03-23-2016, 12:59 PM
I miss the scent of city girls: cold nights,
dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself
in a thick-cloth coat and a woolly hat,
that hints of coffee and polluted air ... switch "that" to "the hint of...", it makes more sense to read.
and if you kiss and draw her in
her whole day lingers on her breath; ... switch to "lingering", it's the present continuous you want here.
milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast
exposed to chill night wind.
I miss the risk of misconstruance;
that slipping, cautious, certain sign
from one shared cigarette.
You light two, she takes one…
but she does not inhale.
Open mouthed then lips tight pressed,
white pleasure swirls and permeates. ... cut the "and", say "white pleasure swirls, permeates", it's more lyrical.
You stop, for just one murmured moment;
a trick you know so well. You draw her close.
She lets you take her round the waist.
Her hair is in your face and you suck deep,
draw back then gently place
your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss.
And while the intimate exhalation swirls, ... you already used swirls. There's no law against using a word twice, it's just too soon said than recycled.
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly,
through her outer fabric shield.
Soft buttons pop, warm comfort yours,
and with a faintly wanton word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls,
that whiff of baking bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with “others”, ... the quotes are silly, not what you've got going on here. Find some other way to say this.
a flat above a bakery, and wakes at four a.m.
as up through loose, bare floor boards
comes early yeast-filled streams
that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room
where yellow and smoking the gas flame lives,
sharing the grubby, gurgling boiler
with city water; the chemical cologne ... these two describers are quite nice.
of her fresh washed hair.
Her tresses frizz in the khamsin blast
from the turbo-fan, stylising
and instant drying.
Her deodorant spray ( should last a day )
will die some time in the afternoon
and then she is mine.
She dresses from a wooden chest ,
lined with crumbling paper of napthalene blooms; ... there's an 'h' that goes after the 'p'
painstakingly painting her daytime face ... I don't like this, you can come up with something more interesting to describe this. Be a bit more allusive with this one, maybe something about painterly strokes.
of eyes wide-open, lips plasticised ... there should be a 'z' instead of the last 's'
and glossy red.
Each morning she stops at the corner café,
picks a croissant and tears it open,
though too hot to hold. Her coffee arrives,
a little colder; still, on its surface
she pursed-lip blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose,
joins gladly with the steamy sweetness;
up it goes into her complex cocktail,
into her cassolette. Then you are lost in the city
with a city girl.
As a whole this is quite good. The descriptions are nice. I would've liked to have hear more from the speaker, where do his interests stem from? Is he perverted? Is he lonely? No one is without ulterior motive, and although clearly about the girl, this poem seems to me more to be about the one who is describing her. Just a thought, anyway.
dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself
in a thick-cloth coat and a woolly hat,
that hints of coffee and polluted air ... switch "that" to "the hint of...", it makes more sense to read.
and if you kiss and draw her in
her whole day lingers on her breath; ... switch to "lingering", it's the present continuous you want here.
milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast
exposed to chill night wind.
I miss the risk of misconstruance;
that slipping, cautious, certain sign
from one shared cigarette.
You light two, she takes one…
but she does not inhale.
Open mouthed then lips tight pressed,
white pleasure swirls and permeates. ... cut the "and", say "white pleasure swirls, permeates", it's more lyrical.
You stop, for just one murmured moment;
a trick you know so well. You draw her close.
She lets you take her round the waist.
Her hair is in your face and you suck deep,
draw back then gently place
your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss.
And while the intimate exhalation swirls, ... you already used swirls. There's no law against using a word twice, it's just too soon said than recycled.
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly,
through her outer fabric shield.
Soft buttons pop, warm comfort yours,
and with a faintly wanton word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls,
that whiff of baking bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with “others”, ... the quotes are silly, not what you've got going on here. Find some other way to say this.
a flat above a bakery, and wakes at four a.m.
as up through loose, bare floor boards
comes early yeast-filled streams
that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room
where yellow and smoking the gas flame lives,
sharing the grubby, gurgling boiler
with city water; the chemical cologne ... these two describers are quite nice.
of her fresh washed hair.
Her tresses frizz in the khamsin blast
from the turbo-fan, stylising
and instant drying.
Her deodorant spray ( should last a day )
will die some time in the afternoon
and then she is mine.
She dresses from a wooden chest ,
lined with crumbling paper of napthalene blooms; ... there's an 'h' that goes after the 'p'
painstakingly painting her daytime face ... I don't like this, you can come up with something more interesting to describe this. Be a bit more allusive with this one, maybe something about painterly strokes.
of eyes wide-open, lips plasticised ... there should be a 'z' instead of the last 's'
and glossy red.
Each morning she stops at the corner café,
picks a croissant and tears it open,
though too hot to hold. Her coffee arrives,
a little colder; still, on its surface
she pursed-lip blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose,
joins gladly with the steamy sweetness;
up it goes into her complex cocktail,
into her cassolette. Then you are lost in the city
with a city girl.
As a whole this is quite good. The descriptions are nice. I would've liked to have hear more from the speaker, where do his interests stem from? Is he perverted? Is he lonely? No one is without ulterior motive, and although clearly about the girl, this poem seems to me more to be about the one who is describing her. Just a thought, anyway.