Thread 24632363

This is a poem I wrote. I think it might be pretty bad, but it's a true story.

I see what I've done now. I've removed some crucial information in the sequence of events so that its highly interpretational content will cause people to read it how they want.

Am I right?

This is prose with line breaks. Inane observations and wistful aphorisms. Like an exhibitionist tearing out his heart-strings just to strum them like a cheap ukulele solo.

You can do better.

>>24632389
>Like an exhibitionist tearing out his heart-strings just to strum them like a cheap ukulele solo.
This motherfucker can write.

But yes, I agree. Lots of sauce, little substance. Ironicall,y the opposite most, where they say too much about nothing.

My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole Lyrics

I reared digital moonlight

You read its clock, scrawled neon across that black

Kismetly... ubiquitously crest fallen

Thrown down to strafe your foothills

...I'll suck the bones pretty.

Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps

Spray painted everything known to man,

Stream rushed through and all out into

Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck

Through our windows boarded up

He hit your flint face and it sparked.

And I bellowed and you parked

We reached Marfa.
One honest day up on this freedom pole

Devils not done digging

He's speaking in tongues all along the pan handle

And this pining erosion is getting dust in

My eyes

And I'm drunk on your morsels

And so I look down the line

Your every twitch hand drum salute

Salutes mine...

Your chemico outpourings deserve a kinder font.

>>24632363 (OP)
Get the ovaries from around your neck son

>>24632606
>these yarns my incantations

>>24632363 (OP)
It's fine, but you can keep revising it to condense the lines and make it less like prose. This is a poem based on statement and imagery, so anything that isn't contributing to those two things can be removed.

Her love lingers around me with its stench
Deeply embedded in well-worn garments
Which litter the floor of this run-down place
There's no more ciggies so swiftly I run
To escape the filth of my existence
And return with them a little later
She says this dump is making her sicker
Windows coated in grime, a fucking slum
Someone's sprayed faggot on the weary wall
I succumb to a haunted lethargy
Aided by drugs that only keep life at bay

Church people telling church people about church people, and the death of you