08-01-2011, 11:32 AM
(I did a title change and a revision. This isn't anything like my normal style. I break tons of my own rules. Feedback appreciated on if this works. Thanks)
it's confessional
Revision
Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is the vacant sky always too large
and childhood only a razor nice metaphor
to flay in successive slices? is 'in' needed?
Does confession mean death? in my last crit which i'm looking at now i see i made a glaring mistake, the 1st two lines are images. so i face palm myself for that comment; i prefer this extended verse
I write about these feet twisted like taffy, love this line
the cold brace and the colder blood
black against my scalp.
I write about a mother who could only fuck
to add warmth to her life.
much better for me, the fuck line is miles better. and the blood image is really good
I write about discovering God,
power moving my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
I write about empty swings
and prophecy.
another good rewrite. the 4th line rattle (which is good )
I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama poetry.
for me the fucking doesn't work so well in this verse. it doesn't sound like part of the 1st persons language, of course that's just my take (i swear an awful lot )
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 he vibrated
to harmonic strings.
His girlfriend, a wrung-out sponge
of needle holes
reduced to shooting up between her toes--
dead at thirty-seven. i think i'd prefer a mix of this and the original verse.
for me the images there were stronger.
I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies. is 'they're' needed?
Memories that aren’t
as clear as I remember them is 'them' needed?
but are somehow more true.
There were no sunsets.
just a pink bleed better
coming out of the corner of my eye.
Fifteen years, and still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
These are my words, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, never the truth.
for me 'These are my words,' feel very weak and unnecessary.
the poem works well and the edit is better;
a much greatly improved write thats feels tighter, more to the point. i like the turmoil for want of a better word, set up by the first verse and carried throughout the poem. again sorry for saying there were no images, i feel such a putz. (all jmo)
thanks for the edit
Original
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?
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.
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.
I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.
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—
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.
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.
This is my confession.
Now fuck off!
it's confessional
Revision
Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is the vacant sky always too large
and childhood only a razor nice metaphor
to flay in successive slices? is 'in' needed?
Does confession mean death? in my last crit which i'm looking at now i see i made a glaring mistake, the 1st two lines are images. so i face palm myself for that comment; i prefer this extended verse
I write about these feet twisted like taffy, love this line
the cold brace and the colder blood
black against my scalp.
I write about a mother who could only fuck
to add warmth to her life.
much better for me, the fuck line is miles better. and the blood image is really good
I write about discovering God,
power moving my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
I write about empty swings
and prophecy.
another good rewrite. the 4th line rattle (which is good )
I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama poetry.
for me the fucking doesn't work so well in this verse. it doesn't sound like part of the 1st persons language, of course that's just my take (i swear an awful lot )
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 he vibrated
to harmonic strings.
His girlfriend, a wrung-out sponge
of needle holes
reduced to shooting up between her toes--
dead at thirty-seven. i think i'd prefer a mix of this and the original verse.
for me the images there were stronger.
I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies. is 'they're' needed?
Memories that aren’t
as clear as I remember them is 'them' needed?
but are somehow more true.
There were no sunsets.
just a pink bleed better
coming out of the corner of my eye.
Fifteen years, and still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
These are my words, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, never the truth.
for me 'These are my words,' feel very weak and unnecessary.
the poem works well and the edit is better;
a much greatly improved write thats feels tighter, more to the point. i like the turmoil for want of a better word, set up by the first verse and carried throughout the poem. again sorry for saying there were no images, i feel such a putz. (all jmo)
thanks for the edit
Original
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?
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.
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.
I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.
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—
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.
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.
This is my confession.
Now fuck off!