Something I just rolled out...

[TrevorBlack]

Revision complete. I rewrote much of that last stanza, and added another shorter one to supplement and fix the end. I also went ahead and adopted Sophie's suggestion for the title, while keeping it seperate enough that it could read either way which I'm finding I like quite a bit.
I also combined the lines as suggested, and cut out the caps except for those denoting names (I changed Zombie Lady, Comic Guy, etc. to caps, to elevate them to proper names, since that's what they essentially are in the piece) and new sentences.
Enjoy, and feel free to give feedback on the revision as well. (Random funfact: the events in the first half - Zombie Lady, the guys talking about Gaiman and Miller, the Coldplay song - all happened. I wrote that first bit as it was all happening, real time, which was a completely new experience for me and I enjoyed it immensely. The reason for the sharp change in tone when I become introspective is that, well, those people left and the new ones that came in didn't hold my interest in the slightest.)

Revision:

It's Sunday Night

and I'm sitting alone at IHOP,
ashing my cigarette into a ramekin;
despite the sparse business
there don't seem to be
any ashtrays.

The girl at the next table
is all dolled up,
blood and bruises,
Marilyn Monroe meets George Romero.
The guys are talking caped comics.
Neil Gaiman and Frank Miller.

I pour another cup of coffee.

I came here thinking it might
be nice to sit among
people as I write, for a change.
Zombie Lady calls me "sir"
as she asks to bum a smoke
for Comic Guy, and I think,
How fucking surreal
is that?

There was a time when I had
my own Comic Guy,
all geek and no reality
and despite all the
masochistic escapism
everything made sense.

Coldplay's lullaby,
Speed Of Sound,
drifts out from the speakers
in the ceiling.
How ironic is it that while thinking of
Comic-ex I'm reminded of
Musician-ex? And oh,
how he was so jealous of
Comic-ex,
threatened, frightened.

Zombie Lady is gone now;
back to wherever it is
she exists when she's not in
a lonely poet's notebook.

And I'm suddenly
overwhelmed
by the need to finish this
now.
Don't take it home,
don't mull it over,
this story is here
and if I don't finish it here
I never will.
Because I never finish anything
and I'm just now forcing myself
to grow up, God damn it.
At the ripe old age of
twenty eight I have to
I must grow up.

I've been fighting myself
at every turn; fighting
my age, fighting
school, fighting the very
color of my eyes.
It's been easier to stagnate,
but not any more.
I can't pretend I'm nineteen
when I find grey hairs
and my back aches in the morning
and I just don't have it in me
to drink until I vomit.
The more I ground myself
the less I understand
and that scares
the shit out of me.

So I will find a way,
be it my own or not.
I will force my awakening
and keep pushing because
maybe that's all I have left
and all I have to look toward.


Original:

It's Sunday night
And I'm sitting alone
At IHOP
Ashing my cigarette
Into a ramekin;
Despite the
Sparse business
There don't seem to be
Any ashtrays.

The girl at the
Next table
Is all dolled up,
Blood and bruises,
Marilyn Monroe
Meets
George Romero.
The guys are talking
Caped comics.
Neil Gaiman
And
Frank Miller.

I pour another
Cup of coffee.

I came here
Thinking
It might be nice
To sit among
People
As I write
For a change.
Zombie lady
Calls me "sir"
As she asks
To bum a smoke
For comic guy,
And I think,
How fucking
Surreal
Is that?

There was a time
When I had my own
Comic guy,
All geek
And no reality
And despite
All the masochistic
Escapism
Everything made sense.

Coldplay's lullaby,
Speed Of Sound,
Drifts out from
The speakers
In the ceiling.
How ironic is it
That while thinking
Of comic-ex
I'm reminded of
Misician-ex?
And oh,
How he was so
Jealous of
Comic-ex,
Threatened,
Frightened.

Zombie lady
Is gone now;
Back to wherever
It is she exists
When she's
Not in a
Lonely poet's notebook.

And I'm suddenly
Overwhelmed
By the need
To finish this
Now,
Don't take it home,
Don't mull it over,
This story is
Here
And if I don't
Finish it
Here
I never will.
Because I never
Finish
Anything
And I'm just now
Forcing myself
To grow up,
God damn it.
At the ripe old age
Of twenty eight
I have to
I must
Grow up.

I'm too old
For this crap,
For moving back in
With my parents.
And who the hell
(Besides me)
Gets a Target
Credit card
Just for a Wii?
Because
I am a geek
And I've been
Fighting myself
At every turn;
Fighting my age,
Fighting school,
Fighting the very
Color of my eyes.

The more
I ground myself
In reality
The less I understand
This world,
And that
Scares the shit
Out of me.


My primary concerns:

1. The end. I feel it's weak, anticlimactic. I'm not even sure what I want to say there at the end, but with as much as is in the rest of the poem I feel I need...more in that last stanza, or perhaps another stanza entirely to expand upon the fear of growing up in a world I just don't get, and doing it late on top of that.

2. Comic-ex and musician-ex. I felt I could have done more there, especially in regard to musician-ex and his fears and insecurities. I didn't know how to work it into the piece, but when musician-ex and I were dating, comic-ex and I had been broken up for quite some time and had evolved into a comfortable friendship.

3. Fucking title. This is driving me nuts. I really like this one, and don't want to cheapen it with a bad title. I may just be holding myself back in that regard, but I want something that fits overall, and I cover a lot in this piece, so it's pretty tough to come up with something that will accomplish that. So far, I don't even have any workable ideas to start from.

All comments, suggestions, and flames are more than welcome. Don't hold back, tell me what you think. I want to really make this piece work.

 

[sophieloves]

hello, Trevor. I hope you don't mind me adding my thoughts here:

for me, the poem seemed to finish quite naturally on

And I'm suddenly
Overwhelmed
By the need
To finish this
Now

or even with those lines I really like "when she's not in a lonely poet's notebook"

what comes after that seems... too muddied, if that makes sense. I really just feel the poem is all in the first half, no matter the feelings expressed in the second. I hope that doesn't offend you, it's just my honest thoughts.

as for a title... hmmm, have you considered using part of the first line? this is what i'll likely be doing with my own piece here. i kind of like how it leads into the poem. with yours, the thought i have would be to use "It's Sunday night and..." or something along those lines. anyway, this is what i made of your piece - and of course you don't have to agree with me! just my thoughts, lol.


It's Sunday night and


I'm sitting alone
At IHOP
Ashing my cigarette
Into a ramekin;
Despite the
Sparse business
There don't seem to be
Any ashtrays.

The girl at the
Next table
Is all dolled up,
Blood and bruises,
Marilyn Monroe
Meets
George Romero.
The guys are talking
Caped comics.
Neil Gaiman
And
Frank Miller.

I pour another
Cup of coffee.

I came here
Thinking
It might be nice
To sit among
People
As I write
For a change.
Zombie lady
Calls me "sir"
As she asks
To bum a smoke
For comic guy, ...........(i'd use a cap maybe for Comic guy?)
And I think,
How fucking
Surreal
Is that?

There was a time
When I had my own
Comic guy,
All geek
And no reality
And despite
All the masochistic
Escapism
Everything made sense.

Coldplay's lullaby,
Speed Of Sound,
Drifts out from
The speakers
In the ceiling.
How ironic is it
That while thinking
Of comic-ex
I'm reminded of
Misician-ex?
And oh,
How he was so
Jealous of
Comic-ex,
Threatened,
Frightened.

Zombie lady
Is gone now;
Back to wherever
It is she exists
When she's
Not in a
Lonely poet's notebook.

And I'm suddenly
Overwhelmed
By the need
To finish this
Now,

 

[TrevorBlack]

Thanks Sophie!

what comes after that seems... too muddied, if that makes sense. I really just feel the poem is all in the first half, no matter the feelings expressed in the second. I hope that doesn't offend you, it's just my honest thoughts.

I completely understand what you're saying here, and the thought had occurred to me as well. I think it's because the story that I'm telling ends when zombie lady leaves, and it's then that I stop telling what's happening and start telling what I'm internalizing. It's more like I have two seperate poems here that I've run into each other, but I can't seem to find a way to seperate them and stay happy with the final results. I'll toy around with it some more, thanks for bringing that to my attention and confirming one of my own suspicions about the piece.

As for the title suggestion, I've toyed around with titles that run into the body in previous pieces, but it really just doesn't work for me, and after tossing it around in my head this is no exception. I'm still mulling this over. I had something a few minutes ago when I woke up, but I lost it.

 

[Liar]

Hi!

Is there a reason you staet every new line with a capital letter? It's just my personal reaction, but it makes it very confusing to read sometimes, espectially since your lines are quite short.

Other than that, good stuff. Me likes.

 

[wildsweetone]

thinking out loud...

i like the word 'ground' in the last stanza. i like how it relates back to 'ashing my cigarette' - an excellent phrase in my opinion, and so i would like to see 'ground' staying in the end, somehow. how about,

the more i ground myself,
the less i understand

or something along those lines? still a bit weak.


i also feel the lines are too short...

It's Sunday night
And I'm sitting alone
At IHOP
Ashing my cigarette
Into a ramekin;
Despite the
Sparse business
There don't seem to be
Any ashtrays.

to

It's Sunday night
and I'm sitting alone
at IHOP, ashing my cigarette
into a ramekin;
despite the sparse business
there don't seem to be any ashtrays.

or something like that perhaps...?

i think the 'comic guy' stanza is succinct and says enough.

the same for the 'music guy' (typo in there).

sometimes saying less can give greater impact. and i think once the lines are lengthened, you'll see the impact better.

for me, line breaks hold quite a significant importance in poetry. i think when there are too many, the whole poem has the ability to lose impact.


possible title... Another Sunday Night

i quite like what Sophie did with the title.

hope some of my waffling is helpful.

 

[Guest]

Hi!

Is there a reason you staet every new line with a capital letter? It's just my personal reaction, but it makes it very confusing to read sometimes, espectially since your lines are quite short.

Other than that, good stuff. Me likes.

Agreed. It's fast paced with a good rhythm with attention-grabbing phrasing.

This is a long skinny poem, which I think would be fine if you went to a reading and spoke the way it is written. Though, that. I personally think a poem's eye-appeal should be considered too.

 

[TrevorBlack]

Thanks for the feedback guys. I'm about to go back over it now. And thanks, Wildsweetone, for pointing out the typo...I had to look over it a few times but I found it.

Yes, it's habit for me to start every line with a cap. I'm not sure why, that's just how I've always remembered doing it. It's also habit to keep my lines short. I tend to be very deliberate in my wording, and while I know line breaks have their own definite weight I want each line itself to be...kind of like a little idea all its own. It's a damn old habit, as I've always written that way, so it's hard to break.

Again, thanks for the feedback and encouragement. Gonna get my lazy ass on revising.