#1
i wrote for days
sitting and typing by the window at dawn
my girlfriend bringing me sweet tea
and setting it down next to frantic hands
it spills out over typewritten pages
spills out over the mug and settles in a
brownish ring on the desk.
my matted hair, shifting as i beat to
the rhythm of the words i write
of characters.
the characters in this novel are sublime.
there's this one woman, you see
wants to climb a mountain
wants to kill a man with her fingers
claw his eyes out with her fingernails 'till
he can't see nothin but her open soul
flailing on the peaks of this open mountain
this desperate mountain she's climbing,
and it's a steep elevation,
deep as whiskey sea and rough as all hell,
but she's a drinker
smokes 40 a day and eats the
butts after
this woman reaches that damn summit
with relative ease
and she dances
and the mountain shakes
and so does what's left
of my tea

and i'm up and out.
showered and shaven. and
kissing my girlfriend goodbye
out into the rain of the day
and each raindrop is a word
and i'm looking for my name again.
in the rain and the words
and spinning like a mind.
and angled in the pictures of the universe.
hanging open, waiting for the touch of proust.
an old wildheart.
sprinting to the publishers. and
wearing everything i own wrapped around
my small frame to protect myself
from the danger of the earth.
ain't nothing gonna penetrate fourteen
layers of cotton but a well written novel
and here it is
laid out, the story of whiskey mountain
there for all to read
and all i can do is cross my fingers
and breath in reactions
let the praise circulate through my bloodstream
and digest the hurt
like the cigarette butts
of a woman
i had the pleasure of knowing
all too well.
Last edited by skagitup at Aug 11, 2008,
#2
Just read this and need to remind myself to crit it later, on first read, I like.
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!
#3
put the spliff down and come back to reality.

haha kidding, this would make a nice acoustic, i like it
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#4
Quote by skagitup
i wrote for days
sitting and typing by the window at dawn
my girlfriend bringing me sweet tea
and setting it down next to frantic hands
Sweet tea = great image. I'm now thirsty, well done.
The ideas of 'setting it down' and 'sweet tea' conflicted with 'frantic' for me in a way that's possibly not the one intended. Maybe I'd just prefer it if it said 'my'.

it spills out over typewritten pages
spills out over the mug and settles in a
brownish ring on the desk.
Great image. Maybe a stronger word than 'spills' would be better for the repetition?
Just a slight think, but I immeditately though of a computer keyboard when you said 'typing' at the beginning. Made me have to draw back to it and think 'oh, okay..' here.

my matted hair, shifting as i beat to
the rhythm of the words i write
of characters.
This was oddddddd...
Maybe 'beat' could do with some change. Nod. Something like that.
'Of' didn't seem like the right connective to me, too vague, just 'words I write of characters' doesn't make much sense.

the characters in this novel are sublime.
there's this one woman, you see [,]
calls herself drink
wants to climb a mountain
wants to kill a man with her fingers [,]
claw his eyes out with her fingernails 'till
he can't see nothin but her open soul
flailing on the peaks of this open mountain
this desperate mountain she's climbing,
and it's a steep elevation, [no and]
deep as whiskey sea and rough as all hell,
but she's a drinker
'But' didn't write like the right word. It's deep as whiskey, because she's a drinker, surely?
smokes 40 a day and eats the
butts after

this woman reaches that damn summit
with relative ease
and she dances
and the mountain shakes
and so does what's left
of my tea

and i'm up and out.
showered and shaven. and
kissing my girlfriend goodbye
out into the rain of the day
and each raindrop is a word
and i'm looking for my name again.
in the rain and the words
and spinning like a mind.
and angled in the pictures of the universe.
hanging open, waiting for the touch of proust.
an old wildheart.
sprinting to the publishers. and
wearing everything i own wrapped around
my small frame to protect myself
from the danger of the earth.
Small maybe not needed?
ain't nothing gonna penetrate fourteen
layers of cotton but a well written novel
and here it is ;
laid out, [line break?] the story of whiskey mountain
there for all to read
and all i can do is cross my fingers
and breath in reactions
let the praise circulate through my bloodstream
and digest the hurt
like the cigarette butts
of a woman
i had the pleasure of knowing
all too well.
Good ending. Maybe a different way of saying the last two lines would be better, it's a way that it's said a lot.


I liked this, with a few tweaks it could be really lovely, what I said is just how I'd prefer it to read, change/don't what you like.

I'd be grateful for a crit on no. 5
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!
#5
the second section could probably stand by itself on one metaphorical foot, while juggling it's own line breaks, and singing itself a contradictory requiem that i'm proud to say will never be the future of this piece.
i loved this Alex.
i also love the comment you left on my last; it almost sent me into tears.
There's a road that leads to the end of all suffering. You should take it.


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