meadows of tired grass, ancient
trees unseen, tall and wise
gnarled burned.
the prodigal babbling brook,
crumbling mountain roads climbing
like ribbons twisting
to nowhere in particular
stretched across the big,
lonely country. the air nibbles softly
weak and thin and cold,
the creeks who taste like copper
and algae
speak softly&

Here, in flatlands
I view from afar
and sigh
cloud of black bitter smog tastes like bloody soot
rising into the air from my
mouth billowing and
attacking expanding
attacked(in permanence,maybe, never to
recover, maybe.)
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
Last edited by Ganoosh at Dec 30, 2011,
wonderful imagery.
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

I think this was very passive, and not passive in the grammatical sense but passive in a get-your-teeth-into it sense. The trouble with starting with [and I'm working my way out of this hole myself] pieces with some blocky, landscape, description/metaphor is that it inevitably delays the real essence of the piece, the meaning, the actual emotion. Here, for instance, you never really hit home until the last four lines.

That doesn't sound as stupid as it does - of course, the ending is supposed to hit heavy. But I mean it in the sense that you never hit me at all, emotionally, before then. It was like a book where the opening chapter is 300 pages long, then the last chapter is a handful of sentences. Its a very passive form of writing that encrouages the reader to sit back in the same way as the poet (because really there is nothing hugely inventive original or daring going on here), thus nothing to engage until you really crank it up at the end.