Furies of Anne Gray Harvey: (content)

[Todd]

Hi Billy,

I'm back (this will probably be less of a critique and more an appreciation of what you've crafted).

a few minor edits have been made but none that warrant a side by side showing.

For you, my confessor,
from the garter-belt of my soul;
for you the undergarments of my hell,
pressed upon the Hoffman.
Pressed within the steam of a child god.

While I do like this opening (especially pressed within the steam of a child god--which strikes me as a capricious god), in L3 I don't really like the repetition of "for you". It's minor I know but I think you can still ride on L1's "For you" and substitute those words in L3 with "to"

The room cocoons me like a shroud--gives a sense of agoraphobia.
I'm a penguin out of water,
a fish out of oxygen;[b]--I like how you reverse familiar cliches
facing the corner, crying poetry.--normally I may find this a bit much, but when I consider some of confessional poetry it seems fitting. I would have never thought that I'd like crying poetry here as much as I do.
Feeling myself through cotton knickers.--Nice double entendre on feeling myself
You father, who may think to sanitise me,--You could cut "may" here and make think plural.
with your overbearing mouth.
You father, who may wish to own this parody of a sylph--again not a fan of "may"
you have always owned me.
I hate you for owning.--These last two lines are strong

Words for you mother,
my words, bee stings that branded you.
Branded and stung you over and over,--does the repetition buy you anything here?
Not lies but truths
hovering in your face, like a humming bird
sliding its tongue down that selfish throat.--the first image of the humming bird hovering is a bit common but you redeem it with having the bird do double duty with this line
You mother, who choked and gagged
like a toothless whore on them;--fantastic image
they were all of my own birthing
Mrs. Gray Harvey, my mother dear.--like the use of the name here

I see you loitering in my light,
like vampire moths ready to suck me,
ready to drink me; tête-a-tête.
I gave you poetry and you gave me what,
the catwalk, the dark catwalk
that gave you invisibility behind your garish flashbulbs?
why must it always be the dark, dark, dark.--last 3 lines here are brilliant

My microphone; my husband's cock,
it/they listen like depraved monks--it/they while technically right sounds bad. Maybe: "both listen like depraved monks" I do like the depraved monk bit and the idea that a microphone is listening
begging me to put out.
I live through it/them, wet with life and words.--again it/them feels awkward though wet with life and words is really good
Why do you, husband, force me? I feel alive and dead,
unsure which shoreline to follow.
Your grains of sand sharp and painful.--the alive and dead part feels too obvious. I also don't like the why do you husband here. We already have the mic and the cock. This could be better with simply following wet with life and words with:

I am unsure of which shoreline to follow.
Your grains of sand sharp and painful (great lines by the way)

I know that much;
no don’t touch me, I’m alone without hands,
unable to reach out, whom can I touch ----cutting unable would let hands play better off to reach out and without sort of does the work unable is doing.
Myself?
I know that much;
left in my naked reality
under a blanket of dark
light and isolation. a thorazine queen--adding light and isolation to a blanket of dark elevates it to something much more interesting.
barefoot and belt-less.
Will you feel me, my breasts,--you could cut the first me without losing anything
my spine, a calf, the crease of me?--I like how you ended this line
Feel them.
Bring me back.
Light me a cigarette.
Is anyone there, hello?--that's a nice line

I the canary sang
for you,
you who would allow me to be gassed
snuffed, like the flame of a paper match.--nice line
Even when you parted me I was alone;
ready to be impaled like a piece of pork
and left on the heat of dead coals.--again rife with sexual imagery and fitting for your topic

And I?
I rest with help, the fumes of carbon plumes
put my anguished self to sleep, read on the third,
dead on the fourth. The irony of death,
smoke inhalation to the extreme.
Sing me a cigarette in stilettos.
Sing me a vodka with olive.
Sing me a bed with Linda, divine Linda,
child of my fucking loins.
Loin of my unhappy thrush, song-less
among the dying magnolia.--these are the kind of moments in a poem that people will either love or hate. I happen to love it

I know that much;
I know of a girl in a room
Locked away like a dangerous thought.--such absolutely brilliant lines. You end this incredibly well.

Really solid poem Billy!

Best,

Todd