10-13-2017, 03:47 PM
A fatigued mother
leers at the wild eye
wherein birls the fierce shine,
only seen in the evening sky.
And only groping the depth,
in the never new,
You could masquerade with that, for a while.
And come up with something good for it.
But with the rest of the poem, you're word crazy:
you got bit by a feral werewolf poet.
You got it in the blood but not your mind. And you have to use your mind to make sense. To control the hunger and the rage.
Master the matter, and realize these poets you mention wrote in different languages, and have little in common outside of bad translations.
But if this is the way your mind works, you have to also make your mind
work
with your own poetry,
and not just keep imitating your pale and bland misreadings of these nameable poets.
leers at the wild eye
wherein birls the fierce shine,
only seen in the evening sky.
And only groping the depth,
in the never new,
You could masquerade with that, for a while.
And come up with something good for it.
But with the rest of the poem, you're word crazy:
you got bit by a feral werewolf poet.
You got it in the blood but not your mind. And you have to use your mind to make sense. To control the hunger and the rage.
Master the matter, and realize these poets you mention wrote in different languages, and have little in common outside of bad translations.
But if this is the way your mind works, you have to also make your mind
work
with your own poetry,
and not just keep imitating your pale and bland misreadings of these nameable poets.