first off; the last couplet. for me it feels a little trite the whole poem works as your confession, we have no reason need the prop in the last two lines. as it is for me it feels like you gave two finishing couplets to add some punch. (for me it weakens the poem) i would have liked to see it end on truth
i see how you used the title as the lead in to the poem, maybe to get a desired effect. personally i'd have used it in the body of the poem and come up with a new title related to it.
Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?
above you have some great chances to give an a solid image, i felt instead you gave me two tells that didn't do the analogous poets justice.
I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.
this verse works though fucking everything that moved feels a bit cliché.
I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
"there is a" feels redundant (to me)
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal., feels like comparing different similes as the same. for me the two are pretty much opposites.
I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.
it feels a little forced.(for me)
I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.
I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.
But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings—
i think these verse are solid tell but good tell (one that lets the reader create his own image)
his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.
why use a simile when a metaphor would do?
a slumped over broken doll
dribbling vomit down its slack jawed chin
I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.
There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.
Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.
These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.
these verse also work well for me.
some good lines and lots to like about the piece todd.
I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.
I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.
particularly those. as well as others.
thanks for the read as always.