bottom
It is burning down here, you still feel like you’re falling. It’s like the waves you feel after hours against the surf. I am no one’s man, my work is the only thing that I have called. I tell myself I have gotten over it, but there is just nothing I can do about it. I just sit against the hard concrete wall and feel the earth spin on its axis. I am very well hated, now.
Just jaded.

[Anonymous No.5754503]

>>5748902
beautifully articulated, but it is elementary idealism at best. I would like to see more from you in the future.

[Anonymous No.5754507]

>>5754083
Doesn't really have anything tying it together, there is no real cohesive object to focus on.
>>5754459
Really too short to say much of worth, that last rhyme is nice though.
>>5752911
Bad use of lines
>only
>to wilt
>alone
should be
>only to wild
>alone
The whole thing is fragmented incohesive by the jagged lines.
>>5752119
Very nice. 1960s postmodern ironic nice. Keep on trucking. I'd just introduce your characters better.

[Anonymous No.5754514]

>>5748936
Jesus christ a poem about a fat girl you fucked in a bathtub that was too small for her.
Goddamn man that is so nasty, especially how you believe and present it in a way that makes it seem romantic and passionate, when all you're doing is describing this one time you fucked a dirty fat girl in a dirty fat tub. Atleast act like Bukowski and put a little bit of humor in it. It's like making a Trailer Park gang seem like the Godfather.

[Anonymous No.5754531]

>>5754083
>>5754507
It is about one not minding his own business about another, etc

[Anonymous No.5754576]

>>5754531
I'm not saying there is no deeper meaning, but there is no focus.