Your own stuff

[Anonymous No.13348734]

Post your own poetry, prose, lyrics etc. Comment on other anons.

>The Servant

Boil the blood and mop the mud
Shear the sheep and chew the cud
Take your cloth and good book too
I’m with the monkeys at the zoo

It’s dark in here and danger’s near
Whispered wisdom fuels my fear
If you listen close you’ll go insane
They’ll steal your voice and take your brain

Vile virgins moan and groan
Resenting that which is unknown
Berating bastard children choirs
Fueling foreign forest fires

Waspish women wearing crimson
Ponder where to buy their linen
Turn your cheek but don’t be weak
The saints have a sadistic streak

Drown the ducks and beat the bucks
I know you’ve been down on your luck
Wear the seal and eat your veal
Only beggars do not steal

Tend the crofts and cut the crops
Leave now ‘fore they call the cops
Mortal minstrels mincing words
May try but fail to leave the herd

Learn to live and gladly give
Pan for gold through your fine sieve
When lightning strikes its flick of flash
Rub the resin on your rash

Feel the fur and hear the purr
The black beast cosies up to her
I’ve had far more than I deserve
Bur deep down I know who to serve

[Anonymous No.13348871]

Bike Ride

Sun delirium.
Shaded after a windy ride,
and looking for a nap
to dream more of twinkling chain
and gripped pavement.
The sky’s a great blue lens
with puffy cataracts
and through them we – three lads
tilting at youth’s windmills –
saw freedom and
mountains speckled white
like bird shit.

[Anonymous No.13348965]

>>13348734
That's fucking creepy what is it about?

>>13348871
That's refreshing a bit different

How I sought to disappear
I'm failing now
I can't get clear
Mobs of people
Them I see
A rope, my neck
Is ecstasy
I travel long
I can't go forward
I'm painted red
In front of bulls of horde
Chickenheads
Their souls are matte
Their hearts are big
They're filled with fat
Going up
And now I've found
The soul is different
I can't be found

[Anonymous No.13349111]

>>13348734
A nice rhythm going on in your poem, I can almost hear a ritual-like drumbeat while reading it

Here's mine:

The page’s slight whisper
A faint susurration
Brought about by pale, spindly fingers
Orb-less sockets directed towards
A manuscript cluttered with ink characters

Dust then billows from its coal-black coat
A symphony of creaks and crackles
As it rises to its feet
Laying down its dog-eared friend
A hefty thing, with knowledge replete

A staccato series of clicks and clacks sound out
As it cranes its head towards the entryway
A man is framed against the hall’s light
The room’s lamps blossom, the reader goes away

[Anonymous No.13349114]

>>13348871
I like this, particularly the last two lines.

>>13348965
Interesting wee poem.

My one (OP) was just one of those things that came to me, wrote it in about five minutes in a bit of a frenzy although there are references to what had been going on around me at the time. The last verse was quite silly, my black cat jumped on the bed at the moment I was finishing the poem so I thought I’d chuck her in.

[Anonymous No.13349196]

>>13349114
Your poem is creepy and I hope every subject in their burns in hell, I hope you burn in hell

[Anonymous No.13349209]

>>13349196
Lol ok anon.

[Anonymous No.13349213]

>>13349196
Lol ok anon. Should my poor cat burn in hell too?

[Anonymous No.13349219]

>>13349213
You need to be slaughtered

[Anonymous No.13349226]

>>13349219
I’ll take it as a compliment that my poem elicited such a strong reaction.

[Anonymous No.13349237]

>>13349226
You're a horrible evil person and if you lived in any sane time period you would be skinned alive and butchered

[Anonymous No.13349244]

>>13349237
As it turns out I’ve been possessed by the devil for almost a year now so you might well get your way. :)

[Anonymous No.13349269]

>>13349244
It's horrid work w a terrible message, we ure going through u should put ur energy in lightness and drop ur perverse poem

[Anonymous No.13349277]

>>13349244
So you're a servant to the devil?

[Anonymous No.13349294]

>>13349269
There isn’t a message. Chill out anon. I will post something nicer for you in a bit.

>>13349277
No.

[Anonymous No.13349303]

>>13349269
the way you write is worse than his poem

[Anonymous No.13349305]

I love feminine dicks from the north
I love feminine dicks from the south
I love feminine dicks up my butt
I love feminine dicks in my mouth

I love feminine dicks that are big
I love feminine dicks that are small
I love feminine dicks a lot
I also love feminine balls

[Anonymous No.13349310]

>>13349294
I'll be waiting

[Anonymous No.13349320]

>>13349303
How so? I'm lamenting the state of humanity I'm not promoting evilness3/4s of that is absolutely horrid

[Anonymous No.13349347]

>>13348734
reads like something that would be found scrawled on the walls of a long abandoned mental asylum. very spooky
>>13348871
your style and the depiction is so nostalgic- i love it :)
>>13349111
i always enjoy when people create art out of everyday scenes. the descriptions of the reader and the setting are very vivid as well

anyway here is one i wrote a while ago:
Dimitri had just died. From the perspective of history, he was but one of billions of deaths, and he had only truly affected an astoundingly small amount of people. Never did he achieve some respectable form of grandeur, and never was his name spoken by someone who wasn’t at some point going to meet him. In the grand scheme of the world, he was a nobody; he was a nothing.
"Then why," poor, clueless Tatiana wondered, "why do I hurt so much?" The truth was she hardly knew him. In fact, the furthest direct contact she had ever had with him was at the door frame of a boys bathroom.
In her first year at a new school, she ran in a desperate hurry to find a restroom, not paying attention to the symbols on the door. He grabbed the ribbon on the back of her blouse, right as she had pushed the door open. She turned around and saw an ashen yet well fed boy. She had to crane her neck upwards to fully observe his features. He had pale blue eyes that sunk into his head, which was square with a messy mop of straw colored hair on top. His disproportionately large mouth was molded into a caring smile.
"The girls bathroom is over there," he said pointing across the hallway. His voice was deeper than normal for what appeared to be a fourth year student, but was still soft to the ears, as if his words were the warm and trusting hands of her father. She blushed, thanked him profusely, and ran into the proper bathroom with her head looking at her shoes the whole time.
This was the one and only true interaction she ever had with the boy. She awoke from her thoughts and was once again faced with a world in which he no longer existed. She was so touched by that simple act of kindness so many years ago that now, as an 18 year old woman, she was looking out of her window from the top of a concrete dorm with warm tears crawling down her cheek over the thought of him.
She thought of all the things a boy that kind could have been: a wonderful doctor, or perhaps a teacher whose students would have loved dearly. Wiping her nose with her wool sleeve, she pondered the tragedy that had unfolded.
His life was cut short before he had a chance to make himself a something; a somebody. History had but a mere sentence written in the blank pages of what could have been the epic of Dimitri. The whole situation sent a chill through her scalp down to her feet and left the invisible hairs on her hand electrified. She reached over to the newspaper on her bed which had delivered the story to her. She read over it again.

[Anonymous No.13349354]

>>13349347
He was at a café in Moscow, sitting outside during the tepid summer at a corner of an intersection. Out of nowhere, on a Tuesday morning when the particular road was usually empty, a faded yellow VAZ hit a pothole, lost control, and flew into the outdoor tables. Dimitri was struck and became pinned against the maroon brick wall of the café. His abdomen was entirely crushed, his intestines lodged in the thin silver slits of the grille. He did not die instantly. His funeral would be in four days and would be private, only attended by his family.
The same cold from earlier washed over her and she put the paper down shakily. The room was spinning.
"If I head to that street corner, will his blood still be stained on the concrete? It has to be. If they wash it off, he'll be gone from this world forever. They can’t do that to him," She thought. Unfortunately, she did not exactly know who she meant by “they,” but she knew that they could, and that they would.
She turned back to her window. The city sprawled underneath her; a gray vulture spreading its wings, waiting for the next victim of fate to pick up after. It was difficult for her to accept one of the many painful truths of reality; death was routine, no matter the circumstances.
She stared at his portrait that was placed in the newspaper. He was smiling that same smile that she had seen so long ago. Her shaking hands petted the portrait gingerly. She cut out the picture cautiously and put it in a drawer.
Then she turned off the lights and went to sleep at 4 in the afternoon.

[Anonymous No.13349374]

>>13349111
Sorry, I got distracted by the people who think I am a Satanist. This is really original, some excellent use of rhyming and imagery too. Well done.

>>13349347
>>13349354
I love this, short and clever, no wasted words. It reminds me a bit of Murakami’s short fiction.

[Anonymous No.13349376]

>>13349354
Well written I like it can't see how it could be improved

[Anonymous No.13349474]

OP again. I songwrite much more than I write poems, although this one did start as a poem before I added the chorus later. Sorry to go all /mu/ on your arse but if you want to hear it here's a link.

https://clyp.it/12iujlai

>The Story of a Woman

You'll find her on the silken sand
Her windswept hair damp from the sea
A silver piece clasped in her hand
A silver piece to set her free

You'll find her in a uniform
In the service of some swine
Standing amongst kings and queens
Shucking oysters, pouring wine

This is the story of a woman
She's walked the earth, she's crossed the sea
She's been a slave, she's been a servant
She's been around for an eternity

You'll find her on a verdant plane
Resplendent in the golden sun
The grass still beaded with cool rain
Her fertile womb soon to bear a son

You'll find her in a booth at night
Where men and women stop and stare
Her flesh turned crimson by the light
Her mind a million miles away

This is the story of a woman
She's walked the earth, she's crossed the sea
She's been a slave, she's been a servant
She's been around for an eternity

You'll find her in the pantheon
In alabaster carved by man
Eternally set in the stone
Her beauty there since time began

You'll find her travelling on the metro
In starched white shirt and business wear
Her soul the same from so long ago
Her conscience clear and unaware

This is the story of a woman
She's walked the earth, she's crossed the sea
She's been a slave, she's been a servant
She's been around for an eternity

Under stars and cypress trees
Tonight she will be reborn
She'll wash your feet and tend your wounds
And strip you of your crown of thorns

[Anonymous No.13349494]

>The showerhead squeaks, the water cuts off, and the last drops patter down. You lie in the bedroom, listening. Your arms are crossed underhead and you smile at the sound of draining—not a tub draining but a glass-enclosed shower—that comes through the shut (but unlocked) bathroom door. Your smile grows. The last of the water pools around the drain and trickles down, a sound like soft drizzling. Water drains a moment longer, and then the glass door whines open. You listen intently, as two soft footsteps print on a woven rubber mat. A third and fourth footstep, these printing onto the tile. A half step—another wet, warm print. A towel is swooshed up, daubed all over, wrapped. The cabinet opens and a second towel is swooshed up. The cabinet’s wood door claps shut and the towel is swooshed up again, wrapped. This takes a minute.

>Your attention wanders from the bathroom door and onto various points in the bedroom. The wall opposite you and the king bed has a big mirror mounted on it. The mirror is big enough that it completely covers the wall (which is pretty wide) from the surface of a chest-of-drawers to the ceiling. You see a lot of the room reflected in it, a good deal of the other three cream-colored walls; you stare at framed pictures and wall decorations back and forth, wandering from one to the next. What you don’t see is the bed. The big TV that is sitting in the middle, on top of the chest-of-drawers, blocks the mirror from reflecting the middle area of the bedroom—and were it not for this big TV, you would be lying in bed, for better or worse, faced with your own nude reflection.

>On the nightstand there is a portrait photo of her family, her two young kids and the ex-husband. The photo is actually really well done (this sort of thing usually comes out awkward or kitschy) and everyone looks super respectable (even the kids, a son and a daughter) and there is nothing cheesy or stilted about the photo at all. Her smile is as always—warm, super inviting; the husband’s smile (though respectable) evinces naivety, a comfort level that makes you want to laugh; and the kids’ smiles, naturally, are just kids’ smiles. They are all very tan. The daughter’s cheeks and nose are sunburned. She and the daughter are wearing modest white dresses, husband and son wearing white collared shirts and dark pants. The backdrop is denim-colored. You stare a moment longer at the husband. His face is bloated. You can tell he was once a seriously handsome guy: light eyes, thick dark hair, masculine jaw and chin, a face that just screams “upper management.” But something about his smile undoes this. It makes you want to laugh harder, but the son looks more in-the-know than his dad.

>Wandering onto a few other portrait photos, wedding photos, kid photos. All are neatly framed and arranged. The surfaces in the room are well dusted, not a ton of clutter but there are clothes lying around the hamper—probably tossed and missed.

[Anonymous No.13349511]

I’m going crazy without you
Without you, I’m going crazy
What’s wrong with me?
Broken into a thousand pieces
What’s wrong with you?
It cannot be repaired anymore
What’s wrong with us?
Everything is over, isn’t it?
There’s nothing wrong with anyone.
I did not know at the time, but I lied.

[Anonymous No.13349733]

bump

[Anonymous No.13349851]

>Best Left Unsaid

You came back unexpectedly
On a cold November night
I ought to have predicted it
With reason and foresight
But I’d deferred all hope
Until you turned up at my door
And I’d tried so hard to forget
The way things were before

You shook the snow off your boots
And sank into my chair
I offered you a towel to dry
Your damp and matted hair
I wanted to ask where you’d been
And all the places that you’d seen
And why you’d left me here to dream
Of the way things were before

Instead I boiled the kettle
As you sat sullenly in silence
The dull drone of a shopping channel
The only sound between us
Then you looked up to me
As I handed you your cup of tea
And I saw the tears stream down your face
Like the way things were before

Some things are best left unsaid
So I led you to my spare bed
And closed the door as you undressed
And lay your weary head to rest

[Anonymous No.13349990]

>>13349196
>>13349219
>>13349237
>>13349269
>>13349320
wtf crawled up your butthole that you got so triggered by this poem?

[Anonymous No.13350126]

>>13349354
there're a few small things i would change;but they're pretty trivial. I don't like the way you used grandeur, maybe you're russian so you know better than me but it struck me as weird that a person named Dimitri would have blue eyes. I also didn't like "he was a nothing." Idk just don't like that construction. But on the whole, I agree with the other posters. This is quality and you should feel good about it. The register and tone of the piece are palpable.

[Anonymous No.13350142]

The Lubbock sky sprawls. It covers and hangs. It’s massive and expansive and inescapable in a way that would be totally unfamiliar to someone who is used the quaint and delicate brick facades of New England. As the autumn sun sets the heavens are woven with the same threads that colored the Puebloan blankets from hundreds of years before. The Puebloans have long since been rounded up and banished to select areas of New Mexico or Oklahoma. Or worse, they’ve been killed on behalf of some misguided attempt to secure eternal salvation. Some of them took white husbands and wives, as did their children and grandchildren. Well within their rights to do so, of course, but have no doubt; such an action was at least partially responsible for the way things are now.

As the pink and orange and red and purple turn darker to grey then black, Roy sits on the stoop of 178 64th Street. The steps that support his gluteal region were constructed in a project that solved a problem predicted to obtain, but never quite did. The city planner of Lubbock, Tx, had anticipated a large population influx to Lubbock in 1973, as the OPEC oil crisis intensified. But the oil boom that Texas Tech economists had predicted never met the heights imagined, and thus the five story walk-up section-eight apartments that Roy now inhabited were somewhat unneeded and totally unfit to meet Lubbock’s, as many social scientists would phrase it, “totally problematic socioeconomic gap between the privileged and oppressed.” All this was, at best, apparent to Roy deep down, but entirely unclear to his conscious self.

So the steps that Roy now covered with his stone-washed light blue denim jeans were approaching their quinquagenary. One that was unlikely to be celebrated in the way that the Golden Jubilee was paraded in 21st century England. The matte black cowboy hat that rested upon his unkempt hair laid low over his face, casting a shadow above his lips. The strong westerly breeze blew down 64th street, making his dangling earing dance, suspended from his ear. The stop sign on the corner had marked time all afternoon, as the shadow rotated around the axis of the gleaming pole. Condensation, little tiny drops of cool, clear water, dripped down Roy’s glass bottle of malt liquor. A wet circle stained the unevenly faded grey concrete where the bottle rested, cap all uneven and hanging from the spout.

The early evening heat surrounded Roy. His head losing weight as he continued to sip from his bottle and a silver Chevy Monte Carlo rumbling around the corner: his ride had arrived.

[Anonymous No.13350284]

>>13350142
>quinquagenary

you wot m8

[Anonymous No.13350361]

>>13350284
50th anniversary... I was trying to contrast the fancy regal language with occupying the socioeconomic spaces that Roy does

[Anonymous No.13350758]

>tfw my stuff is ignored

[Anonymous No.13350761]

>>13348734
gubba gubba mole man
stay down there
away from my toes
you'll never be a terrestial presence
only a soilbug

[Anonymous No.13350874]

Hot, tainted air raced across the ground. The sky was torn apart, and fire was pouring from its gaping wound. Buildings were turned to dust. Roads were pulled into the ground, overtaken by ash. All manner of men, women, and children were charred; souls plucked from their bodies. Not a single one had a chance to let out a scream in a last ditch effort to make their plight known. Man, insatiable, constantly strove for greater heights, and brought on all sin for the sake of a fulfilled life, but his dignity was not the only toll. It was time for man reap what he had sown, and so, the Devil let out his laugh and collected his dues.

[Anonymous No.13350889]

will trade critique/commentary for critique/commentary


Prozac Withdrawal in Dubai

Oh, all squares unresponsive and skyline fanged
Danced for two Orange girls —
Ulster took pity on plastic so Metro stumble far
Pain has no harvest, and hate is no pain

Mall endless, endless mall, my coffee in Manila
I dream bunk fever in Kerala
Spider lily watching-watching
(Peak-cleave sky blue-burning)
Skin screams window cleaning

My feet canvas still sealant foam still my pores
Fortunes — flesh scabs gold, silver
Looted Tomahawk cut diamonds—

Laugh! Booty-shorts and burkas!
Hatchets buried in mass graves!

(these gilded echoes of Franklin Mills, am I just body spray Dutchsmoke lighthead again, am I just waiting on a date and crying bedbug licescalp, my flip phone Emir curfew wringing me, stained linoleum my youthful pasture my booty-short wraiths and burka pinups)

Oh, laugh, now gold perfume dizzy my dinner somewhere in this Arabian ice rink, in
bejeweled aquarium pillars Styx filtered, wilderness so perfect and decadent Paran
bows, the blue arcs of al-Balkhi annotate spandrels (blowtorch hieroglyphs in pyrrhic chrome), soup of names, pylon-spayed:

I am pushed from the women's car by cybersharia sublime intercom pesticide
There is some funny rhyme with Temple echoes chiding, cherry, white,
The chastity of calluses and stucco bareback slide. From garden from fountain
To oasi shriveled, neighbor hungry, prayer muted
And though patter and whisper creeps always, thunders condemnation
Each of us still Zechariah without answer. Were the Heaven and Earth
One? Shake the trunk of a palm tree and it will drop dates.

Clotheslines sway gentle in warm gulfmorn breezeglow
Before the alleys and streets of the workers' districts where the buildings end
In sand-complexion curls and I stir remote
Several and severed

[Anonymous No.13350890]

Made It Up Just Now

Didn't have one to share,
No pages left that I could tear,
So I wrote stream of conscious on a post,
"Check out my graffiti and donate to the needy",
The cops came when I finished,
and though the words were not diminished,
My face must have been whiter than a ghost,
They wrote me out a ticket and made me repaint the picket,
The paint was out of pocket, I had to trade my locket,
But I did exactly what they said and I didn't paint the post.

[Anonymous No.13350904]

>>13350758
just keep poasting breh, doesn't mean you're bad

[Anonymous No.13350983]

>you are your father's child


And what had that meant,

What did you mean by it?

What did you want to say to me

Without the guts to really try it

And instead, speak it clearly?

I have never been my father's child,

I have never been my mother's son.

How apart, how savant-garde, how wilde,

How soft the beat of history's drum,

How heavy the feet of the world, glum

With children running wild.

I am no man's son,

I was born of no woman's womb.

I am no man's son,

I was born of no woman's womb.

I am no man's son,

I was born of no woman's womb.

The rock cold Earth will never be my tomb.

The Sky above shall not take me as it takes some.

What flows as it will will not have me on this day,

As it would any other man made from mere clay

And ash, a symbol carved in the shape forgotten.

Do not deign to me as you would, as you do.

You know nothing of me, yet I know of you.

I have seen you birthed out the ground,

I have seen you die, I have seen you die

and your body turn stiff, and swell up: the inflation of a caricature

drawn by a fool who thinks he knows more than he does, as all fools do.

I have seen Tulips and roses redder than the blood that birthed them rise from your grave.

You know nothing of me.

I know you completely,

And I will see you breathless.

Sit a spell, and know yourself

Apart from mortality.

[Anonymous No.13351024]

>>13348734
The servant is a schizo hearing voices that are to be served? I liked this, you should turn it into song, reminds me of Nick Cave but creepier

[Anonymous No.13351027]

>>13348734
>>13351024
And by should I meant could, my bad

[Anonymous No.13351070]

>>13350889 here, ill do a couple critiques

>>13350983
This is good anon. Whether or not the antiquated affectation throughout really works is going to depend on the reader, but I'll say at least that it reads as if it's in-character, not from a contemporary perspective. Not necessarily a bad thing but something to be aware of. Other notes: not sure the rhyming of drum with glum. You almost get away with it but I'm going to say not entirely, something still feeling overly contrived about it. You commit throughout to a very large scale and it's admirable the extent you pull it off, but I think with the tightening of language you could improve. Like "man made from mere clay and ash" could easily be "man made from clay and ash" without losing much in the way of rhythm besides that 3rd m, and I'm more convinced by the grandiosity when words that feel a little old and flippant like "mere" and maybe "sit a spell" and "glum" are left out. Good work tho.

>>13350890
bad idk why you did this

>>13350761
Not sure if a joke but I like it

>>13349851
This is sweet and heartfelt, but a poor usage of the antiquated language and tone imo. Where it's best is where it's in contrast with the imagery, as in stanza 3 with the shopping channel. Stanza 3 in general is the strongest, interesting images and strong story where we get some idea of the relationship between these people revealed to us in a painful way. The first 2 stanzas are basically empty, the rhythm stumbles and the rhymes feel entirely contrived, and we get only vague teasing hints of story. The 4th stanza is good, but the last line is bad. Drop the word "weary" and it already improves, but with weary it feels entirely like a stock poem in a Hallmark card. My advice would be to compress the first 2 stanzas into a single tighter stanza and play around with the language, try to be very particular about each word and its implications for the tone of the poem.

[Anonymous No.13351080]

>>13351070
not a joke I'm just a weird dude so thanks

[Anonymous No.13351089]

>>13351080
yeah sincerely a good little poem i would read more

[Anonymous No.13351176]

>>13351070
>bad idk why you did this
I agree, boredom, yours was good though.

[Anonymous No.13352438]

>>13351024
I tried singing it but turns out too much like subterranean homesick blues, will maybe try it slower

[Anonymous No.13352454]

>>13348734
Excerpt from my third novel-length self-published abortion, 'Some People Who Were Naked'.

[Anonymous No.13352732]

>>13349305
I like this in an honest way. The switch to balls is great.
>>13349474
Sweet poem bro.

Heres one I wrote. Its called Lies. Let me know if you like it, or call me a stupid faggot if I did something wrong.

They told us we’d fall in love.
That one day, without warning, we’d trip.
But no matter the promises painted
On the drumbeat humming from below the well.
I never tripped.
We never fell.

So then was it a lie?
Well, sows don’t fly.
And nuns don’t cry.
And potatoes’ eyes?
Lies. The truth is this.

Potatoes sit silent, sulking and snug.
Under level, they revel with earthworm and slug.
No eyes, no light, no subtle clue
Can ever dare remind them.
That all their dank, their dirt and filth
Will never stay behind them.
But a softer hand, with hope of its own.
Can pull the soiled gem high.
Bathed under garden tap, then golden in day.
Rising from dirt, to air, to kitchen stove.
No. People never fall in love.

[Anonymous No.13353119]

>>13348734
Like a broken tap, it runs out of you.
Whenever i go to work, i think about becoming,
A martyr! Long legs and long hours!
Never took me far enough.

Like a broken tap, you drip out
If you lose the feeling?
Then what is left of meaning?
To blossom into nothing?

Suffer Bomb
Bomb Disease
You are Carcass
Pawn; Pawn

Slumber party,
Leave us in here;
Evil everywhere,
Even in here;

Crypt Dance
Full Panic
Panick.
Dance to the beat of the rattling bones
Tick Tick Tick
Goes the Bomb

Did you choose this?
Where are the rattling fields?
Of dandelions and poppies?
Poppies are red.
And the playful tune of wind
is now but a larking whisper!

Pipes and oiltanks.

[Anonymous No.13353127]

>>13350889

>>13353119
This is me.

>>13350889
Really like this one actually, you paint a good picture and the language not being as archaic as others ive seen posted here.

[Anonymous No.13353150]

>>13352438
Reminds me of the beginning of Orpheus by Nick Cave (idk if that's the exact name of the song)

[Anonymous No.13353341]

>>13353150
Have barely listened to Nick Cave but that song is brilliant, thanks for the recommendation.

I might have another shot at putting my poem to music if this thread is still alive tonight when I get back from work.

[Anonymous No.13353841]

>The Student

On a freezing night in Glasgow
From a tenement on a Partick street
A young man at his window
Watched the falling sleet

The student tried to read his book
Yet could not find respite
His thoughts entrapped by filthy looks
Malevolence and spite

These thoughts that call us in the night
Nary in the light of day
Oft times are seen as true foresight
Or other times as clarity

He walked along the Clyde
Obsessing and unravelling
He cast his net so wide
The list ever expanding

He mapped the network in his mind
Of rumours and deceit
He knew then that he’d never find
The truth he tried to seek

Under glowing yellow clouds
The student spoke his final words
Reflections shimmered on the Clyde
Of early morning birds

And as he looked up to the sky
The light reflected in his eyes
I wonder if he realised why
Amid the shouts and sighs

I was in the crowd that stared
At you that bitter morn
Some are lost and some are spared
When passing through the thorns

[Anonymous No.13354096]

>>13348871
hands-down the apex of gay poetry

[« Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄3 » !!pWGITim7tZG No.13354192]

None of the forms I watch
tremble in this argent surface
are mine
Urgent, in my mind, I hear
a doppelganger whispering
I should not be

[Anonymous No.13354193]

>>13354192
Shut up tranny

[Anonymous No.13354222]

>>13348734
Reads like doggerel death grips

[Anonymous No.13354240]

Here, have a piece of a deeply terrible horror story I tried to write when I was 17

>Before Stephen’s eyes, Mr. Black flickered, his humanoid shape changing for a split second. He got a glimpse of something much larger, stretching into spaces beyond the small room, all gnashing teeth and leathery folds of skin. A stench rolled off the being, stale meat and sewage. A blast of hot air like a furnace. Then, just as suddenly, the effect was gone. Stephen gaped.
>Hold steady. Don’t shake. Don’t…
>BZZZZ.
>It was too late. The sound of the buzzer echoed with finality, sealing his fate.

[Anonymous No.13354377]

>>13354192
Interesting. About suicide?

>>13353841
Vivid descriptions, I like it.

[Anonymous No.13354983]

>>13354377
I think you went a little overboard on the blood, guts and shit.

[Anonymous No.13356406]

>>13354983
When it comes to war, there isn't enough of that. But I guess you're right, I should dilute the "blood, guts and shit" by adding some lines about other stuff

[Anonymous No.13357734]

>>13348734

As Joaquin pulled out his gun to the row of four men facing the darkness of night, he filled his lungs with cigarette smoke until his ribcage pushed against his sweat-covered buttoned shirt. The headlights of the vehicles cast away the darkness of the Ajusco Mountains exposing the condemned and their bloody backs and torn bags tied to the necks. The intense chirping of the chapulines filled the air as bugs swarmed the soon-to-be corpses. He spat his cigarette and pushed it down into the mud with the tip of his worn boots. Cocking the pistol, he told the men to make peace with God, as he reached for the medallion hanging amongst his chest hair and gave a long look to the image of the Guadalupana. After giving it a kiss, he aimed the gun at the second man from the left. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, he felt a large hand grab his arm.
It was Diego Trujillo. His hands were clammy and his shirt had a visible sweat stain around his neck. Diego was the kind of guy that was too easy to read. His large round nose, balding head, hairy arms, and vicious hungry eyes, easily gave away that he was no more than a chimp in a suit, a thug with a license, a dog without a chain but, still obeying some master from Los Pinos.
" I just got a call from the Presidency," he said to Joaquin's ear, " we're not getting rid of them today."
Joaquin lowered his pistol and snapped back at Diego, "Why?".
"They don't want any disturbances or controversy this week."
"Why?," Joaquin answered in a less hostile tone.
" The pope is coming."
"The pope?" he answered trying to hold back a laugh.
"The pope is coming to visit Mexico City next week. It's a surprise visit."
"And Lopez Mateos is just going to let him waltz in?"
"They don't have a say, the pope is landing in Toluca and there's nothing we can do about it."
Joaquin reached for another cigarette and motioned one of the Estado Mayor agents to get the journalists back on the vehicles. He filled his lungs again and held his breath in silence to the chirping around him. Looking into the darkness past the trees, he wondered if he might get the chance to have his medallion blessed.

[Anonymous No.13357787]

>>13348734
good cadence, keep it. Re-wrought some of those images, pick the best ones.

[Anonymous No.13357795]

>>13354377
mmmm. Good.

[Anonymous No.13357810]

>>13353841
cadence is familiar, and its good. Very Tom Petty when money wasn't king.

[Anonymous No.13358478]

>>13357734
Very good, you should expand this into a full short story.

>>13357787
>>13357810
Thanks very much. This is all stuff from over a year ago I wrote intended for songwriting but never ended up setting to music, I’m glad I didn’t scrap it.

[Anonymous No.13358517]

-The Night Watchman and the Rider in Black-

The Watchman steps out,
Onto the moonlit tower.

Through warm sandstone tunnels,
Veins of the palace behind him,
The brown-skinned servant girl brings
Jugs of blood-red wine
To ugly men in beautiful clothes.
Perhaps a stray hand that thinks itself fatherly
Will stray where it shouldn't,
And her throat will fill with silent protests,
Stifled by the sneering, sticky warmth
Of the dense air and the sweaty palms
And agitated words that she understands too well
Although she does not know the language.

The Watchman sighs.

Here he is free.
Here the air is dry and crisp,
And free of distractions.
He breathes deeply,
And his lungs fill with silence,
His eyes with the silver moonlight
That turns the sands to snow.
Here he is free,
And here he is himself.

His lighter cuts the night,
A spark of light in the dark,
Of being in nothing,
And he lights a cigarette.

His wife gave him that lighter,
That perfect glowing metaphor,
Marking his existence in the dark and
Marked with his own name.
His wife, with the gapped buck teeth,
Who snored like rolling thunder.
His wife, with a small pot-belly
And cellulite on her ass
And two chins when she looked too far down.
His wife, who was so distant from
The fat men in the tight suits with the pitstains
In the palace.

The Watchman takes a pull,
And the silence breaks with the gentle hiss of hooves on sand.

A rider in black,
A smudge of ink on the white sand canvas,
Sits atop a pale horse and waves.
The Watchman waves back,
Then the bullet cuts cleanly through his forehead
And his skull explodes behind him into bloody shards.

A world ends in a moment,
With no warning,
Leaving nothing but a pot-bellied widow and a cigarette in the sand.

[Anonymous No.13358523]

>>13349269
>u should put ur energy in lightness
>"if you lived in any sane time period you would be skinned alive and butchered"
>"You need to be slaughtered"
>"I hope you burn in hell"

[Anonymous No.13358566]

new at poetry, dont really write it much, but its easier to share

Oh, Black Sheep,
Don't you know that the sunlight scorns the meek?
Take a step back to soak it in, feel it ache and settle in.

Oh, Lost Lamb,
You ran away just to find the home that you never knew you had,
A bond beyond the starlight seas.

You've gone oh so far,
And I'll wait patiently,
For under the ancient stars,
Where you drift aimlessly,
To see your eyes, is that so wrong?
They shine with wanderlust,
I pray it wont be too long,
Before we turn to dust.

Oh, Black Seas,
When you close your eyes theres nothing else you see,
You dream of a space with nothing but misery.

Oh, Lost Voice,
A void in your head that came from the black in the sky,
Living in the shadows cast by the evil eye.

To be your last light,
I'll gladly give my life.
A new dawn,
Firestorm at the break but I'll be gone.
I'll live on, within the fire you ignite,
By your bedside as your candlelight.

You've gone so far,
And I'll wait patiently,
For under the ancient stars,
Where you drift aimlessly,
To see your eyes,
That shine with wanderlust,
Waste away, I say
I'd gladly give my life,
To stop the night that never ends.

Oh, Black Sheep, you've gone too far,
Led astray by those guiding stars,
With an endless plane to roam,
Under candlelight, you found home.

Oh, Lost Lamb, you've come so far,
Always on the run,
But you saw on the horizon, your rising star
Welcome home, Prodigal Son

[Anonymous No.13358571]

>>13349354
I typed this up without noticing the first post that the story continues from, but after reading the both, I feel like the criticism covers the entire thing pretty effectively.
>>13349354
>He was at a café in Moscow
You have introduced so few assets as to negate any potential mobility or speed, even negating base flexibility or economy (See: next line).
>sitting outside during the tepid summer at a corner of an intersection
overwritten for stabilization of some sort of personal style. This would be acceptable if you had introduced and organized some assets to reference and expand upon here. No dwelling or pacing, just pure instrumentalism.
>Out of nowhere
Best line so far
>on a Tuesday morning when the particular road was usually empty,
And you machinegun blast it into pieces with more hammy overexposure and clinical detail
>a faded yellow VAZ
Digging even deeper into the muck.
>hit a pothole, lost control, and flew into the outdoor tables.
Good recovery
>Dimitri was struck and became pinned against the maroon brick wall of the café.
I'm ambivalent. On the one hand it's boiler/unremarkable prose but on the other it's a real hammy namedrop
>His abdomen was entirely crushed, his intestines lodged in the thin silver slits of the grille. He did not die instantly
Throw a semicolon in there, otherwise eh
>His funeral would be in four days and would be private, only attended by his family.
This would be ok if it didn't mean the end of this vignette. There's something here, but you need to very thoroughly hammer out the impurities before it's workable.
>The same cold from earlier washed over her and she put the paper down shakily. The room was spinning.
Nope, run that one through the chipper and see what you can do with the pulp. This is one of the most disjointed ruptures I've seen in a story, and I've read some trash tier fanfic.
If I'm being honest, I lost interest after that. The dialogue felt imitative of the curious nature Russian lit and it bored me. Again, somethings still there if you're good enough.

[Anonymous No.13358573]

>>13358566
This is absolutely brilliant, keep on writing.

[Anonymous No.13358595]

>>13358566
Great phonetic detailing, I can only think to mention "by" to "beside" but even that's corny. And good theme as well.

[Anonymous No.13358823]

>>13358571
What a douchey post.

[Anonymous No.13359751]

>>13358517
got half way through before i realised it wasn't lyrics to a song off spiderland

>>13348734
not my cup of tea

I say "be still, be still,"
To my booming inner voice,
Lest my brain should fill
To bursting point with noise.
And I won't be able to hear
The innocent screams of the boys
Picked up by the sharks
As they cling hopelessly to buoys.

I've crashed, I've crashed the ship
Into another ship.
Fire, crew and petrol
Mingle in the drink.
A vision such as this
Makes a fellow think.
Our wretched drowning crew
So young, and weak.

I'm a jolly capitán
With nothing much to do.
I'm lying in my cabin bunk
Writing this to you.

One boy makes it back to ship,
His name is Jimmy Black.
We cut a slice of pickled ham
And made the boy swim back.
"Get along there Jimmy Black!
You're made of stronger stuff.
You're ship mates will be missing you.
This kind of thing is tough
On all of us."

Five days, five days later
A schooner picks me up.
Two weeks after that
I'm king of a backward island state.
I impregnate my fifty wives
And take a little nap,
Reflecting on how
Things have turned out great again.

[Anonymous No.13360284]

How do I ignore the feeling that im too immature and have experienced to little of life to be able to write anything meaningful?

[Anonymous No.13360681]

>>13360284
Context: Im writing a short story about boredom and dissociation in a cyberpunk-inspired setting. I actually really like my theme, and want to keep writing.
Thing is, when I start writing everything I put down on the paper feels really shallow and naive. I feel like a slightly Orwell-inspired version of a suburban mom posting inspiring "love, live, laugh" quotes on her facebook page. What do I have to add to the discussion, when most other people are infinitely more experienced than me? Im 22 and nothing of importance has happened in my life so far. No burning passion, no great tragedies, no life-changing journeys, no unconditional love or devotion. Nothing.
Actually, that is why I chose the theme that I did. I thought I should write about something I have experience with, and boredom was all I could come up with. And I still feel like its not enough.

[Anonymous No.13360698]

>>13360681
What does life experience matter in writing just imagine it retard.

[Anonymous No.13360790]

>>13360284
It really shouldn’t matter, but if you think it will help maybe construct an alter-ego or persona in your head as the writer you want to be.

[Anonymous No.13360888]

>>13360681
Yes. This is why many of us won't make it in the market with our stories and poems because most people would rather read already existing, great writers (the greeks, etc). You have to occupy an empty niche with your writings, do something nobody has ever done. Fuck, make your own setting derivative from cyberpunk, don't just along with generic cyberpunk tropes

[Anonymous No.13361975]

>>13357734
>Lopez Mateos
The president was Lopez Portillo. Otherwise this is pretty good but, I'm not convinced on the concept.

[Anonymous No.13362387]

>>13349851
Just set this to music if anything's interested. I don't agree with the other anon's critique besides the last line, it was bugging me a bit myself.

https://clyp.it/ymy0oxli

[Anonymous No.13362398]

Just set this poem to music if anyone's interested. I don't agree with the other anon's critique besides the last line, it was bugging me a bit myself.

https://clyp.it/ymy0oxli

[Anonymous No.13362408]

>>13349851
Just set this poem to music if anyone's interested. I don't agree with the other anon's critique besides the last line, it was bugging me a bit myself.

https://clyp.it/ymy0oxli

[Anonymous No.13362855]

>Visions of the Truth

I dreamed I saw prophet
Who declared the rapture's near
They threw him face first on the stones
Of a cobbled empty street

They beat him as he cried out
It's the lord that they should fear
Then they dealt a final fracture
And left him in a heap

I stood over the prophet
And I took his dying hand
He looked at me and whispered
And in his final breath was calm

I'll never forget what he said
As the blood dripped from his teeth
To always wash behind your ears
And keep your bollocks clean