Critique Thread

your language is interesting, but the tabs take away from it
keep it consistent or remove it, it honestly detracted from it (constantly trying to figure out why you had spaces for some lines, and not for others)
seems blake inspired?
also i have no clue what the poem is about, which can be good or bad

revised based on previous feedback:

I'M OP

I'M GONNA FUCKING COOM

I'M COOMING OH GOD I'M A FUCKING COOMER AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

UUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGG
UUUHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGG

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

for starters nascent is an adjective, not a noun.

your prosody needs serious work. your words don't "flow" in any meaningful sense

God's in my red heart
Red only comes from the dark blue
Blue acting like red

Seems generic, nothing makes it stand out amongst the other better drinking songs

still iterative
consider new source material?

>nascent is an adjective, not a noun

You know, I learned the word from a Lenin essay awhile back and misread the definition when I looked it up. Then I checked again and realized it’s a synonym closer to “embryonic” than the active adjective/verb of “budding ”, so ill rework that thanks for the catch. I don’t really understand the latter comment.

Will keep this in mind. My spacing is aesthetically considered but not substantially relevant to the poem. I do it for the sake of experimenting with music in a vain similar to Marianne Moore or Andrew Joron. This poem was mostly Dickinson inspired though, but I see how that can be related to Blake. Thank you for the feedback.

Seems like a joke, in a way. Like if you were to tell the hero's journey, but only with its base variable names so as to parody the template's true simplicity. Puts me somewhere between scratching my head and rolling my eyes, but I don't have strong feelings about it either way.

bump

you could just use nascence

>Seems generic

I’m not bothered you don’t care for my song, I think generic is an odd choice of criticism though as I’m scratching my head trying to think of other songs in such a style about bare knuckle boxing.

Im not him but hes not wrong. I called it derivative of the genre in my crit too. Our point is that you aren't adding anything to the style, it just feels like a replica. There's nothing interestingly artistically.

I'm fond of Jesus
but I hate Paul
christ's teachings, he corrupted them all

__

not him but it feels dishonest/constructed and not genuine, I doubt you've really lived that life

One word review edition:

Insipid
Transparent
Outlet?
Sandy
Peef
Generic
Myopic
No

Of course I have lived that life, I really am an illiterate dry cooper whose wife died of smallpox. What made you think otherwise?

Cavalier kings,
Charles and his ilk
bearing milk—sun-kissed,
and tickled pink, she wagged her finger
inside my sphincter.
Such a warm love
coming from above,
she catches it with her heart
and her mouth.

Cock.

Cheers—

I write this to you with no expectation that it reaches your sweet, silky eyes. How do I know they're silky? I drugged you one night when we were together and pulled your eyelids up so I could feel the sclera of your eyeballs with my tongue—it was so beautiful and intimate I think of it every time I smell tears, or the petrichor of a midsummer's rain. Chancey has stopped coming around to the shop, and there's word that he's left for good. I told Marriott to drop a letter off at his door, and she told me she'd do it under one condition: that I write you too. And so here I am, writing my wrongs. LOLOLOL, you'ere the only one I couldn't tame, the only one that left my brain reeling like a psychotic cyclone. The vacuum you've left behind has been filled with my own existential terror, the dread of absolute aloneness. I can't wake up in the morning without an hour long recital of our best and worst minutes—the shear gravity of my recollections leaves me sweating, panting, pleading for a moment's respite. Still, I give in to the furor, like an alcoholic gives in to his demons—my temptress denies and defies me in the having of being. Sure, I ask questions, but I've grown tired of waiting for responses, so I just sit and play Forrest Gump with myself—ahh, how you hated that movie and its physically agile and mentally retarded protagonist. He literally has done nothing but blindly receive the gifts of kismet, you used to say. I always thought you hated him because you saw so much of yourself in him and his circumstances—I'm not calling you retarded or anything, really, it's just—your luck reached its peak in departing from the event horizon of the black hole that is me. The jury that is astrophysics is still out on my fate. However, in knowing you, I'm sure that everything happens for a reason, as reason makes everything happen—such an unreasonable view. Logic is slippery, a smoking gun, we used to say, until it crystallized between us and flung you along the way, into the grand lightness of someday. Winnie's still alive, just in case you were wondering—I've started cooking her chicken for dinner, which she seems to like. Such a good girl.

Yours convivially,

Jared

p.s. Plz text me

It’s well known that before Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote the score for Cats he actually lived the life of a cat for some time, shitting in a litterbox, gnawing on his feet when grooming and even fighting with strangers in peoples back gardens at night. You aren’t trying hard enough.

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like it. refine the vocals, add some instruments and make a youtube channel.
love the part with the brother and the last drip of stew.

This sounds gay as fuck and any Irish writer would take a shit on it

Disgusting, yet delightful.

Thank fuck someone doesn’t hate it lol.

Here’s my pal’s arrangement from the same session with instruments, his is more melancholic and pretty but not sure it works in context of song. clyp.it/p5vzjoih

>YouTube channel
Here’s my Soundcloud: soundcloud.com/neil-matthew-fox

Stiff cupped hands threw cold water that eroded away at the intoxication of sleep. A soft towel pampered his face. The freshness of the evening air was like biting into a cluster of grapes, its crisp juices bathing the tongue. Occasionally a honing wind would sweep through the thrush and tug at his hair.

Is this paragraph any good?

That's all I can hope for, ty

as long as you like user, that's all that matters (on this site of shite)

I do thanks, was just surprised by the response as my lyrics generally seem to go down well in the crit threads, can’t ever please everyone of course.

A complaint of an unjust sarpanch from a small town name Harmada alerted Mr. Imran who was the new SHO.
The mayor was named Harinath.
Through his snitch, Mr. Imran came to know that Harinath would attend a wedding in a local community hall.
Mr. Imran arrived at the hall an hour before and waited.
Harinath entered the hall with his gigantic and disgusting body.
"Look at him, that bastard
what a fool!"
Mr. Imran said looking at him in an unordinary way.
Harinath wiped his dripping nose and stared at women with appetite, He indeed was a hideous man.
He came in and started speaking in his unintelligible gibberish that confused the crowd.
His face was red and his mouth poured reeking saliva, which made the crowd feel nauseated.
Mr. Imran was angry just at the sight of his, his very existence was offensive to him.
Then Haridas let out a long, loud and stinky wet sounding fart.
This infuriated Mr. Imran even further.
He walked up to him and punched him furiously in the gut causing him to fell on the ground.
He loudly defecated himself shortly after and the hall was filled with a terrible smell similar to that of a dead rodent.
The crowd applauded and Mr.imran was happy While Harinath was laying on his back covered in his vomit, excrement, and piss.
The crowd rushed out of the hall to save themselves from the disturbing stench.
Mr. Imran delivered a brief speech to the townsfolk.
He said,
"My dear friends dark times are behind us, the age of oppression has ended. Now every man, woman, and child is my responsibility and I shall take great care of you all till the end of my days. There is nothing that can harm you now. Together we will make Harmada safest and the greatest town in the whole country. And I assure you never again any man like Harinath would ever set foot in harmada. If anyone dares to do such a thing I would chop his legs and feast on them myself."
There was applause and cheering everywhere.
The crowd roared "long live Imran"
Mr. Imran was named supreme leader by unanimous decision of town elders. During his reign, the town prospered.
He still is considered a hero in the town of Harmada.
I AM A PAJEET.
PLEASE JUDGE ME GENTLY.

(These are some of my favorite things by Julie Andrews by the river)

Enemy combatants, gun grease,
Legionnaire's Disease, a miasmatic appearance
on the Maury Povich show, a snow globe,
one devil stick, an ounce of Colombian
ground coffee beans, a Polaroid of Jupiter
in retrograde, receipts from 2001,
January to September, my Dad's CD collection,
an ensemble of tambourine players, a syringe
full of Fentanyl, a cocktail napkin
bloodied by a missing finger, the soil,
the Swiss Alps, Flint Michigan,
a career rolled over belly up, a citrine satellite,
the microbes encrusting our flesh, a shark net,
Beethoven's 5th, Lil' Boosie's baby mama,
Kim Jong Un, an illuminated hallway,
toilet paper made of onions, a jack-o'-lantern
made of wax, the century of self,
the theatre of war, the fog of dementia,
a Nancy Drew book with the last page missing, a note
from a woman to her lover, the Rosicrucian order,
the philanthropic principal, entropic design,
the reflection of my reflection in my eye, the sky:
these are the things we think of while we die.

like other anons said, your use of language is quite adept, but the poem really has no basis in a reality that I recognize, so it's honestly hard to make a value judgement as a whole. constrain your language within reality and your poetry will flourish
lewd but musical
best in the thread. I think this is the future of writing, really liked how you mixed contemporary colloquialisms with beautiful lilting prose. I do think you should make these feelings "existential terror, the dread of absolute aloneness" more concrete though. otherwise, grand. love epistolary fiction

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10/10 prose

Between each lip
Extinguished
Desire

A stale smoke
That lingers
With words

Tongues tarry
Squirm around
Acrid breath

Then retreat
For new forces
To conquer

Jeseep pulled out his fists and fought the baren rocks that laid in front of his eyes. For now he could be the one on top of the sacred Mount Sleep. “The slumber of a generation is on us, tonight we all may rest.” Jessep laughed and launched his arms laterally to capture the summit of this simple situation. He laid down, to his rest, and dreamed a peaceful moment.
An alarm bell servant violently shook his ringing device, to bring Jeseep into the awakened state. What he had gotten, abet little, was removed and taken away from him. His body cringling over the rocks, and led itself above. But below, the bell servant departed for that young night was over. Jeseep rubbed his eyes with the rags he clinged onto, making his eyes into the frame of a lense to observe a new higher point. He saw within himself that truest cradle for his aching person. That true summit of Mount Sleep. He was unaffected by the revelation, and walked gently down this first point. The valleys lulled him into a careless arrest. That new peak shined onwards in the distance.
“I invoke the name of Lord Hullin, may his wish be that on the new tapestry. I can paint it on returnal.” His operation was a success, and in that stunning moment, he put his hands onto the edges of the cliff. He climbed in perfect vertication. He avoided the sludges of the highest region. Atop, in sickness the gazed around him.Coughing from the dust. He forced a smile, but happily sat down. This was that Mount Sleep. He etched a pillow on the ground and put his head against the dust. Jeseep closed his eyes and cried out tears of gratitude.
In that second day which was ahead of him, his hands felt like they were disintegrating. He jumped off the mountain into the new lower grassy moss below him. His body caressed against the soft mud, staining his clothes. Jeseep called out, “Merely, my mind mostly made me mad. Meek myself, mask of my enemies call now keep me completely in fear.”

[Basically this is the short story I've been working on about a man who climbs mountains to try to get happiness and yet no matter how many he climbs, he finds himself dispppoined, looking for the new peak. However I abstracted this in the writings because I'm paranoid that someone will find out that the story actually is about how lonely I feel and how much I hope to one day meet the girl that will be right for me.]

(repost)

dropbox.com/s/inrzkdrqi4h745o/The Little Man.docx?dl=0

First draft of a short story. It is thematically part of a larger collection but the plot/setting stands alone, so that effects the pacing, for brevity's sake- plot points and transitions from scene to scene that would get more detail in a longer story are glanced over. I switched from A4 to 8.5 x 5.5 inch paper size, so I apologise for the length and formatting of the paragraphs, which will be revised. The intended tone is one of awkwardness and impotent frustration, mildly surrealist (very, in one obvious section) but mostly rooted in the rules of reality.

I agree with about using tense to a more temporal-contextual effect. Nice prose. The indentation is a bit severe, imo.

this desu compare to the Futureheads' album "Rant" which contains modern recordings of several northern-English traditonal songs including the drinking song "The Old Dun Cow". Nice choice of subject but the language is too refined to be convincing.

Andrew Lloyd Webber is not an example I would use for writer who writes things outside his personal experience, a lot of people think he's trash.

Sounds like something Mozart would write.

Curious use of language but I spot some spelling errors that casts into doubt how much of it I find curious is intentional. Is the prose style meant to invoke a quirky post-modernist naivety?

Posted towards end of last thread.

>Deal or no deal

Noel Edmonds stares at me intensely with his beady eyes. I am trying to smile for the cameras but I can only fixate on his fixed, false grin. His clenched teeth are menacing and I feel the hairs stand on the back of my neck. I begin to feel lightheaded.

“Neil, the banker tells me £4,000. Deal or no deal?”. Two minutes ago I was in the running for £25,000. I can tell he is getting a kick out of this sudden misfortune. One of my fellow contestants, Angela, gives me a sympathetic smile. Earlier we’d been joking in the green room what a complete tosser Edmonds is. I’m wondering if he somehow overheard. Is the room bugged?

“Deal or no deal, Neil?”. As one of the cameramen pans in and focuses on my face I see that menacing grin slowly turn into movement. I focus on his lips.

“TOSSSERRR”, I see Noel silently mouth. Oh fuck. I look at the few remaining red boxes and for a moment consider if Noel somehow managed to set this up so I would fail. Just fifteen minutes ago he’d been telling me he hoped I would get the money I needed to help pay for my wife’s physical therapy following the accident. The audience applauded warmly and I even found myself feeling slightly guilty for what I’d said earlier.

“Deal, Noel”, I reply.

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take out the "that" in "that lingers".

lolwut

I’m the songwriter, just a wee story to amuse myself and others. Noel Edmonds is somewhat infamous in the UK.

>best in the thread. I think this is the future of writing

holy cow, thank you. I literally just starting writing whatever came to mind, I'm very glad it resonated with someone. Will take your advice—cheers!

p.s. Talking to my gf on the phone, will critique your piece after

p.s. fuck off with your blogposts

I'm being conscientious you bilious twat

No you are boasting about your “gf”. Hope she dumps you by text

Ok so are these two separate poems? I'm assuming they are. First off, I like their scope—the flow of CONTENT. However, I think the rhythmic, metrical flow could use some work, as it stilts with every other lilt. Secondly, there's zero distinguishing factor of contemporaneity here—what can we point to that signifies not only something new, but something even current? Nothing! Now, this isn't a problem IF something new is being done in terms of structure, meter, anything to do with the medium of poetry; however there doesn't seem to be anything new content-wise either—worse, the anachronistic nature of the poems reads a bit inauthentically. They're not bad, in a strict sense, but based on their surrounding context, they don't quite resonate the same way they might've in 1886. Not to mention, the seasonal motif has been spent harder than climate change can fix. I recommend trying to inject a more modern, if not merely original and/or new, syntax and lexicon into the mix to try and find a voice that is uniquely yours and not an emulation of age-old poetical tricks. I hope that wasn't too harsh—please keep writing, as fundamentally I think you have the bones on which to pack flesh...MEAT!

I'm sorry you're too insecure to realize when someone is literally just describing why their reply will take longer than it reasonably should—I think you need to get on that intimacy train there friendo

>people besides me and maybe those one or two other people start posting crit
>take a break and allow myself to gradually get phased out
>shitflinging ensues
lmao

Everyone's crit is going to be somewhat shitty and you're a cunt if you expect anything better than that. But that doesn't mean it's useless.

who are you responding to

Idiots writing drivel expecting other idiots to help them improve.

>This is the first chapter (yes, the entire chapter) of a potential novella.

Here is no hand. Accept that, and from it nothing follows. Absolute nothing.

That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is my defense.

I may already seem indulgent, but even that I am only superficially--it and I come and go.

From nothing follows nothing. This is my conclusion: below is my proof, my apology, my song for him, and my dance for her.

How could you fuck up something so short?

>Here is no hand
What does this mean?

>I may already seem indulgent, but even that I am only superficially--it and I come and go
Crap English.

This doesn’t succeed in anything it seems to attempt. The minimalist, even absurdist style feels so painfully affected that it comes off as plain lazy. For its brevity, it does nothing to really engage the reader, yet i I feel that it assumes it does. There’s an idea of artistry here, which is good of course, but it’s completely pummeled by how contrived it feels. It’s good that you have ambition, but you may wanna scrap this whole thing and go back to the drawing board. I know that sounds cruel but I’m not sure that this can be salvaged as is.

Can you guys give me constructive feedback on my skill level of composing poems?

Here's a poem for Butterfly (the cute poster on this board) I wrote

Blue lake underneath cotted cloud
Is where I wish to be with you
Butterfly.
Touching your soft pale skin, as the once blue sky grows dim,
Is where I am at peace.
The brown barked tree, where I will build us shelter, where we will be
Forever.

4 clovers,
I wish I could break this
Electric screen
Butterfly, wounded wing
I wish nothing was digital
So I could be with you eternal
Awake nocturnal,
Scrolling through your posts
A host, a ghost, I need you the most
Because I love you
The plane of what is and what is not to be,
Is where my thoughts of you are found.
Butterfly, you are the imaginary.
I desire nothing more than to pull you from this ethereal existence
and place you right beside me.
On the ground, where you, delicate, will be found.

Where are you? And where are you not?
These feelings are what I have fought
Since I first fell for you and your posts
I need you here and now.

My image of you is of a lotus flower,
as you grow louder and louder
The more you fade into my mind grows by the hour.
My delicate lotus
Will you please notice
My love for you?

Butterfly

great. it actually evokes an emotional response which proves that it sets out to do what it intended

Quite frankly I'd lost track by that point, and didn't really care where my comment landed

Attached: What.png (980x1440, 1.29M)

I AM THE SUPREME MASTER OF THIS UNIVERSE.

I AM THE GREAT DESTROYER. THE TAKER OF LIFE.

IT IS MY WILL THAT THIS PLANET, AND EVERYONE ON IT...BE ANNIHILATEEEEED

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You lick an eyeball and then there's a big gap before imagery comes back. Talking about big angsty vaccums looks more vacuous than it does genuinely angsty. Morning pops up, and then we're back to "sheer gravity," which isn't tied into many tangible concepts yet. It does help a little with the sweating etc afterward though, since you've established this is in a bed, where you're spread out and trying to get up. That was probably one of the better parts of this.

>Still, I give in to the furor, like an alcoholic gives in to his demons
Is the joke that he's just an alcoholic? I think I saw this in game of thrones, the midget remarked that someone called him "as funny as a man whose cock touches his knees." He is a man whose cock touches his knees though (albeit in an unfortunate manner), so him being that-funny has nothing to do with his funiness at all, negating the compliment/metaphor (in favor of the unfortunate bit). But the problem here is that I can't well discern how serious/comical the delivery is, and as such it doesn't feel like much of either. It seems like such an oddly proximal metaphor that I can't tell if you're kidding.

>my temptress denies and defies me in the having of being.
On the off chance that there's a way for me to read this and have it make sense, it'd likely still feel pretentious, potentially moreso than now. Yes, I get that this is a character speaking, but when a character whips a line like this out their arse, despite them not otherwise seeming able to do so, I have to wonder whose arse it really came from.

>the event horizon of the black hole that is me.
Again with the giant vaccum in this guy's head. If you want, there are ways to make this the joke, but otherwise I find these vacuous spatial metaphors to be very #JustPoetryThings, like posting a galaxy brain image but without a shred of irony.

>Logic is slippery, a smoking gun, we used to say, until it crystallized between us and flung you along the way, into the grand lightness of someday.
Are you speaking in even hopes of being understood? Am I here to you?

>Winnie's still alive, just in case you were wondering—I've started cooking her chicken for dinner, which she seems to like. Such a good girl.
>I've started cooking her
The order you reveal details with the cooking is nice, considering the implied danger you get going from the start.

what do you think?

>I wish nothing was digital
I actually like this line, at least on the level of meaning. Otherwise it's a bland shitpost that's occasionally foreboding for whatever reason.

ty for feedback
how do i make it nonbland?

>but even that I am only superficially
"but even of that I am only superficially so," if you want to put some bumpers around that statement. This line breaks the first rule of humility club though: don't talk about humility club, unless there's something more important to it than looking humble. But this entire line can be cut and the character's argument reads just the same. So it's there for face alone, I take it.

>Here is no hand.
>From nothing follows nothing.
Is his point just, "you didn't find the body, so I didn't do it?" It can be proven that unproveable truths exist, you know. If you're just talking about due process and innocent until proven guilty stuff, then aure, fine, but it sounds like you're trying to be philosophical and absolute about it rather than just practical.

All in all, vaguely tossing philosophical vocabulary into a courtroom-setting reminds me of, more than anything, youtube accounts with tuxedo avatars. This is short, maybe it's not pretentious overall. But you haven't convinced me to bet on it.

When we made out, I held
her hands, against
the wall--and then I put her arms
around, my head, so I
could touch her biceps, and triceps--
and then move on to her chest
underneath, the shirt
and now she wears jackets with sleeves
but
she takes them off for me
and when I asked about the need
she said, baby cause of you I get horny
at the touch of a breeze

Butterfly please suck my peepee

hey man i decided to write poetry for butterfly first
can you give me some feedback

btw i like what you wrote it aroused me a little

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Before I read it out aloud, I found it boring. But I really got into it once I did. I think your techniques and form are hard to pin down without a close reading. Particularly enjoyed the gradual un-capitalisation found in the "i" (which I assume points towards the un-importance of the speaker). It pairs with the protection of priests' "eye."

Then we see the enjambment and use of rhyme in the last two lines of the third stanza.

Overall I found it a nice poem but I'd like to see more experimentation.

Here's me reading it.
vocaroo.com/i/s0ZHgTxeGQaW

Here's mine btw.

a skyless morning, basking in the grey
of this collective illusion.
just trying to walk forward,
to where you last went flying.
what are you? a pathetic question.
the owl of Minerva is spreading her wings;
been enjoying this shade?
too distracted by a record,
your toes cracking on the wooden flor.

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Thank you for your thorough feedback. And just to clarify, it was supposed to be funny—ambiguous and funny!

Why?

Are you a woman?

Have you ever wished for an endless night?
Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight
Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself
Will it ever get better than tonight?
Tonight

Is the last paragraph an appropriate end point for the prologue and starting point for the first chapter?

Attached: screengrab1.png (602x487, 24K)

thanks vro, I appreciate the honesty. will do

bump

No.

Honestly Excellent.

I'm a fan of rhyme, and your usage of it fits my tastes.

I began by reading it aloud, which such a form as yours requires. I also enjoyed your lower case 'i', made me think.

I would read more of your poetry in the future.

Don’t get discouraged by what I’ll say, you need more reading and practice is all. You have the drive and spirit. But:

I can’t read very far. This reads very juvenile and prosaically inundated. “The heavens above bleed purple” is a laughable mangling of the English language. Just word by word: heavens? The power of that word carries a connotation of grandness and importance. “Bleed” is also an incredibly strong word. The image conjured is that of dripping, pain, and death. “Purple” is not a color the sky turns often, it’s already on its own a strong image atomic. Put those together, and you have a sentence so self-important it has a huge connotative presence, yet transmits conflicting and overexaggerated information. It also sounds awful when you say it out loud. It’s authorial intrusion at its worst, and it’s the prosaic equivalent of a chess player slamming his pawn down in celebration when he plays an en passant — it’s ridiculous. It’s also a problem with most of your sentences. You can’t string together nice words and assume the sum is equal to the whole. I would suggest studying some poetry before going back to attempting prose like this — or if not, then practicing to become more surgical with prose so that you can focus on the parts that matters more: psychology, narrative information transmitted, etc. eventually you can realize that they’re interleaved, but you’re not there yet. Slow down, edit heavily, have your plebeian friends read it and listen to their opinions. They’re not right, of course, but you aren’t either.

You guys are all stuck in the 19th century. Fuckin' hell. None of this is getting published.

this is a continuation of my last shitty book
docs.google.com/document/d/1tC5fD9wryBzPCbe5_3_GwONZ5R-SGNYO7_fWSdsww74/edit?usp=sharing
i want to make this a lot less shitty and hopefully people can understand it without the context of the last book

Is this too cringy too start a book out with?

Are there some ideas, insecurities, narratives, etched into the mind so thoroughly and reinforced over so many years that they become an indivisible part of you? Sure, I believe change is possible, but not change to an unlimited extent as many would like to believe. It is too late for some people. Sometimes it's too late from birth. That’s the nature of things. And it’s too late for me in a number of ways.

Will I be taken any more seriously or at least found interesting for writing my Ultraman fanfic as a series of haiku?

Are there some ideas, insecurities, narratives, etched into the mind so thoroughly and reinforced over so many years that they become an indivisible part of you? Sure, I believe change is possible, but not change to an unlimited extent as many would like to believe. It is too late for some people. Sometimes it's too late from birth. That’s the nature of things. And it’s too late for me in a number of ways. Lacking the originality and intelligence to put what I mean more succinctly, I am forced to recount a simplified version of my more nuanced cognitions, which I’ll attempt to do now. I’ll never “find happiness” for starters. Of this I’m sure. If happiness means full security and self-acceptance, or even just having a joyful mood more often than not, then I can confidently say that will never happen, and that’s ironically the only thing I’m confident about. I’ll also never understand other people, and I will never be able to relate to them or connect with them on any meaningful level. I can read all the self-help books in the world and I can study social psychology until I keel over and die from exhaustion, but I’ve learned thinking and doing are not only different from each other but are seemingly worlds apart from one another. I’m like a template of a human being whose personality and convictions have been hollowed out with a dull spoon leaving behind only the molted shell of human. And there goes more unoriginality. I’m a molecular spiderweb of neuroticism and contradiction, cursed with the ability to think. What do you do when you realize you’re your own worst enemy but lack the ability to fix yourself?

Monster is what anyone would call the creature that lives in the lake behind my house. But to me it is a force of nature that has defied not only time itself but these earthly limitations that make us mortal. It is an entity that has survived through the brutalest struggles and reigned in it's enviroment as the apex predator. To bear witness to this entity, it's earned power and it's startling resonance with the human race, is a gift greater then life itself. I will always remember the first encounter with it as my partake to a world immensely deeper then the void popular media and seculars try to make this world appear as. How could anyone think that this world holds nothing when there is evil and mystery and wonder?

You have a soul as do the creatures that inhabit this earth and this entity has been subsisting off of them for milennia. However it has been mostly animal souls. It told me in fluent english that animal souls are the purest as they're untainted with the corruption of flesh that most humans have brought to themselves. Fetishes, alcoholism, drug abuse, abortions, all leave their marks on the human soul that we can't see. And sometimes it's not even that, sometimes there are people that are born with pieces of their soul missing because of a generation of abuse that has been passed onto them.

It made me wonder if it could look into my soul and tell me what it saw. But it would be a pointless waste of breath. I know what resided in my body. You see before all of this, I couldn't stand being around people. I couldn't stand listening to the cliche talking points they parroted from their favorite media pieces. I couldn't stand their tolerance for the apathy and so called "progressive" ideals that binded truths that had threatened them. But most of all, I couldn't stand their conformity to the entropy that surrounded them. The price of my indifference to this was solitude. I had no friends and my family was either in their graves or too distant to for me to reach out to them. If I had cared, I would have been worried I had no one to carry on my name or legacy.

But I accepted my solitude. I had embraced what struggles came my way because of my indifference, because of my defiance to the society around me. That's why it chose to seek companionship with me. That and my virtue for violence.

brutalest isn't a word, most brutal

it was meant to be sarcastic

> Are there some ideas, insecurities, narratives, etched into the mind so thoroughly and reinforced over so many years that they become an indivisible part of you? Sure, I believe change is possible, but not change to an unlimited extent as many would like to believe. It is too late for some people. Sometimes it's too late from birth. That’s the nature of things. And it’s too late for me in a number of ways.

You could use some editing. Lots of extra fluff there that makes it hard to read. Not very confident writing. Revise and temper. My personal refactor:

> Are there insecurities etched into the mind, reinforced over so many years, that they become an indivisible part of us? I believe in change, but not that naive and limitless change that others believe. To me: for some people, it’s too late. Sometimes our fate is born still out the cradle. That’s the nature of things. And it’s too late for me.

If it’s a START of a book, this wouldn’t cut it either. It needs to be absolute perfection: dense, a great leaping point for the rest of the material, and pleasing. Perhaps:

> Are there insecurities, etched into the mind over so many years, that they are indivisible of us? I do not know. I believe in change, but not in hopelessly romantic, limitless change. For some, it is too late. Sometimes our fate is born still out the cradle. That’s the natural of limit of humanity. I am past my limit, and it is too late for me.

It’s just a general idea, it’s not like it’s something you should use and suddenly follow like a bible for style. But think more deeply about how information is transmitted in your opening sentences, in any sentences.

For the content? Depends. If it’s a character who might think like this presenting this text, maybe. If it’s the authorial narrator, it’s rather cliche and book-shutting worthy. Nothing I haven’t seen in the first few sentences of much better stories.

No offense, of course. Nobody is Tolstoy overnight.

(Adding a few mins later)
Reading it again, even what I ended up with in the second edit kinda sucks lol. Partially because I just can’t perfect something that isn’t my own, and partially because editing is hard, and partially because I really don’t like the content much. Take my edit with a grain of salt.

But the rest of what you put doesn’t really improve. It’s also weak (more importantly, unconfident) writing:

> I’m like a template of a human being whose personality and convictions have been hollowed out with a dull spoon leaving behind only the molted shell of human.

Just cutting out or replacing words:

> I’m a template of a human being. My personality and convictions have been hollowed as with a dull spoon, leaving behind only a molted shell.

Some more:

> I’m no more than a template of a human being. My personality, my convictions have been hollowed as with a dull spoon, leaving only a ruckled shell.

Not in principle, but yes.

>> I’m like a template of a human being whose personality and convictions have been hollowed out with a dull spoon leaving behind only the molted shell of human.
just end the line at "spoon." The rest is redundant stuff the author left there because he couldn't choose between two ways to build the same image. Maybe it adjusts the viewpoint, but it's still reiteration. Remove it and you won't feel as compelled to split the first part off.

Regarding viewpoint, images should typically be built so that you land at the right angle upon completing it, without needing further adjustment, (obligatory "unless there's some point to moving between angles..." etc)

Attached: Zion.png (561x274, 21K)

I'm honestly disgusted with this rubbish. You guys look down on nearly all writers outside of the Western Canon, yet all of you are hacks.

Glad it was my post that drove you over the edge, user

dude ur epic

>hacks
implies any of us are successful

If you posted any of your stuff in this thread, then I sincerely feel bad for you.

I enjoyed all of these keep up the great work everybody

This is great

Down the cudgel, took a mornin’ lass to boot,
Crude to my rummaged trouser, she’s a prude,
A bottle up her ass, now I’m all rude,
Down the street-car of Yorkshire,
Now they call me all the mood,
Settle down old lass, I haven’t even yet begun,
But up the door, her feet-a-cow,
Lost to my own jittle shroud,
She’s lost down the valley, hills now,
Green with all the pasture, down ol’ sully’s also brown.

>expecting to find a refined artist on 4channel

I'm a sucker for rhyme and alliteration. This was fun to read. My only suggestion would be to add more emotion to the poem. I don't feel connected with it

You never know.

Okay, so I'm writing a sci fi story that features faith and transcendence as themes, and I'm unsure about how I want to play a particular character. My initial idea was that this character, the emperor, would serve as the avatar of the deity the story focuses on. Like the Emperor of Mankind, he would not rule. Unlike the Emperor, though, he would not be immortal, or even a psychic. He would be on life support by the start of the story, as the act of communing with the deity would have gradually destroyed his body. To give you a bit of backstory, he would be the latest in a long line of emperors who have sacrificed their bodies and minds so that the deity may possess a physical avatar. Their insanity is something I would present as having come on gradually. After attaining the throne and performing the ritual which links them to the deity, they would begin to have nightmares, and their bodies would begin to break down. Within a few years, they would have degenerated to the point were their skin has disintegrated and they can do no more than babble incoherently in long dead languages, their minds having been overwhelmed by so much CANNOT BE. The emperor in the setting would be near the end of his life, and his death would be a central plot point. My concern is that the premise is, for the lack of a better word, shit. I'm not sure it makes sense, or that it would make a good story. Yet at the same time, I want to write it.

I have a secondary idea I've been writing a story around which I was thinking about merging with this. In this story, the emperor does not rule because his power has been usurped by the nobility and the armed forces. This emperor I based on the Japanese emperor pre-Meiji, in that they are de jure an absolute monarch, but de facto a figurehead, with actual power being executed by a regent, the Lord Protector. The emperor would be limited to performing religious duties, while the Lord Protector and the privy council would actually rule the nation. In the merged scenario, it would be revealed that the emperor does not rule because of the circumstances described in the first paragraph, rather than a coup or armed take over as was assumed. This would be revealed to the main character, the son and heir to the Lord Protector, who would subsequently lose faith in the deity and the empire and begin to work against them.

There are worse things than being talentless

Between each lip
Extinguished
Desire

A stale smoke
Lingers
With words

Tongues tarry
Squirm around
Each breath

Then retreat
For new forces
To conquer

This is a critique thread, not a "hey what do you guys think about his idea" thread. We can't critique anything you've written unless you actually write it first

Pretty solid. Although, the second stanza reads a bit clunky, I'd consider putting something in front of 'lingers,' maybe 'that lingers' could work

We like to play in hypotheticals,
Daydreams that fondle our hearts,
Giving us the impression that we may do something,
Create some sort of change.

If only.

You told me that you’d do it.
And you took back your word.
Now look where that’s left me.
Writing poetry early in the morning,
Sacrificing the time that I could be spending,
Trying to go to sleep.

If only.

I tried it a second time,
To write it better,
Maybe convince you that the time was worth it.
Maybe then,
We both wouldn’t have taken our lives.

If only.

I had the courage to speak,
My mind to myself,
Instead of hiding in my own insecurities,
Using my apathy as an excuse,
For how badly I treated you.

You damn fool.

Thinking that anything would change,
If I went back and tried a second.
I made the wrong choice once,
So I’ll make it again,
And again,
As long as it means nothing will change.

Attached: Zion 2.png (560x588, 42K)

fuck, crush them***

Attached: zion park august.jpg (2048x1536, 943K)

docdroid.net/OTFK4GO/words.pdf

Attached: words.jpg (375x500, 100K)

I was sent here from the sci fi thread after being told the same.

The stanza after the first if-only builds pretty well. The last line strikes me as too twilight zone, too late. Maybe replacing "taken" with "wasted" would leave it open to a better range of interpretation.

What would be the best foil to a character who puts the least effort possible into everything and coasts by on mediocrity?
>someone who tries even less but is far more successful
>someone who tries very hard but is less successful
>someone who tries very hard and is more successful
>something else

character who is not caught up in whatever rat race the protagonist is

Bump

Damn, nicely done

More joy and life in this than so many! Human

Dearest loveliest user, I thank you for your life-affirming reply. This (you) should do you for the eve.

Yours,
A Man Under Investigation.

A little off topic, but I dont think this should be its own thread. What do you guys write for a cover letter when submitting poetry?

I tell them about my gaming experience and my piss bottle volumes desu

I like it. Succinct and unpretentious. I agree with the other user “taken our own lives” doesn’t quite fit right though.

Just start an ideas thread you dolt!

>ideaposting
Wouldn't the "write what's on your mind" thread be ideal for this?

wondering if this is too on the nose. its supposed to be cheesy, but not painful

Entering, the same sign above a long bar made of polished oak.
‘Free beer tomorrow.’
Barkeep polishing glass while chatter murmurs in the corners, sighs as stools are pushed and pulled and seats are taken.
“When is tomorrow?”
“Never today.”
The barkeep has long stories that always end in bad punchlines, waitresses with floating toast and snakes without armpits.
“I had a deer once. Terrible eyesight.”
Still polishing, rubbing in circles.
“Had to get him some glasses.”
Rag stops, corners quiet.
“Finally had a good eyed deer.”
Small light bulb above buzzes on cheerfully.

>“When is tomorrow?”
This sounds like a question that only someone who understood the joke would ask. Under what other context would you ask it? Just let me deduce the punchline. It's a lot easier to figure out than the rest.

>Barkeep polishing glass while chatter murmurs in the corners
I'm thinking of the corners of the glass when I read this, but I also just have a headache.

It feels like a transition point, definitely so. Ending the last sentence with 'excited' seems a bit much, the rest of the sentence does a great job conveying the excitement without needing to be labeled.
Really enjoy this, the flow is fantastic.

The alliteration is very nice, gives a smoothness to it.
This is fucking gold, the swing in the rhyme is fun.

Consider having all of them. Make them brothers even, to isolate as many variables as possible. It's a common format, but that's because it's a useful one.

I like this the more I read it, but the opening description could be better

Second to last line felt clunky

I agree, it has too many syllables and does not flow. I am not a fan of rhyming fountain with mountain either, but whenever I try to re-write those lines I am met with a mental block.

>got 666 and dubs this close together
nice

It might be the reoccurrence of "up" that's getting me.

Weak Man's Journey To Nirvana

Comfort, my lifelong companion
Have you betrayed me
My blanket is cold
shivering from adversity

What will keep me warm in the blizzard
A backbone I am deprived
Security I have not
Wallowing away in the underworld

Life the devouring mother
Spit bones of debauchery
Paralyzed by fear with a sword unsheathed
The rail of convention leaves loose ends

Suffering, my lifelong enemy
Have you embraced me
My cheek is caressed
Tranquil from growth

Really good one. I can smell the testosterone in those lines, REALLY good one. There's not a single line of bore!

Okay, this is the complete poem, with some revision still needed:

Another order, another exodus, another day
Outermarch along switchback trails and reddened clay
Past soft ponderosa pines and pinyon scruff
Up sheer pink palisades painted by God’s own brush
The enemy was not there, their newest foe camped to the North and West
The station at Zion would be abandoned, left to the lonely blessed
So up and out we scrambled from the Park and the Virgin’s fountain
And left not a trace behind upon those watercolor mountain

They came from far and wide to claim our work of hand
The scent of well-worn earth and bounty drew to our land
Dust storm deserts crash the outlands and dry lifeless plains
We of Zion understand such is life among the remains
So blackguards from far afield come to take our bread and wine
I will break them like a spear, they will never take what’s mine
They do not know what Hell they’ve stirred by stepping on these stones
I have God’s own vainglory as I shall crash upon their bones

It was outermarch from the Virgin’s sawspruce grove
Up pink canyon wall switchbacks as eagles dove
And our hands on rifle and hands on belt
Sun stained skin and uniform her wrath hath dealt
Ocher face painted soldiers, splintered stocks and rusted gun
The saints of Angel’s Landing demand their work be done
We will fight them in the field, we will hunt them where they run
I will crush them beneath my boot of Zion and this hateful sun

Attached: zion park august 2.jpg (2048x1536, 846K)

I look above the stars are bright
But I'm blinded by the light
Heaven seems so far away
Come back to me someday
The sky seems so blue
They lead me to you
Somewhere there's a place in my heart
In the skies of love

Depressing but good. Although the melody seems a bit janky at times.

Jeez another love poem talking about stars and the sky. So original

Sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I catch murmurs on the wind
hushed, frantic,
careful in their intensity
They speak of Armageddon

Colluding against those souls of men,
erstwhile kings and cardinals,
wrought with grave intent
They whisper fire and treachery
besieged upon a western sky,
all star-fallen and Kafkaesque

Dreams of turmoil, trespasses, persecution;
For any promise of purpose,
they are careless with impunity
My idle hand a devilish plaything,
My tired hand martyr'd to an ignorant cross,
bedfellows at the brimstone altar

That which is of no concern,
Love, Hatred, and other tired notions propagate
Fine mortal lines, crying out to be danced upon
In spite of harmony,
In service to madness,
Lustful of the ever-changing tide

A love letter to modernity!
Lost in transit of the night,
as the grosbeak carries morning
on its rosy breast,
and the Oriole
on it's fluttering wing

Mr. Schmidt
>he tenses
I the name of
the state
of
>jump
>teeth on old skin
the fat man tackled me

Can I choose how I die
Everyone would want to choose
If you give me the whiskey I won't be able to fight back
Can I have a cigarette?

Keep in mind I am a complete noob.
I think the mention of armagedond comes from nowhere, it is a strong amotion that you want to evoke but it dosent ffow.

Also imo Kafkaesque has not place in a poem, that's for interpretation, it's not an immediate emotion.

Thank you. I'll change that.

“Unpaid labour. To be my service. My naturally given gift. Is some beauty of nature. Is correctly formed. Is appreciated for at least that. For something at the very least. Which is returned (in exchange).”

off my blog christianjaroschdialogues.com

>Opening to a potential novella.

There is no hand, from which it follows, there is no body. There is nothing, and we know that from nothing follows nothing—this is my defense.

I must apologize preemptively for seeming indulgent (if I don’t already seem so) but I can ensure that I only act so in a superficial sense. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I come and go. Not in moods; but, I, me, myself, we, come and go.

In the following document you will find my apology, my confession, and my defense. I doubt it will satisfy you, at least insofar as you hope to find that I did (not) do “it.” Here, I am not admitting that I did do it; I am only admitting that I anticipate doing poorly to defend and to sell myself.

Furthermore, I submit that I am pretentious to the extent that I believe the cleverest amongst you will see my excuse from, and my innocence in, not just this one “crime” (a ‘legal fiction’ as all legal matters are) but from and in all my own actions. In any case, I am only pretentious by circumstance, and I do not debase myself in an attempt to be square as so many peers of similar circumstance do. It simply does not matter to me; my circumstances are not my own fault: Geworfenheit. To the less (or more) fortunate, I beg you to remain unbiased by all such matters beyond my control.

With formalities aside and as a cloy prelude, I invite the jury to recall their “first time.” Under the infinite ceiling, the bulbous fruits dripping celestial soma. Did you drink it in like I did? drooling and oozing along your pre-nuptial delights. The warm, flower smell; the shaking knees; the realized, and vanquished headache; the cold sense inside; the feeling of eternity like standing at the lip of a cliff; the sweaty palms; the probing hands.

docs.google.com/document/d/1tC5fD9wryBzPCbe5_3_GwONZ5R-SGNYO7_fWSdsww74/edit?usp=sharing

I don't think making this longer made it better. You just stepped back and added another meta layer to your self-awareness, without really being more aware. You can walk backwards and stare back at as many of your own afterimages as you like, but it won't widen your angle. I guess I mentioned bumpers earlier, for clarity, but surrendering some control can be good as well.

Or, for fun, just slap on as many layers as you like. Go find out how many you can tolerate. "I know I'm not perfect, but I know that claim isn't perfect, but I know that claim also isn't perfect and I know that you know I know that and I know that you know that I know you know that and" eventually people just want out of all this dictation, pun intended.

Attached: self awareness.png (726x630, 16K)

With some minor modifications, this is one of best written pieces I've seen on these threads

Was there anymore critique you had?

>I knew I had to do this someday, but knowing something doesn't really take the dread away.
It'd slash everything before the word "knowing." Generating suspense is good, but doing it via replacing a noun with a pronoun ("this") feels very artificial. If the narrator's that close, then they could just say it. But they don't. If you want to avoid that, then just don't get that close until you're actually going there, wherever it is.

> die, that
Didn't want to use "but" twice in a row? See above.

>she insisted that on doing it herself
needs fixed

>With a sigh I passed through the ridiculous gate walked through the ridiculously large lawn lit by small light that poked out through its various vegetations and up to the ridiculously large house.
At the very least, but a comma after vegetation. Switching to "small" was a little funny though.

> intimidated, do i really have to go in?
Let what's after the comma just be its own line, then fix the capitalization.

>a fairly young looking person
Do young people call other young people young-looking? This made me see the narrator as old, even though he's clearly younger than this person.

>“Hi, i’m uh, Celia’s boyfriend. Your sister probably told you we were gonna visit today”
This is good. The pauses in the first sentence cause the next one to be read with the same delays, but without you having to throw in a bunch of punctuation.

>Jesus fucking christ what kind of genes run in this family!?
Either you're a teenager or you've done a good job at sounding like one, but it's still grating on me. Interestingly your flimsy tense changes aren't though.

>mounting insecurities
fucking kek

>College
...no offense, but this guy isn't 14? The only thing which seemed to suggest otherwise was the luggage.

>We got the large dining room with a large oval table, the seating arrangements were me and Celia on one side and her parents on the other.
This could be done better. Replacing "large" with "long" might help rule out seeing people at the extreme ends of the oval. But either way, I still don't see who's across from who yet.

So far the problem is that I just don't care. The narrator seems more concerned with being worried than about his actual predicament-itself. And like I said before, a good deal of the tension feels artificial. It also needs proofreading but the juvenile tone might be serviceable.

>but a comma
put*

The little old man across the street kept staring. He was seated by the front door of his rustic house which rivaled only himself in maturity. Adorned by worn-out rafters, hued by a distinct and morose shade of mauve which also coated its archaic shutters, and guarded by a loathsome garden gnome, that must have been made in the late 1800s, this house invoked a portentousness that John would not be fain to acquiesce to regarding the initial circumstances of his deliberation insofar as John viewed himself as an objective man; purely logical and pragmatic. The sky was pale-gray, and it was silent all around; perhaps the faint smell of a bee could be heard, as if a newfound child was uncovering the bulwarks to some monophyletic craft. Nay a car nor child in sight. John, young Mr. opposite, sat on his porch mincing as he did not know whether to look back or not. Assuming that Mr. Harrison wanted to converse or indulge in some other endeavor such as mowing the lawn or having a pint (he was certainly one of those wise old men yearning for his halcyon of youth; reminiscing and admonishing like Old Nestor), would deign to evince interest in John as he wished to sit idly and think many thoughts.
John began rubbing his nose until he felt an odd stinging sensation on his tongue. It was as if he’d eaten something spicy. But what? Probably nothing. Perhaps the Tomato Juice from several hours prior; residual acidity or some latent quandary brought on by perpetual consternation. But a feeble mind was John, barely a man at all. Yearning to mentally embalm Agamemnon and puncture this unwonted milieu, all the while manifesting in a state of confusion and perplexity. There was a girl, introduced by several acquaintances, that intrepidly ventured to the hospital, daresay her tongue was numb. As irritating and sophomoric such a ponderance invoked, a catharsis trickled down John’s spine at the thought of such stupidity. A seemingly innocuous and daresay wholesome woman t bestowed in our society, whether it be by her vacuous professors (in their capri shorts down to their ankles with shaved heads and aloof, insensitive mannerisms), her young irreverent parents, or some hapless sap seeking status or other earthly desires. A sentimental affection both canted and despised by our hero.

same talentless user posting wanna be chestertonian poetry

Attached: campus hero.png (471x718, 40K)

Can you gives give me your thoughts on a haiku I just wrote? I tried to capture the feeling of the pic I attached

an evergreen tree
beneath the strangling cold gaze
of a dull gray sky

Overall I like the imagery created. I particularly enjoy the first line. The second line felt a bit forced.

Attached: i_119.jpg (549x598, 104K)

Thanks very much for all feedback, particularly the bloke who enjoyed my song.

Very good, well written, excellent imagery. I’d have “Keep marching hero” as the start of the last verse though.

No need to be so self-deprecating.

My stomach is a watery grave, great titans of metal slowly descend in its abyssal depths.
Caught by a gaping maw, a swarm of fishes carefully aligning in perfect curious order, their slimy scales would shine had a single ray of hopeful warmth caressed their undulating forms, a constellation of stars, flowing meticulously to form the crude shape of whale’s or shark’s stinking, gaping maw.
A LIGHT BLUE AND A SINKING, I am not hungry, I eat, I am hungry, I starve.

The method for self-hate is an easy one.
Your tower of babel, the one you tried building so long,
All the small-talk,
All The Eye Contact,
You Notice The Smallest Detail of Their Repulsive EyelashesAND THE PHLEGM WHICH ENCLOSES THEIR WHITE-MILKY-PUSSY-DEW-BALL.
You as a great and sociable strapping young, you wish to be liked and you still long to be loved. I long for the embrace of my love, and i will sing her name through my endless spiral to the depths of a wet blue hell to be reminded of the cherubim i could have held in my crooked and malformed hands.
As my undying love lifts itself, transcelucent orbs of glass travels from purity to simula as it reaches a nauseous surfaces, thrashing waves vomiting themselves forward in unending palpation.
On shores of polished blades, a thousand sirens draped in a garb of scales, writhing together in motions not unlike the beating of a single heart, laugh at your display, their cackling being carried for eons to far corners of life, as a testament to your eternal humilation and submission. They shall remember the frigid melody and teach it to their daughters and daughters and daughters. Your aching langour so softly pure in its naive love, is raped by their scaleclad-soft-hagnosed-warted-baldheaded-diseased-animalistic image
The song rumbles in their throat like a thunderstorm bearing frogs:

Alice, Alice with a captial A, Always A captital A for you.
Alice, with my lavish love of Legs, i wish i could nest inside your arms. i am a naked hermit crab who bolts
Across the seafloor. i am noth I ng compared to your capital A, my i will stay unnoticed and small.
Alice, Alice with hearts of gold, Creeping along the murky brine i will drink the residue, your trail you leave when you release soft golden streaks of Eternal urine.

I have mastered the art of self-hate, for the layman thinks that the deepest one can go in the eternal depths is when you see the bottom, but i have learned from the cowardly muckdwellers,studied the eternal agoraphobia of the hermit arachnids pressing themselves evermore into the dark pit of their own shell, that the drab and grey mud resting its wraith is simply a great ray, resting its thousand tailspikes in an eternal dune of darkness and sand.
Resting and waiting,
Resting and waiting,
Until the moment is right, his stomach rumbles and earthquakes abound.
He thrashes his mighty tails.

Not finished

sorry not thread related. but what is the true meaning of this qoute?

>All in all, death is something like marriage.
― Louis-Ferdinand Céline

Attached: celine.jpg (1147x1600, 882K)

After a few years of heaven you will be fucking bored shitless.

but he didn't believed in heaven or afterlife.

sorry not thread related. but what is the true meaning of this post?

>[I'd] slash everything before the word "knowing." Generating suspense is good, but doing it via replacing a noun with a pronoun ("this") feels very artificial. If the narrator's that close, then they could just say it. But they don't. If you want to avoid that, then just don't get that close until you're actually going there, wherever it is.
I just woke up and realized this is confusing. I don't mean literally-close, like on the level of setting (the front gate). I mean being close to the reveal/hiding details behind the obscurity of a pronoun.

Bump

Live

a story i began today.

have you read kafka's "a report for an academy" ? it's what sprung to mind first reading this. i would go a bit more informal. the last paragraph, beginning "With formalities aside" seems to really veer off in a different direction language-wise that doesn't flow with what you've led with despite it perhaps veering to be more pretentious even though i do like the language.

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Your writing isn't bad in itself, it's actually pretty good and your flow works
but this was very tedious, immature, and inauthentic. Please redo
I like this a lot user. Nice work
I like it, but it could capture the feeling of fall better.
Good, just a bit unpolished and too far. Stop showing off.
God, we've seen this a million times. Let's try and do something new
Don't like. and don't say Kafkaesque if you want your work to be taken seriously. You are not Kafka's gimp and a good writer. Next.
This is a good one
Give me a break user. feels disengenuous. You live in contemporary western society not Aegemmeon's Greece
Not good
Jesus fucking christ user, write something already.
Autistic and graceless. There's tranquility in suffering. This sounds like a Japanese translation of something.
That's not the point user. People write for themselves not for some blue-haired SJW editor and bored housewives and cucked men that only yearn for some quick fix to being an asshole, picking up women, and making money. Grow up.
What is this a fucking instruction manual?
Improve your vocabulary. Nobody wants to read about your blue-collar speaking white-collar working uncle who acts racist after drinking too much. Rapists can be sympathetic.
Too much context and the details don't flow nor seem natural. There's a difference between Melville and autism.

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This is excellent. Nice work user.

You should have put your responses horizontally like this.

>What is this a fucking instruction manual?

You're going to have to elaborate.

>Jesus fucking christ user, write something already.

That's some of it.

A Short Story

There once was a man who drew a tiny dot on his wall each night before bed. He woke up one morning to see his wall covered in dots, went into shock, and was dead

I like it.

Pretty funny stuff. I wanna see more of these episodes

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7:58 PM. A Friday night in Esther Pennsylvania.

It was a quaint town that remained largely untouched by the new advancements and marvels of the modern world. Almost as if frozen in time, despite being an hour outside of Philadelphia. Like a slice of rustic Americana from the late 20th century, it was a popular tourist destination for those with an interest in rural Pennsylvanian landscapes. In fact, it was even a second home to several big name celebrities from Hollywood. Esther was just that kind of gem, a blast from the past, and even the rich and famous get tired of the excitement that a class four city like Los Angeles has to offer. Everyone has their own method of escape, whether it’s mind altering substances or all natural scenery. Or both.

Esther lacked the hustle and bustle of the cities, but that didn’t mean there was no fun to be had. Depending on your age and interests, Esther had something to offer everybody. The downtown area was just busy enough to provide some semblance of rural nightlife, if there ever was such a thing, and of course the outdoorsy types would never grow bored in the rolling plains and dense forests that enveloped the town. But what really made Esther special was the people. The locals, the townsfolk.

Cindy worked the bar nearly every night at Vicky’s down on main street. Nobody was a stranger to her, not even the punk kids who stopped in on Friday nights like this.
“Cindy, baby, where’s your friend Mary Jane?” belted out Nicholas as he approached the counter.

His greeting was met with a swift but playful smack across the face.

“Knock it off twerp.”

“Knock what off?”

“That ‘baby’ shit. I’m not your baby. In fact, I’d say calling me a friend is a stretch as it is.”

“Ouch, harsh Cindy,” chimed in Lucas. “You’d think you would at least humor Nick a little, with an ego his size and all.”

“An ego ain’t the only thing I’m packing with some size, if you catch my drift.”

“God, shut the fuck up Nick,” Cindy groaned.

Nick smirked. “I think one of the requirements for being a friend is that you make another person feel good, through the sheer pleasure of your company.”

“I feel like that should be a mutual feeling, if we’re discussing the semantics of what makes a friend that is.”

“Maybe...”

“Then I guess I’m not your friend, because you don’t make me feel good. In fact, if Lucas wasn’t with you, I’d probably ask Garrett to throw you out.”

“Garrett knows me, he’s a bro, he would never. It’s a mystery why Vicky even hires a bouncer if he’s just gonna let so called ‘twerps’ like us in.”

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“He lets twerps like you in because you both share the same proverbial douchebaggery which is ever so common among the men in this town. If I didn’t know you both, I’d think he could be your older brother. You’re both ever so smooth with the ladies and just oh so strapping with your leather jackets and hoverbikes.”

“Well Cindy, I know that you make me feel very good, so maybe I can consider you a friend at the least.” Nick slid forty dollars across the counter.

“Sorry, I think it should only be twenty dollars. I charge based on time and I heard from Jenna that you’re not really the longest lasting when it comes to these things.”

Lucas snickered.

“God Cindy, why are you such a bitch? Can we get our weed or not?”

“Here.” Cindy snatched a baggie from her coat pocket and tossed it at Nicholas. “Is that it or are you going to pester me some more before you go toke up?”

~ Das all I got...

How do you write a novel if you're dissatisfied with your own life and not actually curious about anyone else's?

Putting myself into a fictional setting just seems like a trainwreck of excessive self-consciousness waiting to happen.

>semantics
Really refreshing to see this used correctly on lit for a change, as opposed to a synonym for syntax and/or vague reference to pedantry.

>"...if he’s just gonna let so called ‘twerps’ like us in."
Something about this felt unnatural. "So called" sounded less like the character speaking, and more like you, the author, leaving a footnote to ensure I know they don't really see themselves as twerps. Getting it to just roll off the tongue better might help, but you need the end of this line to match the start of the next.

>ever so common among the men in this town.
"Proverbial douchebaggery" was fine, but this sounded weird. Possibly because you already took your shot with the aforementioned baggery. But, I feel more like it's just tonally off in its own way. It seems like it's just actually melodramatic, as opposed to Cindy's normal speech, which is relatively normal but with the occasional "I challenge you to read this long word" manuver. "Ever so common" has that kind of high browness to it, but I don't see the challenge or the condescension so immediately.

>when it comes to these things.
felt excessive

My only other issue was the late introduction nof the bouncer. I'd already sorta flown in to the bar at the "Cindy worked the bar" paragraph, without seeing one. But the "hey kids: this books got hoverbikes" moment was fine, it was supposed to be that way I'd imagine.

One of the better things I've seen, but I also think the pic has an influence.

I wrote another for you. :)

>The Unbearable Melancholy of Mr Blobby

As I sip at my fourth vodka gimlet overlooking the London skyline, I find myself yet again holding back the tears. Tonight marks the 27th anniversary Mr Blobby, moronic mascot to the masses. And I miss it. I miss it so badly if I saw Noel again right now my tongue would dart so quickly up his arsehole trying to get him to cut me a break I’d be tasting his beard at the other end.

The cliches are all true. I am a trained Shakespearean actor. Well, I was I suppose you should say. “Barry Killerby, formerly Mr Blobby, commands the stage with dazzling erudition and forlorn dignity in this remarkable production of King Lear” - aye, I made my own bed and now I must sit in it. I haven’t had acting work since 2012.

The internet is a Pandora’s box. Back when the media intelligentsia had me as a poster child for their sneering hatred of all things plebeian, at least I could laugh it off as tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Not anymore. I Google and those awful gibes immediately greet me, a reminder that even at my most successful I was a fraud and a failure. So what does that make me now?

The suit. I still have the suit. It’s stuffed in the hall cupboard below the boiler. Tonight when I get home I will try it on, as I do every anniversary, and relive my time as Mr Blobby. I will jump around the flat drunkenly dancing to my hit single on repeat. I will scream Blobby Blobby Blobby until the neighbours bang on the ceiling. Then I will wake up on the floor in the suit, the stench of sweat inside like stinking feet and burnt bacon, the material sticking to my skin; just like when I was in the spotlight again.

Suddenly I notice a handsome woman, must be early 40s, standing in front of me in her elegant black cocktail dress. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you - but don’t I know you from somewhere?”.

I knock back the dregs of my vodka gimlet and somehow find the courage to ask her if she would like to join me for a drink.

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>but you need the end of this line to match the start of the next.
--which you already do; what I mean is that any change made here would affect the next line

>Well, I was I suppose you should say.
comma after was

>Lear” - aye,
I would just end the quote with a period

>but don’t I know you from somewhere?
lmao

For anyone who enjoyed - sequel here

I really appreciate the awesome feedback. I'll apply all of it. If you're interested and still think it's worth a read, here's the next part I have.

Nicholas turned on the heels of his Doc Martens and strolled out of Vicky’s without saying another word.

“What’s his deal?” asked Cindy.

“You know things didn’t end well with Jenna, why’d you have to rub that in his face?”

“They didn’t break up because of his lack of bedroom proficiency though.”

“No, but they did break up.”

“Jenna said she broke up with him.”

“Well, Nicholas said it was mutual.”

“Guess you never know who to trust, eh Luke?” Cindy spouted venomously.

Lucas looked up from the empty glass he had been fiddling with and locked eyes with Cindy.

“What are you getting at?”

“Your friend bigmouth told me all about your bragging.”

Lucas went red in the face. He wasn’t old enough to drink, but from anyone else’s point of view in Vicky’s, he might as well have been the most seasoned alcoholic in the joint.

“Bragging? About what?”

“Don’t play dumb Luke. You’re too smart for that.”

He went silent.

“Look, I don’t blame you. You’re young, I get it.”

“I only bragged about it to Nicholas as a way to confide in someone. I’m sure he left out the parts where I mentioned how much you mean to me.”

“Oh God Luke, you’re gonna make me cry,” Cindy wiped away fake tears and laughed.

“Wow, Nick is right, you are a bitch.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“Do I mean anything to you though?”

A moment of silence, Cindy stood there pondering her answer. She didn’t want to break the kid’s heart but she couldn’t let him keep thinking it was anything more than a one night stand.

“Luke, you’re a sweet kid but -”

“Excuse me miss,” from out of nowhere.

A raggedy looking man in a black bomber jacket entered the conversation. Unshaven, grizzly looking face, a little shorter than Lucas.

“Is the open mic tonight? I’m looking to play.” he held up a beautifully polished harmonica and grinned.

“No, it’s tomorrow night. Usually we have live music tonight but our usual band cancelled last minute. Saxophonist and guitarist are brothers, had some kind of family emergency.”

“I see, well thank you,” and then he left just as soon as he came.

Lucas waited on Cindy’s next words.

“You better get going or else Nick will smoke all that weed without you.”

“We’re not done talking about this Cindy.”

“I’m sure we’re not.”

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Lucas didn’t even try to hide the scowl that was now plastered on his face. He lowered his head as he left Vicky’s, eyes staring straight towards the rocky ground. He kicked at the dirt and stones as he walked, knocking Earth into the air. Once he was on the far edge of the parking lot, he dug the toe of his boot into a particularly bothersome patch of dirt next to an old fashioned sedan and was surprised when something kicked up. Some kind of metallic object went flying, gleaming in the flood lights outside Vicky’s.

Walking over to investigate, he found where the object had landed and picked it up to inspect it. A harmonica.

The sedan next to the patch of dirt which Lucas had stirred up flicked on it lights. The headlights sent light shimmering off the harmonica and nearly blinded poor Lucas, but he reached his hand up and blocked some of the glare with his hand and could make out a figure in the sedan before it pulled away. Black bomber jacket and a grizzly, unshaven face.

>“Guess you never know who to trust, eh Luke?” Cindy spouted venomously.
This might be better with gesture in the front instead of the venom at the end, if not both. I felt like I had to compile rather quickly before the next line came.

>Lucas didn’t even try to hide the scowl that was now plastered on his face.
With the Doc Martens it was a funny (and brief) way to nod to what I already knew was there, but this line feels like it spends a lot of time stating the obvious. Which isn't to say you could just rip it straight out and call it improved.

Comma after sedan; I though you were introducing a second car.

>but he reached his hand up and blocked some of the glare with his hand and
And "sedan" rhyming with all the "and" makes this all the worse; both my eyes and my ears are getting undue whiplash from what should've been just one flick. You're trying to twist and cram this into a box when it should be popping out of one.

I always wondered as to the actual quality of my writing, is it engaging? Here's an extract from my dissertation:

>Simultaneously in the West there was recognition of the requirement for newly subversive forms of art to be assimilated with the post-war United States in order to claim superiority in traditionally prestigious forms of high culture such as the visual arts. The American cultural diplomacy establishment ordained that art and European artists should not be encouraged to migrate to the leftist position at a risk of losing the cultural war. Exhibitions were subsequently held to establish the position of the United States as a cultural leader in regard to visual arts as well as a counter to the presupposition by European intellectuals that ‘the United States was a philistine wasteland with no “culture” beyond comic books and cowboy movies.’ This position in the official capacity largely failed due to much criticism and low gallery attendance alongside political pressure in the spending of tax money on controversial works of art. However, it rapidly became apparent that large corporations were beginning to adopt modernist design language in their advertising and private art collections. Subsequent to the congressional criticism of state acquisitions in the 1946 exhibition Advancing American Art and the recognition of the industrial adoption of subversive and modernist art there was a shift in attitude by the State Department which promoted a new direction for American cultural diplomacy, namely one which emblemised the core capitalist ideology of the nation.

This reads a lot like The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Oh, yeah, and where's the bouncer?

>Simultaneously in the West there was [thing 1] [thing 2] [thing n]
You're giving me the pongs of the fork, and then backpedaling to the root (the West, where the things are occurring), and then going back forward again down to the points. It's a really ugly back and forth to have in an opening line. "In the West there was simultaneously a..." would immerse me more smoothly.

...actually, disregard that, maybe. Is this "Simultaneously" calling back to something from a prior paragraph? Because you say it, but then only one thing seems to get listed:

>there was recognition of the requirement for newly subversive forms of art to be assimilated with the post-war United States in order to claim superiority in traditionally prestigious forms of high culture such as the visual arts.
Anyhow, this is really long winded and redundant. For example, if there's a requirement for art to conform with merica', then I know it's because merica' wants to look good in the arts. There's no need to palindrome back through what you've already said.

>The American cultural diplomacy establishment
Formal name, or no?

>ordained that... should... encouraged
"ordained"? They ordained what was a... suggestion to not encourage people?

The next line is good but I'd take the word "culture" out of quotes. I don't know exactly what formalities you're expected to adhere to, but those are Dr. Evil quotes. Quotes are for picking out things like the word, "word," or words that've been spoken, etc. You can use them around anything you might put the phrase "so called" in front of, but that doesn't seem to be how your the line reads. That was probably the best line you had though.

I know PhD's who're dyslexic, user. One who's own mother beat him for being a retard, despite him having an IQ that would make race realists cum in their pants. So, on the one hand, I want to say "you can do it." But on the other hand, think about the audience more.

capitalize I

On your first part about "simultaneously" you are correct in that it's calling back to an earlier point that was made. The extract is the opening half of the 5th paragraph.

> "ordained"? They ordained what was a... suggestion to not encourage people?
thank you for pointing this out, I was not aware how ugly this phrasing is and now I can't unsee it.

>Anyhow, this is really long winded and redundant. For example, if there's a requirement for art to conform with merica', then I know it's because merica' wants to look good in the arts. There's no need to palindrome back through what you've already said.

I can see how the sentence reads somewhat confusingly - I need to make sure that the point I'm making is clear to the reader, but I feel a little bit like the meaning I intended and the meaning your got were different? Could you tell me what you actually got from the extract?

Thanks a lot for the feedback, I have been trying to work on being more concise, I tend to write as I think and tidy it up which leads to lots of looping

Intro to my novel that I'll surely finish and publish.

It’s 7:30 am on a Tuesday. I’ve got work in an hour and a half. Fuck.

The shower water ran over my thin, greasy hair before falling down my body. I like to keep my mouth open under the faucet sometimes and see how much water I can collect in it before spitting it out. It’s pretty weird if I’m being honest, but it feels good. I generally like taking showers, to the extent that I like anything, but there’s been one specific part of my daily shower routine that I’ve dreaded the past few weeks. Oh god, here it comes.

I reached over to the steel rack in the corner and picked up the sliver that’s left of the white soap bar then rubbed my hands over it like I was trying to start a fire. I slid my soapy hands first over my legs, then my abdomen, and then upwards over my chest. My left hand moves over my right pec before raising slightly at my right nipple as if it’d hit a speed bump. That’s my fucking tit. I’m growing tits. Or just one tit for some cruel reason. Is that even worse than having two tits if you’re guy?

The doctor told me it’s my drinking that’s causing it, but I don’t drink much more than your average 23 year old. To excess about three times a week, like a normal young adult. And I’m not fat either. My roommate drinks more than that and he doesn’t have moobs. But the doc insists Sertraline doesn’t cause gynecomastia even though I read on the Internet that it does, so I don’t know what he’s talking about. But lord knows I’m not stopping drinking any time soon, so I quit the SSRIs. They didn’t really help anyway, and the only thing I can think of that’s worse than whatever the hell this anxiety I have all the time is is having man boobs. I think I’ll calm down one day but man boobs are forever, unless you get surgery to remove them, but then still you’re stuck with a big scar over your nipple and then you have to explain to people that ask about it that you had such bad man tits you had to pay someone to physically remove them, which is pretty much just as bad as having them in the first place plus it’s more expensive.

>There's tranquility in suffering
No. There's not.

>This sounds like a Japanese translation of something.
I love monster horror stories and with this I wanted to craft a unique and entirely original work of art. I'm extremely proud of it and consider it one of my best works.

>Could you tell me what you actually got from the extract?
The US was afraid it looked uncultured, and thus decided to try looking more like an art hoe. The venture was unpopular and unprofitable, save for in the field of marketing, which eventually came around to change how capitalism-itself was branded. Add in dates and actors, and that was what I got.

>greasy hair
It's a little weird that this persists despite him showering. If someone were saying this to me, I'd expect them to phrase it in terms of the grease getting washed out, in a relieving sort of way, like the rest of the paragraph until the end. I'm nitpicking though; the size of this comment doesn't match its severity.

>and then upwards over my chest.
you've already passed the nipple here

>To excess about three times a
Consider changing "about" to "maybe." I'm not suggesting it, but this strikes me as a very defining spot.

>But the doc insists Sertraline
>doesn't [cause moobs]
Not everyone's going to know what these things are. It'd be easier to pick up on them via context clues if you put the negation in front of "Sertraline" rather than after. For example, "My doctor insists it isn't my Sertraline medication [that causes moobs]," in terms of reveal order. In terms of voice though, you want something different than that. You have the speaker's voice and the fact that he's using that of the doctor's, etc.

>man boobs are forever, unless
You have what's obviously a punchline but then you kinda keep going. Maybe replace the comma with an em dash, unless you think that's character breaking.

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>I'm extremely proud of it and consider it one of my best works.
I wonder if I would get more crit or less for saying this

#
Good opening line.

>not only time itself but these
I want to suggest saying "but also," but maybe I'm being whimsical.

>entity
This is a very imageless, fundemental, basic sort of term compared to how Scooby Doo your opening was. When I think of adjectives I commonly see in front of "entity," I imagine phrases like "abstract entity" and not "swamp thing." Even "being" would be an improvement. The second occurance of the word is fine though, because you'd put down more to fill the box with by then.

>brutalest
user

>it's enviroment
>it's earned power and it's startling resonance
No apostrophe. "It" only uses one for contractions, not the possessive.

>I will always remember the first encounter with it as my partake to a world immensely deeper then the void popular media and seculars try to make this world appear as.
Mate what? I don't think I've ever seen partake used as a noun before. "Then" should be "than." You also use "world," but then repurpose it later in a weird way; you even say "this world" at the end, specifically, like you're referring back to the more subjective-sounding "a world" from earlier. Of courae, not subjective like "art is subjective," but in the more literal sense of a new viewpoint, as you'd intended it there. But the final "world" sounds like it was supposed to be objective, yet you link to the image-of-it and not the thing-itself.

Last line of this paragraph is good and genuinely interesting. If your writing is normally like the bad lines in this, I can see why you're proud of the good ones. But, overall the paragraph becomes fluffier as I get approach the middle. It's like a teddy bear whose head I could twist off. And I consider this your best paragraph.

>and this entity has been subsisting off of them for milennia
The line this is in feels bloated and the line after feels flat; I would move this information to the latter sentence.

The line after is good reveal, with the fluency.

>Fetishes, alcoholism, drug abuse, abortions,
This is about as far as I'd push his feelings on these for now. But to skip to later on, you have:

>so called "progressive" ideals
This really breaks tone. "I, free of my chains, would team up with archdemon Gorgomon the soul eater, and together... we would own the libs." That's how tone-breaking it feels, regardless of affiliation. More of a Yuck than a Yikes.

>The price of my indifference to this was solitude.
>solitude
A monk has solitude. It's a word you use when it's both the price and the reward, and not just either one, imo.

More importantly though, why is this guy boohooing about solitude when he just went on for several lines about how he can't stand people? Why is he calling himself indifferent after spending several lines talking about what he couldn't stand and how opinionated he was? Is he a political tsundere?

father 5

Very rare
To have a conversation
With someone
Inbetween their suicide attempt
And their actual death

Very rare
To make small talk with you
And big talk with you
To a background aroma
Of your vomit and shit

Very rare
For me to be wearing a suit
I’m glad I got a job
So you could be
A bit proud

Saying
I’d see you soon was
Like a steak
Taken off the stove
Before its time
I guess you could say
I guess I could say
I miss you

Thanks for the recs. It could def using some brushing up.

Stalin was great at his job—
a busyness of pregnant ferrets can abide—
how horrid the records, dispelling myths quietly.
Trotskyism died with Anne Frank,
the margin of error here is as wide
as a sperm whale's dilated pupil
straining to see the colossal squid in the cold
dark vastness of the abyss, plankton supreme.
Warhol quotes reverberate through the rhubarb
and everyone hugs themselves to sleep.
Debate me, an atheist demands a post office worker
wearing a Christian cross. P-please sir,
I'm just trying to do my job. Oh?
Oh my god—three simple words encapturing
the real, the liminal, the effable: the ineluctable
modality of the visible, and the palpable.
Gray zones, grey tones, a Fourier transform
blinds the Venetians, the ark of the covenant dissolves.
Jibber jabber jibber jabber: rubbish and gibberish,
find the mean, then the meaning, kill the meanies
demeaning the normies and transformies, deform me,
bore me. Bore me. Abhor me. Bore me.

pastebin.com/vGr8HwTR

Intro to my finished novel manuscript. Now I have to get editing.

Wendy's. The fast food chain. As I walked through the front doors, the weighty scent of fast food blew over me. I heard who must've been the manager tell a joke about somebody: "He didn't wake up until 1:30? Wow, I guess his life must be hard." But, what irony it carried was indiscernible; his voice sounded only empathetic. He was working the floor, in his fifties. Meanwhile, towards the front of the line, some girl was getting yelled at for not hearing a custom order right. I wondered, in that moment, which was worse: being the new girl who was too young to even serve fast food properly, or being the old man, who'd been trapped here long enough to get good at it.

Either way, it wasn't my concern. I was here for one thing and one thing only: Fernando. I sought his counseling in matters of love. I was worried he might not have shown up though, but then I saw him. He was a symbol, for sex symbols. He kept his polo unbuttoned, his hip length hair... in a hairnet, as was mandatory. He was finishing up a drivethrough order via headset. "Oh no madam, I don't need a camera to see that. Yes, please, have a beautiful day--and pull around to the next window."

"Fernando," I said, having reached the front of the line.

"You are in need of something?" he asked, putting the headset around his neck. He knew I wouldn't eat fast food.

"Advice," I said. "I'm getting tired of being single, how do you do it?"

"Samuel, Samuel Samuel Samuel, Samuel. You want one to love, yes? Then, you must love them all. You must treat everyone, as though they were sexy."

Immediately someone shouted, "Where's my fucking BURGER?"

>dyed hair sticky
>face flushed, teary, panic
>a futile es cape
>
>a fall, swollen knee
>child hood injury enflamed
>now ends her life twice
>
>moon light falling
>odd angles, twists and turns
>laboratory

>"Where's my fucking BURGER?"
Kino.

Nice wee story!

>”Samuel, Samuel Samuel Samuel, Samuel. You want one to love, yes? Then, you must love them all. You must treat everyone, as though they were sexy."

Tbh that is pretty sound advice when I think of a few people like that.