I get phone calls at 3am from a ghost.
He warns me to change because the world won’t change for me.
I tell him I don’t care and hang up,
but his voice follows me back to bed
and he stands there, watching me with crying eyes.
Trickle trickle little tears into my lap
and I cradle you as a child.

He shows me visions of the future,
a war of machines and honour.
I dismiss the arrogant show of cliché each night
but it becomes tiresome. Those tears are dark.
They scare me, pooling at the foot of my bed.
I’m afraid that when I awaken, I’ll be floating on the surface
looking for a way back down.
Fear oh fear, you condescending thing,
the despiser of the faithful.

Then one night, I never received the phone call
and I felt the chill rise through my spine
and kiss the nape of my neck.
Oh how I missed you, sweet lips in twine.
He didn’t call me, and why not?
Am I not worthy of his fortitude now?
I’ll change, he’ll see. How hard can it be?

Birds in flight…
Maybe a change in scenery?
No, I like it here in this hole.
How to be a bird and fly from here.
That’s the beauty of free will,
it gives you the opportunity to dream,
wretched things, good for nothing.
Look at me, I’ve dreamed my whole life
and I have nothing but moist walls
saturated in my self-loathing.
Crumble to dust, merciless ones,
allow me venture into yonder fields.

A plaintive servitude comes over me,
a desperate last-ditch need to help.
Scars of cars pass by me as I,
in a past life, loathsomely gather up the footprints of others
and store them in a knapsack
made of the skins of aborted foeti.
Their cries keep me up at night,
but they’re locked in a cupboard
so some would say I deserve it.
Fuck it, they were never alive
and I’m jealous for that fact.

I walk the streets for so long that the seasons change around me
and I don’t notice other than the dead leaves appear and vanish,
crumbling into a memory before conceded to history.
If I were a starfish, I’d cut myself
in hope that I’d grow into something different.
The illogical fascinates me, the logical is boring.
A foetus skin is crying.
Am I losing my mind?
On a grey street in a grey city
under blue skies. Irony, always catches you out.

At home, staring at the valleys and mountains of my ceiling,
trying to conceal the grievous wailing from the cupboard
by piling blankets and clothes over it,
as if the fabric will hold the screams and moans.
Couldn’t even hold my tears.
This is not about you!
It’s about the dead babies in your cupboard.
No, it’s about me changing.
Changing? Throw the bag out. There’s change.
I like that bag. It’s handy.
It’s wrong. No wonder we don’t have friends.
We? Fuck you! Get away from me.
Don’t push me, you cunt.
Oh? What you gonna do about it?
I’m gonna grab that knife over there…
What, this one? Then what, kill us both?
Kill us both? There’s only one of us.

Those foeti are doing my head in.
Why the hell can’t anyone else hear them?
You have no friends.
Yes I do.
You want to know why?
Why then?
You’re dead.
Don’t be stupid.

No one speaks to you on the street.
No one phones you apart from that weird bastard.
No one even looks at you.
As far as they’re concerned, you don’t exist.
If you aren’t dead all ready, you may as well be.

Lying in the dark.
Rain on window, begging entry.
I’m in no mood for pleasantries.
No visitors or speeches.
Curl up into a little ball
and watch the air escape me.
It touches my cheek as I get colder.
Oh, I missed you, sweet lips of sorrow.
Take me where you are.
Make me a starfish.
Oh my god.

EDIT: Okay. Maybe a little too much cussing, when I look back at it from a critics standpoint. But god, was that powerful. I had a hard time getting into it, but then it grabbed me and didn't let me go until...probably sometime in the next couple minutes. The abundance of cursing is my only complaint.

I seriously want to change my vote for WotM about now. This is a completely different month, but still.
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
Last edited by Ganoosh at Aug 17, 2009,
Liked it. I don't think it spoke to me the way it spoke to the people above me, but I'm also not a huge fan of this prosaic, gothic style of writing, which might explain it. My only question is, is this lyrics to a song, or just general lyricism? It doesnt seem to lend itself to being put to music...

Reminds me of "The Tell-Tale Heart" By Edgar Allen Poe. (Guys kills other guy, cuts him up, hides him under floorboards, hears heart beating, eventually goes insane.)

Anyway, well done I'm gonna shamelessly ask you to take a look at my song, although since this was a pretty lame review, I feel sort of bad asking you to. https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=1182985

In closing: good stuff.
Last edited by OverUnderOnward at Aug 18, 2009,
I knew it had to be coming, something had to be coming. Your work lately, though brilliantly, just hadn't quite been up to the standard of some of your truely amazing pieces, and badabingbadaboom here it is. This piece, right here, is why you have always been my favourite writer on this forum. I tip my hat, sir, this was sheer genius.
honestly, this bored me up until the last three (maybe four) stanzas. The voice seemed inconsistant and wavered with a changing syntax. And I would have no problem with that if there was an obvious reason for that shift but I couldnt find any as it came and went seemingly randomly. The changes in tense were confusing for the most part and were not as linear as they could have been. And I know it is more or less your style but it was very hard to accurately digest any of this.

The stanzas are big and the imagery is few and far between. its mostly straight narrative (telling, not showing) and theoretical musings. you, of anyone on this website, know how hard it is to write a poem of this length and truly pull it off. and you also know that to pull it off there must be a meaninful progression, either in character or situation. well, you give away both in the first stanza. Think about your first stanza like your thesis. well, your thesis seems complete to me except for one thing, there's no opposing point of view. what I mean by this is that there is no reason why I should read on. You've given me all the information of the situation, all the characters (with absolutely no detail to them except for 'livin' and 'ghost') except for the child and thats not enough for me to want to read on. by your vocab its obvious that the ghost will stop calling and that it will upset you, a situation everyone has read a million times before with nothing mysterious for me to dig my teeth into yet. This intro needs an overhaul and, in my opinion, a more salient scene set, give me the context before everything else and everything else seems more unique and interesting.

You keep going between talking to the audience as narrator, talking to pieces of the situation (fear, oh fear), yourself, and other characters. this is confusing. consolidate the audience of your musings or split this into different pieces (something I would suggest anyway).

sweet lips in twine? where the heck did that come from? totally different tone.

Your speed in divulging the information is unpredictable and uneven. eithher go into detail on everything, slow down your narrative, and give a complete, rich, picture of everything you are describing, lengthening the piece (again, hopefully broken up into pieces) and allowing you and your audience enough time to digest the plethora of brilliant subjects this piece is riddled with. Or, cut it down, revise for consistency in terms of more of a minimalistic approach, focusing on narrative more than flowery language, and make the piece shorter.

the best parts of this are the ones that utilize sound to tie lines together. exploit that.

I would argue that the character in this piece is extremely unlikeable and uncompelling (not that I'm drawing a parallel between the two). Its weird because after reading a piece multiple times that is, in a sense, a character study, I can't make heads or tails of the character or even describe him. And the multiple whatever disorder hinted at here isnt enough to justify it I don't think.

The color didnt help either. red is a harder color to read on the screen. groups things together more in terms of how the iris analyzes it.

this was a terribly frustrating piece for me to read because you are a great writer. but this just reeked of lazy inconsistencies. Some brilliant sections but on the whole this left me flat.

Thank you for coming back by the by, you bring an air of professionalism in your writing that this forum has missed since Steve and Antoine left.

feel free to completely disagree with anything i said here as most is unfounded drivel. but hopefully some of it is helpful to either you or someone else reading this.
Quote by #1 synth
honestly, this bored me up until the last three (maybe four) stanzas.
I agree. I'll read the rest of it and see if I feel similarly with that. I loved the banter between the two, but other than that, this felt like nothing. It suppose it suits the characters, but meh, I dunno. I'll return.
I get phone calls at 3am from a ghost.

Better than Jesus, Megatron and T-Rex combined.

(. Y .)(. Y .)
- ) . ( - ) . (
- \ v / - \ v /

This ^ is why I'm right.
Quote by #1 synth

feel free to completely disagree with anything i said here as most is unfounded drivel. but hopefully some of it is helpful to either you or someone else reading this.

I found it helpful. I share many of your thoughts and would add that the dead babies in the cupboard gives it a Tell-Tale-Heart kind of vibe and coupled with the obvious breakdown in sanity, I felt the piece bordered on cliche.

There were some amazing lines, and great revelations. Everything you write is very emotional and thought provoking. You're a much better writer than I am, but this one felt particularly weak.

I'm still waiting for a crit from you, I think you owe me three now
Last edited by denizenz at Aug 20, 2009,