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Not For The Thin-Skinned

lightly. I wouldn’t have come
to this damn place [in the first place]
if I didn’t need better shoes(.)
[and] (I) wonder why they don’t bury them
barefoot. Perhaps morticians know
something we don’t. The trees
 
WickedEve said:
lightly. I wouldn’t have come
to this damn place [in the first place]
if I didn’t need better shoes(.)
[and] (I) wonder why they don’t bury them
barefoot. Perhaps morticians know
something we don’t. The trees
Click to expand...

thanks, evie. :rose:

i had all of those and others in an endless array of combinations at one time or another.

i keep removing and then re-adding "in the first place", to add idea that i might not want to be there at all, and a sense of frustration that i feel i "must" be there.

i can't decide about "and" - if i leave it there, it adds the idea that the reason i came in the first place is that i knew there might be 'shoes' available that aren't being used, instead of that dawning on me after i arrived.

does that make sense? :rolleyes:
 
PatCarrington said:
thanks, evie. :rose:

i had all of those and others in an endless array of combinations at one time or another.

i keep removing and then re-adding "in the first place", to add idea that i might not want to be there at all, and a sense of frustration that i feel i "must" be there.

i can't decide about "and" - if i leave it there, it adds the idea that the reason i came in the first place is that i knew there might be 'shoes' available that aren't being used, instead of that dawning on me after i arrived.

does that make sense? :rolleyes:
Click to expand...
Maybe you can change the "place" in "damn place" so you don't have two places. That's the only thing I didn't like. And I now understand using "and". The way I was reading it (some goofy way) it didn't seem grammatically correct, but it's cool now. :)
 
WickedEve said:
Maybe you can change the "place" in "damn place" so you don't have two places. That's the only thing I didn't like. And I now understand using "and". The way I was reading it (some goofy way) it didn't seem grammatically correct, but it's cool now. :)
Click to expand...

i think i will.

everyone had had that same reaction to the two "places" except me. that's not good. :) it's gotta go.

:rose:
 
PatCarrington said:
i think i will.

everyone had had that same reaction to the two "places" except me. that's not good. :) it's gotta go.

:rose:
Click to expand...
Oh. :eek: I didn't read those comments. There's not much to "fix" in this poem. There are some brilliant lines in it.
 
WickedEve said:
Oh. :eek: I didn't read those comments. There's not much to "fix" in this poem. There are some brilliant lines in it.
Click to expand...

they weren't there to be seen.....some others did it privately.

thanks. :kiss:

you have so many great av's.....this one has quite a lot to say. :)

your av's seem to have an audio quality to them. :cool:
 
WickedEve said:
so, they speak to you? lol
Click to expand...


yes.

in tongues. :)

.....and they're making me break the rules i set myself when i began this thread. :cool: i have no will power at all.
 
PatCarrington said:
back to busniess. :cool:

anyone else want to take the blades and hammers out on this? i've gotten a lot of suggestions privately. i want more if i can get them. :rose:
Click to expand...

I think Eve's av has something to say.


I still have issue with the shoes and stand by my previous comments, barefoot.
 
annaswirls said:
I think Eve's av has something to say.


I still have issue with the shoes and stand by my previous comments, barefoot.
Click to expand...

i'm working on the logic of "the shoes."

those pretty bare feet of yours are throwing new ideas into the mix. :cool:

thanks for the thoughts you sent on the poem, anna. :rose:
 
PatCarrington said:
i'm working on the logic of "the shoes."

those pretty bare feet of yours are throwing new ideas into the mix. :cool:

thanks for the thoughts you sent on the poem, anna. :rose:
Click to expand...

according to my son, dandilions are my favorite flower. Dandylions and clover.
there must be a poem in there somewhere. Purple vetch is also nice in a chubby handed bouquet.

or toe bouquet as it would

I bet your ghosts would love to have toe bouquets dancing over them....
 
take it and do as you will with it

If you delete the places where I hit enter you get a section of free write I did while trying to write a section for a book I'm writing. I like this section in particular and figured it might have some poetic future...you tell me.

I'm addicted to your pain
I'm addicted to your suffering
Hold me down and cut me open
Bind me in chains and clutch my throat
Let the knife cut true
Make the blood run deep
I’m addicted to your pain
I’m addicted your suffering
Throw me against the wall
Shove my head and pull my hair

Gasping and thrashing
Hold me still
Lick my wounds
Purr sweet nothings in my ear
And do it all again

Tie me to the bed
With thorny vines
Beat me and bite me
Give reason to scream and reason to bleed
Show no compassion
Just
Vengeance
No justice
Remorse
Twist and pinch my skin
Make it crawl into my skull

Breathless and tired
Massage my skin
Kiss my welts
Whisper the words
Incredible
Magnificent
Make me safe for an hour’s time
Then do it all again
 
annaswirls said:
A poem I wrote last year this time. I want it to work.
I posted it elsewhere and got praise, but I want to know where it doesn't work.


Poet’s razor


I look out the window.
It is about to rain,
just like the beginning of
too many awful poems and songs
and suicidal contemplations.

Today I see nothing.
Nothing behind, beneath,
or beyond the shiny cars,
all hubcaps matched and intact.

They turn on red.
They turn on green.

People shaped blobs
push air from their space
as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z.

No stories emerge from
angles dancing on the dashboard or
the red spiked grandma.

But this one, here!
She who opens the door
with hands, this one!

I could love her cold-chapped nose
and hair touched by brush alone.

She could sharpen my edge

enough to strip insulation
from wire,
carve down the false fronts of this
color coded strip mall
until all are naked again
under the power of my poet’s knife.

But not today.

Today I am dull,
numbed by the ache of you.
You, who used to make me notice
everything.

My heart has slipped from its sleeve.
You have me.
Click to expand...

Aha, never thought I would see it. An annaswirls poem I do not like. A first. Just laying there for my "bootheels to go awanderin"

What you have is a lament over lack of inspiration, after the first stanza the reader arrives as tired as you. The first two lines are nothing lines, you do not want them as leads. That is your starting point, it should not be the readers.
Try dropping the first stanza altogether. Or salvaging it and reinserting it elsewhere.

These two lines, what do they add?
"as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z."

The "you" refered to at the end, may work better, if we had allusions to him further to the front. It is an aburpt introduction.

I lied, I do like it, think it needs work. As a rule I do not like Poems about poems or the process of poems or poetic terminology, this limits the audience to "poets". Nobody else will care. Exception being your "pork and poetry" everyone relates to bologna.

Brutally yours,
1201

PS now bring home the bacon.
 
Last edited:
You have posted this to the "Not for the thin-skinned" thread, so i assume you know what you are doing. If you did not read Pat's introductory post to this thread you may find my response sharper than expected.

The biggest failing of this poem, Sins666, is that it is not interesting. You make your point in the first 4 lines, and then simply belabor it for the remainder of the poem. Nor are the images particularly fresh or compelling, which makes the reading tedious.

You need to spend less time describing the various acts that comprise this torment you seek, and more time telling us why you seek them. Also, consider new perspectives on the acts and the feelings of BDSM. "Willow Rain" is a writer worth reading for inspiration, I recommend her "Fantasm" series. If readers don't connect with the characters in the poem, or find something unique in the presentation, they won't bother to read.

You say it best yourself right here:
Give reason to scream and reason to bleed
Click to expand...
Now do so.

Sins666 said:
If you delete the places where I hit enter you get a section of free write I did while trying to write a section for a book I'm writing. I like this section in particular and figured it might have some poetic future...you tell me.

I'm addicted to your pain
I'm addicted to your suffering
Hold me down and cut me open
Bind me in chains and clutch my throat
Let the knife cut true
Make the blood run deep
I’m addicted to your pain
I’m addicted your suffering
Throw me against the wall
Shove my head and pull my hair

Gasping and thrashing
Hold me still
Lick my wounds
Purr sweet nothings in my ear
And do it all again

Tie me to the bed
With thorny vines
Beat me and bite me
Give reason to scream and reason to bleed
Show no compassion
Just
Vengeance
No justice
Remorse
Twist and pinch my skin
Make it crawl into my skull

Breathless and tired
Massage my skin
Kiss my welts
Whisper the words
Incredible
Magnificent
Make me safe for an hour’s time
Then do it all again
Click to expand...
 
Thanks for your honesty here, 1201, I do appreciate it, and thank you for taking the time to read and review.

I was going for more than a lament over lack of inspiration. I can't seem to just let this one die a natural death. Have to figure out what I am trying to save. Problem it is already dead.

bring home the bacon? damn man, I can't even afford the trichonisis!


twelveoone said:
Aha, never thought I would see it. An annaswirls poem I do not like. A first. Just laying there for my "bootheels to go awanderin"

What you have is a lament over lack of inspiration, after the first stanza the reader arrives as tired as you. The first two lines are nothing lines, you do not want them as leads. That is your starting point, it should not be the readers.
Try dropping the first stanza altogether. Or salvaging it and reinserting it elsewhere.

These two lines, what do they add?
"as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z."

The "you" refered to at the end, may work better, if we had allusions to him further to the front. It is an aburpt introduction.

I lied, I do like it, think it needs work. As a rule I do not like Poems about poems or the process of poems or poetic terminology, this limits the audience to "poets". Nobody else will care. Exception being your "pork and poetry" everyone relates to bologna.

Brutally yours,
1201

PS now bring home the bacon.
Click to expand...
 
Sins666

Sins666,


I am seconding most of Fly's response, but wanted to add some of my own.


While some of the images you have might be intense to experience, they are not as intense to read...more like a how to list...and most people at least around here, are pretty familiar with the process.


it is the old show don't tell issue.

I would suggest finding something about the process that contradicts itself, or goes against what you really want... some kind of conflict. What about your experience might be a more unique. Take some part of the process and turn it into metaphor for something bigger, deeper, below the surface of what people may assume.


I think it is a great exercize to write it all out like this, so that you can dig into what you really want to say.

Good luck!

~J

flyguy69 said:
You have posted this to the "Not for the thin-skinned" thread, so i assume you know what you are doing. If you did not read Pat's introductory post to this thread you may find my response sharper than expected.

The biggest failing of this poem, Sins666, is that it is not interesting. You make your point in the first 4 lines, and then simply belabor it for the remainder of the poem. Nor are the images particularly fresh or compelling, which makes the reading tedious.

You need to spend less time describing the various acts that comprise this torment you seek, and more time telling us why you seek them. Also, consider new perspectives on the acts and the feelings of BDSM. "Willow Rain" is a writer worth reading for inspiration, I recommend her "Fantasm" series. If readers don't connect with the characters in the poem, or find something unique in the presentation, they won't bother to read.

You say it best yourself right here:

Now do so.
Click to expand...
 
annaswirls said:
Thanks for your honesty here, 1201, I do appreciate it, and thank you for taking the time to read and review.

I was going for more than a lament over lack of inspiration. I can't seem to just let this one die a natural death. Have to figure out what I am trying to save. Problem it is already dead.

bring home the bacon? damn man, I can't even afford the trichonisis!
Click to expand...
Try rearranging it, then bring it into focus:

People shaped blobs
push air from their space
as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z.

Today I see nothing.
Nothing behind, beneath,
or beyond the shiny cars,
all hubcaps matched and intact.

They turn on red.
They turn on green.

No stories emerge from
angles dancing on the dashboard or
the red spiked grandma.

But this one, here!
She who opens the door
with hands, this one!

I could love her cold-chapped nose
and hair touched by brush alone.

She could sharpen my edge
enough to strip insulation
from wire,
carve down the false fronts of this
color coded strip mall
until all are naked again
under the power of my poet’s knife.

But not today.
My heart has slipped from its sleeve.

I look out the window.
It is about to rain,
just like the beginning of
too many awful poems and songs
and suicidal contemplations.

Today I am dull,
numbed by the ache of you.
You, who used to make me notice
everything.

You have me.

I also think you should make use of a reprise line.
I am sorry I did not see it for what it was at first
 
omg you are a miracle worker!

thank you!

I have to get back to stiicking on this thread, the construction thread and the passion thread, maybe flyguys new one for fun.

ahhh it is a good day again.

~J

twelveoone said:
Try rearranging it, then bring it into focus:

People shaped blobs
push air from their space
as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z.

Today I see nothing.
Nothing behind, beneath,
or beyond the shiny cars,
all hubcaps matched and intact.

They turn on red.
They turn on green.

No stories emerge from
angles dancing on the dashboard or
the red spiked grandma.

But this one, here!
She who opens the door
with hands, this one!

I could love her cold-chapped nose
and hair touched by brush alone.

She could sharpen my edge
enough to strip insulation
from wire,
carve down the false fronts of this
color coded strip mall
until all are naked again
under the power of my poet’s knife.

But not today.
My heart has slipped from its sleeve.

I look out the window.
It is about to rain,
just like the beginning of
too many awful poems and songs
and suicidal contemplations.

Today I am dull,
numbed by the ache of you.
You, who used to make me notice
everything.

You have me.

I also think you should make use of a reprise line.
I am sorry I did not see it for what it was at first
Click to expand...
 
Tucker Says

This is an attempt on my part to break free of some of my own expectations of poetry. I am trying to challenge myself in some new ways and try things I would not have before. Is it going anywhere productive?


Tucker says the music's the thing;
everyone understands the language
of love songs. He can't get enough

Lynard Skynard, shoves his I-Pod
through his eardrum and pumps
southern gittar straight into his brain.

Tucker says it's high school psychology;
scratches his belly just to watch
his legs kick. He can't get enough

puppy love, bats his brown eyes
at his patient and pumps
for the details of her sexworker past.

Tucker says always wear latex;
bacterial resistance is mounting
a terrorist attack. He can't get enough

jet fuel, sticks his dick
in the gas tank and pumps
messages to cell mates in DNA code.

Tucker says try and stay with him;
he breaks it all down
into logical proofs. He can't get enough

Aristotle, stabs his finger
at scribbled figures and pumps
us full of Greek facts.

Tucker says we still need a straight man;
both comedy and tragedy require
stiff upper lips. He can't get enough

reality TV, claps his face
at the backstabs, pumps
his fist at the heroes.

Tucker says he can't get enough
lime-light. Pumps
a bullet through his ribcage

and worships the red flow.
 
flyguy69 said:
This is an attempt on my part to break free of some of my own expectations of poetry. I am trying to challenge myself in some new ways and try things I would not have before. Is it going anywhere productive?


Tucker says the music's the thing;
everyone understands the language
of love songs. He can't get enough

Lynard Skynard, shoves his I-Pod
through his eardrum and pumps
southern gittar straight into his brain.

Tucker says it's high school psychology;
scratches his belly just to watch
his legs kick. He can't get enough

puppy love, bats his brown eyes
at his patient and pumps
for the details of her sexworker past.

Tucker says always wear latex;
bacterial resistance is mounting
a terrorist attack. He can't get enough

jet fuel, sticks his dick
in the gas tank and pumps
messages to cell mates in DNA code.

Tucker says try and stay with him;
he breaks it all down
into logical proofs. He can't get enough

Aristotle, stabs his finger
at scribbled figures and pumps
us full of Greek facts.

Tucker says we still need a straight man;
both comedy and tragedy require
stiff upper lips. He can't get enough

reality TV, claps his face
at the backstabs, pumps
his fist at the heroes.

Tucker says he can't get enough
lime-light. Pumps
a bullet through his ribcage

and worships the red flow.
Click to expand...




fly,

i think much of the language is first-rate….the repetitive “he can’t get enough” and “pumps” are very effective in establishing and maintaining Tucker’s crazed personality.

I think it’s one of the better pieces I’ve read from you, but there are questions I have about some specifics ( for example – does one assume he’s in prison? [I don’t know how else to take “cell mates”, since no other frame of reference is established why they might be ‘prisoners’ of some other sort.] – if so, why does he have ‘patients’?). and I’m not sure if the piece as of yet has the total feeling of “wholeness” i’m sure you want and it will as you tinker.





Tucker says the music's the thing;
everyone understands the language
of love songs. He can't get enough

Lynard Skynard, shoves his I-Pod
through his eardrum and pumps
southern gittar straight into his brain. <---- why the spelling of “guitar.” (i’m sure i am probably unaware of a southern rock reference, since I KNOW you know how to spell guitar.)

Tucker says it's high school psychology; <--- semi-colon incorrect. comma needed.
scratches his belly just to watch
his legs kick. He can't get enough

puppy love, bats his brown eyes
at his patient and pumps <---i don’t think it’s at all clear why he has “patients”
for the details of her sexworker past. <--- these last two lines feel uncomfortable to me.

Tucker says always wear latex; <---- semi-colon grammatically ok, but period feels better.
bacterial resistance is mounting
a terrorist attack. He can't get enough

jet fuel, sticks his dick
in the gas tank and pumps
messages to cell mates in DNA code. <-- I think this stanza has clever phrasing….too clever, and displays a vagueness that will make the reader stop to de-puzzle, thus having him lose the flow of the piece.

Tucker says try and stay with him;
he breaks it all down
into logical proofs. He can't get enough

Aristotle, stabs his finger
at scribbled figures and pumps
us full of Greek facts. <--this stanza pair, and the following one, i like very much.

Tucker says we still need a straight man;
both comedy and tragedy require
stiff upper lips. He can't get enough

reality TV, claps his face
at the backstabs, pumps
his fist at the heroes.

Tucker says he can't get enough
lime-light. Pumps <---- why the hyphen?
a bullet through his ribcage you might want a comma before ‘pumps.’

and worships the red flow.


i think, all in all, this has the makings of a fine piece of 'personality' poetry.

:rose:
 
flyguy69 said:
This is an attempt on my part to break free of some of my own expectations of poetry. I am trying to challenge myself in some new ways and try things I would not have before. Is it going anywhere productive?
Click to expand...
I second alot of what Pat says.

Fly, one gets a confusing image of Tucker, one does not know who he is. (i'm not sure I'd want too). There seem to be three or four Tuckers. Tucker 1 - I-pod Tucker, somewhere mutating to Tucker 2 - latex Tucker, mutating to straight man Tucker, there might be another Tucker in there too, I don't know.

Tucker 1
Tucker says the music's the thing;
everyone understands the language
of love songs. He can't get enough

Lynard Skynard, shoves his I-Pod
through his eardrum and pumps
southern gittar straight into his brain.

Not bad an image of a clear image of a Tucker, a little humdrum.

Tucker 2
Tucker says it's high school psychology;
scratches his belly just to watch
his legs kick. He can't get enough

puppy love, bats his brown eyes
at his patient and pumps
for the details of her sexworker past.

Tucker says always wear latex;
bacterial resistance is mounting
a terrorist attack. He can't get enough

jet fuel, sticks his dick
in the gas tank and pumps
messages to cell mates in DNA code.

Tucker says try and stay with him;
he breaks it all down
into logical proofs. He can't get enough

Aristotle, stabs his finger
at scribbled figures and pumps
us full of Greek facts.

Here the Tucker seems to be changing, I am not sure into what or when.
Fiirst four lines can refer to Tucker 1, but are tied to:
"at his patient and pumps
for the details of her sexworker past. "
and then you start throwing in sexworker, latex, gas tank, DNA , logical proofs, Greek facts. The picture of Tucker is unclear, further distracted by the patient with the sexworker past, and the cell mates.

Tucker 3?
Tucker says we still need a straight man;
both comedy and tragedy require
stiff upper lips. He can't get enough

reality TV, claps his face
at the backstabs, pumps
his fist at the heroes.

Tucker says he can't get enough
lime-light. Pumps
a bullet through his ribcage

and worships the red flow.

Here you have another image of a Tucker, without a clear transistion from Tucker 1. No idea of a time line, which would be fine, if the transiational Tucker was clearer.
The only strong feeling I'm getting is that Tucker changed as you were writing.

You have a great line,
"pumps messages to cell mates in DNA code."
very strange.
Very good word play and/or images; lime-light to red flow; greek facts. The stanzas in Blue and Red are consistent, the last two in Magenta.

Again what is the relationship (how does he arrive) from Blue Tucker to Red Tucker, and shouldn't it be more balanced.
 
American Vignette

(#15, Paradise Lost, an allegory)

Plu-tarch, Plu-tarch
The seagull cries, as it dives
for it's meal of plastic clams,
the remains of wrappers.
This is how it lives.

Ah, distinctly I remember,
Twas a gray December
morn. As gray as me
and unnaturally warm.

I shambled out, dressed in black,
and she starts tripping just like Tippi
Hedren, in a movie I once saw.
I catch my daughter's arm.

As we make our way to puke down
breakfast at mickey D's, the radio plays
a wretched C&W cover of some old
sixties song.

He don't love you...
What was Righteous once,
Like I love you...
Now long gone,
Somethin, somethin, somethin...
In the haze of my gray dawn.

That she is interrupting
shakin hands with fingers extended
yammerin like gangstamuthafucka,
about Kharon Werther (a sorrowful cutter)
and the things they listen too.
Things without much melody.
And I shudder, very nearly mutter,
at the thought of her, a few years from now
with spiky lips and rings on brows
or god forbid, tattoos. My progeny.

But, still I remember...
As I open lids of eyes and mind,
I shoot her with the cover of a straw,
and startled she is laughing, knowing in passing
my heart once was as transplanted as hers.

Were once was rustic roads,
were wild chevy's once roamed
as bottles shattered against STOP signs
in the green glass of Kerouacian zen
The world was my ashtray, a paradise-
lost in pallid mess, of windsheilds at the mall.
Oh. Lil darlin, I leave you with this:
Auric Arches, parking lots
full of seagulls and shit?


No mercy expected, I am serious here.
 
Thank you, Pat and twelver, for your invaluable assistance. I am greatly indebted for the time and effort you expended in your reviews-- they are insightful, clear and encouraging.

I will work on this one some more in light of your comments.

I really did this one more as an experiment than a poem-- my own version of a "form" piece in paired triolets:

"Tucker says...
[explanatory response]
... he can't get enough

... [physical response to the theme]
... he pumps
[transition to theme of next strophe]"

In the last strophe I tried to tie up all the linguistic and thematic elements.

I will spend some more time on this one.

One clarification: the "cell mates" reference is to terrorist cells, not to prison cells.
 
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