Ultraviolent Deluge (working title)

The surgeon sun sits
where sky is a broken femur,
where mountains are a ribcage.
Its all very neat
  me feeling in tension
its all very clever     and I am
                a toy theory.

If I could control these gravitas,
the souls corona would be
re-appropriated and all other
   lighthouses would be      outlawed.

I literally
     cannot   read      
another
 bite.         Anachronistic     enough?
           Wholesome   enough?
     Brackish   enough?

Come on little gamma ray,
whistle   the sound of
   trees falling   in the sand
      of a poorly lit nocturne;

its all very pretty
if there’s noon there to
hear it.     Yellow-grey
on the     navy’s blues,
        lying    supine      on
transparent cellophane
bed frames, so that the snow
       speaks of sunburns.

This is cancer at it’s finest,
a cyst in the eye of a sinner,
cold shiners up and over
the inner walls of the spinal
column in today’s newspaper
at the end of the world.

It’s too hot out.

I'm really ill equipped for a poem like this, but I'll give it a shot.  Maybe this is about getting an X-ray or something. I think you might be able to use the title to explain what is going on in the poem. 

(06-03-2015, 02:49 PM)Animal Riots Activist Wrote:  Ultraviolent Deluge (working title) -- Why is this the title? Do you feel this title is performing the function of a title?

The surgeon sun sits -- The cool thing about this line is that I instinctively want sun to be the word "son." However, the poem can't be nonsense either unless it is like Lewis Carroll nonsense or something.  
where sky is a broken femur, -- I'm not sure how the sky looks like a femur, but maybe there is method to this.
where mountains are a ribcage. - I like that you are sticking with the metaphor here. 
Its all very neat -- I think this is a typo where you meant It's. 
  me feeling in tension
its all very clever     and I am
                a toy theory.

If I could control these gravitas,
the souls corona would be
re-appropriated and all other
   lighthouses would be      outlawed. -- I'm not sure how to use spaces like this, but I would research it if you haven't. There may also be a metrical hiccup in this line.  

I literally -- I think the word "literally" could definitely work as a good component to a short line like this if you explore the word adequately.
     cannot   read      
another
 bite.         Anachronistic     enough?
           Wholesome   enough?
     Brackish   enough? -- The pacing is pretty good here, but I am a little lost. Perhaps others can follow. 


Come on little gamma ray,
whistle   the sound of
   trees falling   in the sand
      of a poorly lit nocturne; -- This certainly sounds pretty in my head. 

its all very pretty -- Not sure if you intentionally befuddled it's with its. 
if there’s noon there to -- I'm a fan of this noon here because I'm tending towards no one when I read it, which would work with the overall anticlimactic ending of thematic disavowal. 
hear it.     Yellow-grey
on the     navy’s blues,
        lying    supine      on
transparent cellophane
bed frames, so that the snow
       speaks of sunburns.

This is cancer at it’s finest, -- You may have meant its, or not.
a cyst in the eye of a sinner,
cold shiners up and over
the inner walls of the spinal
column in today’s newspaper
at the end of the world.

It’s too hot out.

I liked it.  I think it could be more clear. I feel like there should be at least a superficial level of accessibility to meaning which you can then build on. However, I'm talking out of my butt here. 

Oh! The joys of finally having time to pick apart a fellow free-verser who uses white space!  A rare opportunity!


Ultraviolent Deluge (working title) 


The surgeon sun sits
where sky is a broken femur,
where mountains are a ribcage.
Its all very neat
  me feeling in tension
its all very clever     and I am
                a toy theory. 


If I could control these gravitas,
the soul<'>s corona would be
re-appropriated and all other
   lighthouses would be      outlawed. 


I literally
     cannot   read      
another
 bite.         Anachronistic     enough?
           Wholesome   enough?
     Brackish   enough?

Come on<,> little gamma ray,
whistle   the sound of
   trees falling   in the sand
      of a poorly lit nocturne;


it<'>s all very pretty
if there’s noon  there to
hear it.     Yellow-grey
on the     navy’s blues,
        lying    supine      on
transparent cellophane
bed frames, so that the snow
       speaks of sunburns. 

This is cancer at it’s finest,
a cyst in the eye of a sinner,
cold shiners up and over
the inner walls of the spinal
column in today’s newspaper
at the end of the world.

It’s too hot out. 


So here's the take away...
it's brilliant, but probably too cerebral for most readers.  I would never suggest you dumb-down a poem, though.  Grammar and punctuation aren't your strong suit.  But it did leave me with something to correct.

looking forward to future dissections. 

melicious.

Hey Brownlie and Mel,

Thanks both for your comments. Aside from the embarrassing mix ups between its and it's, I think there's just some slight tweaks to be made here, mainly in the title and the nitpicks. I think in the end, this poem will suffer from inaccessibility and nonsense (though I definitely take exception to the fact that nonsense has to be sequestered to a Caroll-ian style, Brown), but I need to make tweaks to the poem to allow the reader to more easily follow the thread. I guess what I was going for was a poem that read somewhat like a deluge, that just sort of swept you downstream and didn't care at all what you thought on the matter. I definitely like deluge in the title, but I think ultraviolent is clunky, though fits somewhat with the subject of apocalypse/cancer. I'll have to work on this one, but yalls comments have been very helpful.

Thanks again,
Em

P.s. 'noon' was derived from 'no one'.