#1
So just got back from being banned by the user elimination thread, and figured I'd post what I've been working on lately. All comments appreciated, all feedback welcome, and if you leave a link after your critique, I'll gladly get back to yours.

Enjoy.

Back Alley Abortion on the Streets Of "What Kind Of Title Is This" & "What the ****."

Paste it back to whatever
the priest calls it, temptation
on Holloway Island,
these thoughts are just
for her eyes and
maybe if she were to shut
one every now and again there
wouldn't be the pink buildup
around where she used to be
able to cry. Then the world
starts to wear away,
the fabric on which it culminates,
Clear fields for dogma trees,
these beliefs for whoever the Vicar
sees in his sleep, he says it's a man
with golden blond hair, she says it's
her father. I never understood
her perversion. Sex in the elevator
with two old men, and I never had the
mind to think about it more than once,
poor girl dreams it every night. Tried
streaming her arms with the bright
red ribbons that adorned her bike, but
every time she'd cut them off they
bleed their ink under the bathroom door,
and onto the kitchen floor, her mother
had such soft eyes for wicked things and
never forgave herself for the way
her daughter thought.

I saw the sunlight as it shined on all everything,
Burnt our books of fantasy and melted our brass rings.
I watched what time's done to all my grandfather's kids,
Saw the steam of Allison's love through my own shut eyelids.
Callused lips salt on about tired things, so,
I've gathered my things, my clothes and my old hair,
and poured them over the rails and into a vast ocean of woman that I've defined myself with.
She's taken scissors to cut the paper I've balled myself into,
and now two me's exist connected like two twins folded together,
Holding pale hands when we're pulled apart,
but every time we're left alone we lay on top of each other
like leaves or dirty flannel.

And only for the shallow ground
she steps with white toes, calling
out my father's name because
well, only god knows. I'll
never be able to quench
her thirst like the rain could.
There so goes, head first into
the goose feathers, pretending
to cry when she thinks about my
goodbye letters. So, picture me on a sunny
day, waiting for the clouds to
move away. Daily eyes watch yearly
tides go by; I'm watching for the sails
to come back to my boat, so I can get off
this island, she'll never know isolation like
me or Tom Hanks. She'll never touch her
own hands and pretend their mine, she
fell deep into this ocean, wishing to
catch the clouds in the reflection. I could
never tell her to look up, into the sky,
she always had a firm believe that,
"Only things
with beautiful wings go there."
www.facebook.com/longlostcomic
Last edited by Something_Vague at Feb 10, 2008,
#2
That was beautiful, and I absolutely love the title. I'll try to get back and actually crit this but I don't think theres much to be desired here at all.
#3
wouldn't be the pink buildup
around [where?] she used to be
able to cry.

I couldn't get into this really at all to be honest. I found myself trying to, but I just sorta kept losing focus and getting sidetracked. The language is nice and you paint a clear enough picture. I just couldn't relate to it or get much meaning.

It's me though. I'm looking at it the wrong way. It's well written though, very much so.
O! music: Click (Youtube)


^ Click to see an acoustic arrangement of Ke$ha's 'Your Love is my Drug' - everyone's favourite song.
#5
Terrific piece, I really enjoyed it. I don't have any criticisms about the content, but there is a "no" that should be a "know" in the last stanza. Good job.