(I did a title change and a revision. This isn't anything like my normal style. I break tons of my own rules. Feedback appreciated on if this works. Thanks)

Revision

Will I run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is the vacant sky always too large
and childhood only a razor
to flay successive slices?

I write about these feet twisted like taffy,
the cold brace and the colder blood
black against my scalp.
I write about a mother who could only fuck
to add warmth to her life.

I write about discovering God,
power moving my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
I write about empty swings
and prophecy.

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama poetry.

Hypocritically, i keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while he vibrated
to harmonic strings.

His girlfriend, a sponge of needle holes
reduced to shooting up between her toes,
slumped over with
vomit dribbling down her chin--
wrung-out at thirty-seven.

I write lies that might be true, but
still lies. Memories that aren’t
as clear as I remember
but are somehow more true.

There were no sunsets.
just a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
Fifteen years, and still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:

This is my blood, my spit—
and my lies, never the truth.


Original

Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?

I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.

I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.

I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.

I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.

But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings—

his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.

There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.

Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.

These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.

This is my confession.
Now fuck off!

first off; the last couplet. for me it feels a little trite the whole poem works as your confession, we have no reason need the prop in the last two lines. as it is for me it feels like you gave two finishing couplets to add some punch. (for me it weakens the poem) i would have liked to see it end on truth

i see how you used the title as the lead in to the poem, maybe to get a desired effect. personally i'd have used it in the body of the poem and come up with a new title related to it.

Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?
above you have some great chances to give an a solid image, i felt instead you gave me two tells that didn't do the analogous poets justice.

I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.
this verse works though fucking everything that moved feels a bit cliché.

I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
"there is a" feels redundant (to me)
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal., feels like comparing different similes as the same. for me the two are pretty much opposites.

I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.
it feels a little forced.(for me)

I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.

But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings—
i think these verse are solid tell but good tell (one that lets the reader create his own image)

his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.
why use a simile when a metaphor would do?
a slumped over broken doll
dribbling vomit down its slack jawed chin

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.

There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.

Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.

These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.
these verse also work well for me.

some good lines and lots to like about the piece todd.
I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.
particularly those. as well as others.

thanks for the read as always.

Thanks Billy. Appreciate the read and the comments. I haven't done any rewrites on this one yet so it's very helpful.

Best,

Todd

I'm not much of a one for critiquing poetry but Billy's point was the thing that struck me very strongly--the final two lines are so glaring that it's like you've been spotlighting a field and thinking about what you've seen, then the guy you're with suddenly turns the beam into your face. Contemplative thoughts of the poem are instantly wiped away by "what a dick."

Definitely remove that.

Touchstone,

Thabks for the comments. I'll consider the change on rewrite.

Best,

Todd

(10-20-2010, 10:12 AM)Todd Wrote:  Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?

The first two lines are brilliant, though as I adore both Sexton and Plath I may be a wee bit biased. Nevertheless, the central question here is a very potent one, which I've pondered many times myself, and you convey it in a concise yet powerful way.

I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.

The first line reminded me of a bit from Anne Sexton's Red Roses, where the little boy's leg is compared to liquorice. Instead of "had to fuck," would "fucked" have sufficed? I would have removed the second "who" and replaced it with "and," as I don't like the repetition, and is "some" required?

I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.

Is "there is a" needed? I would have written, in lieu of your second line, this: "feeling the power shake my soul." That may be a personal thing, but I think your version is slightly too long.
The last two lines are dynamite, so evocative and strong. They made me think of a Deep South sermon or revival meeting, a ramshackle church packed out with rednecks, trailer trash and such, as they belt "Oh Happy Day" and fall on the floor.

I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.

I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I like the imagist twang to the penultimate two lines. Those "empty swings" and "bowls of fruit" held a quiet power which I really enjoyed, and they juxtapose well against "prophecy."

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.

I can empathise with this. I love reading poems about the craft, but hate composing them myself, as they always turn out cheap and blase, or at least so I think.

But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings

I liked the contrast between "blood" and "sludge" and "harmonic strings." An elegant mix of the grand and grotesque. One minor quibble: the syntax of the latter phrase in those closing lines: "while his brain vibrated/harmonic strings," sounds a bit clunky in my opinion.

his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

Again, the syntax sounds a bit clunky here. Would it work better like this?:

his girlfriend riddled with needle holes,
reduced to injecting between her toes,
lay slumped in the corner like a doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

The doll simile has been done to death, but you somehow make it original here, I think because you explain it so well ("slumped"/"dribbling vomit down her chin") and therefore it seems genuine.

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.

This reminds me of a dedication Stephen King made in his novel It , which said that fiction is the truth inside the lie.

There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.

"There was a pink bleed/coming out..." doesn't really make sense. Would it work better as: "A bright pink stream/flowed free from my eye"? Of course this edit is quite subjective, but I think that something of that sort would serve the purpose.

Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.

Is the second line a reference to the last verse of Daddy by Sylvia Plath? The last lines seem a tad too long. Might "they never stuck your heart on a spit," and then, in lieu of the forth, "why would they bother?" work at all?

These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.

"My time" doesn't seem necessary. All three together - "my time, my blood, my spit" - lengthen the sentence beyond what's needed (IMHO).
For me, the poem ends at this point. The final couplet is extraneous, at least from my point of view, and is a wee bit too blunt in hammering home your message.

This is my confession.
Now fuck off!

This is much more aggressive than your usual work, but none the worse for that. I enjoyed it very much, partly because of my passion for the subject matter, but also because it's just well written.

Hi Jack,

Thank you for your deep read. I'll consider many of the options you gave me (very much appreciated). Oh, and yes those lines near the end are a reference to Daddy by Plath.

Very Helpful, thank you again.

Todd

Revision up after almost a year. I needed time to think on this one.

(I did a title change and a revision. This isn't anything like my normal style. I break tons of my own rules. Feedback appreciated on if this works. Thanks)

it's confessional

Revision

Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is the vacant sky always too large
and childhood only a razor nice metaphor
to flay in successive slices? is 'in' needed?
Does confession mean death? in my last crit which i'm looking at now i see i made a glaring mistake, the 1st two lines are images. so i face palm myself for that comment; i prefer this extended verse

I write about these feet twisted like taffy, love this line
the cold brace and the colder blood
black against my scalp.
I write about a mother who could only fuck
to add warmth to her life.
much better for me, the fuck line is miles better. and the blood image is really good

I write about discovering God,
power moving my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.
I write about empty swings
and prophecy.
another good rewrite. the 4th line rattle (which is good )

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama poetry.
for me the fucking doesn't work so well in this verse. it doesn't sound like part of the 1st persons language, of course that's just my take (i swear an awful lot )

Hypocritically, i keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while he vibrated
to harmonic strings.

His girlfriend, a wrung-out sponge
of needle holes
reduced to shooting up between her toes--
dead at thirty-seven. i think i'd prefer a mix of this and the original verse.
for me the images there were stronger.

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies. is 'they're' needed?
Memories that aren’t
as clear as I remember them is 'them' needed?
but are somehow more true.

There were no sunsets.
just a pink bleed better
coming out of the corner of my eye.
Fifteen years, and still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:

These are my words, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, never the truth.
for me 'These are my words,' feel very weak and unnecessary.

the poem works well and the edit is better;
a much greatly improved write thats feels tighter, more to the point. i like the turmoil for want of a better word, set up by the first verse and carried throughout the poem. again sorry for saying there were no images, i feel such a putz. (all jmo)
thanks for the edit

Original

Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?

I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.

I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.

I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.

I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.

But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings—

his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.

There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.

Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.

These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.

This is my confession.
Now fuck off!

Billy, thanks you have a lot of nice call outs on what I agree are unnecessary words. I'm still thinking about the in after flay. I'll make some fast edits and then consider your other comments.

Much appreciated,

Todd

---

Okay, made some changes. Normally I don't insta-change, but it was a close read and I have been thinking about this for almost a year.

Thanks again Billy

The original title is what got me here, but I think I'm going to make one more title change.