As Our Opuses Rot

[heslopian]

Self-expression is dead, like the woman we buried this morning.
After she'd fallen asleep one last time a rat stole her ring finger;
no ring had sat there for years, all metals having been claimed
to make bullets. The maddest of us paint in our own shit.
Soon I'll be signing my sonnets with piss; if I could hold on...
just long enough to finish this poem, if it is a poem,
and not just my journal chopped up, labelled "free verse",
because I can't remember meters or rhymes.
Those savages outside, eating their mothers as clouds join
and separate like commuters glimpsed from a train,
long ago, when trains were real things which arrived...
those savages... they're all that's left of the outer world now,
and they've probably fucked and killed in the trains.
When I was a boy I wrote my mother a poem -
she was tired a lot, cancer, I think, can't remember -
and it was about a man who spoke to monkeys.
A leaf drifted in from the garden, alighted on her shoulder
as she sat propped against the windowframe.
This war, if anyone still fights, hadn't been considered yet,
and art was thought good for kiddies like me.
Now we're lost in these underground tunnels, us kids,
us artists, we painters and poets (no novelists left;
they took all our ink), going mad as our opuses rot.

This poem takes place in the same universe as this one: http://pigpenpoetry.com/Thread-The-Savag...ht=savages

[Leanne]

Jack, I'll come back and do a proper critique but on first reading, you have some awesome ideas, mapping the end of "civilisation" through the devolution of writing. However, I can't help feeling that using shit, piss and fuck all in a poem like this is a bit gratuitous. They're not shocking words, they're out of place words. And you know that's not because I don't like a good shit, piss and fuck

[heslopian]

Thank you for your kind preliminary feedback, Leanne As for the not-so-shocking words, call me an enfant terrible

[billy]

too too much to like here, the transition i mentioned sort of brings the read up short thinking (what just happened) but other than that i'm biased enough that if i saw something wrong i wouldn't see it. it's rife apocalyptically speaking with solid images. the tile works perfectly and the hook drags me back to the top to read it over. wish i could have been more constructive.

Self-expression is dead, like the woman we buried this morning.
After she'd fallen asleep one last time a rat stole her ring finger; i love the power of this line
no ring had sat there for years, all metals having been claimed
to make bullets. The maddest of us paint in our own shit. there doesn't seem to be any transition
Soon I'll be signing my sonnets with piss; if I could hold on...
just long enough to finish this poem, if it is a poem,
and not just my journal chopped up, labelled "free verse",
because I can't remember meters or rhymes.
Those savages outside, eating their mothers as clouds join
and separate like commuters glimpsed from a train,
long ago, when trains were real things which arrived...
those savages... they're all that's left of the outer world now,
and they've probably fucked and killed in the trains.
When I was a boy I wrote my mother a poem -
she was tired a lot, cancer, I think, can't remember -
and it was about a man who spoke to monkeys.
A leaf drifted in from the garden, alighted on her shoulder
as she sat propped against the windowframe.
This war, if anyone still fights, hadn't been considered yet,
and art was thought good for kiddies like me.
Now we're lost in these underground tunnels, us kids,
us artists, we painters and poets (no novelists left;
they took all our ink), going mad as our opuses rot.

This poem takes place in the same universe as this one: http://pigpenpoetry.com/Thread-The-Savag...ht=savages

[brandontoh]

Self-expression is dead, like the woman we buried this morning.
After she'd fallen asleep one last time a rat stole her ring finger;
no ring had sat there for years, all metals having been claimed
to make bullets. The maddest of us paint in our own shit.
Soon I'll be signing my sonnets with piss; if I could hold on...
just long enough to finish this poem, if it is a poem,
and not just my journal chopped up, labelled "free verse",
because I can't remember meters or rhymes.
Those savages outside, eating their mothers as clouds join
and separate like commuters glimpsed from a train,
long ago, when trains were real things which arrived...
those savages... they're all that's left of the outer world now,
and they've probably fucked and killed in the trains.
When I was a boy I wrote my mother a poem -
she was tired a lot, cancer, I think, can't remember -
and it was about a man who spoke to monkeys.
A leaf drifted in from the garden, alighted on her shoulder
as she sat propped against the windowframe.
This war, if anyone still fights, hadn't been considered yet,
and art was thought good for kiddies like me.
Now we're lost in these underground tunnels, us kids,
us artists, we painters and poets (no novelists left;
they took all our ink), going mad as our opuses rot.

This poem takes place in the same universe as this one: http://pigpenpoetry.com/Thread-The-Savag...ht=savages

I really like this poem. Powerful imageries and every line contributes to the poem as a whole. The only suggestion I have is to break the poem up into different stanzas. This makes it easier on the eye in my opinion. Like Billy, I wish I could be more constructive, but it's hard to improve on something so solid already. Thanks for the read!! =)

[serge gurkski]

good morning,
I could not help grinning about your usage of words i ever so coincidentally read yesterday evening on a thread in this thread's quite close neighhborhood.
I find this quite a powerful read (with or without those interesting vocabulary items one previous commenter already mentioned above).
I read "opuses" and almost automatically associated "oct ---opuses" with it. ,-) Couldn't one also write "opera", or even "opera operata"?
I was a bit reminded of the movie Mad Max.
Thank you for the read!

serge

[heslopian]

Thank you Bilbo, brandon and serge for your kind feedback brandon, I was thinking of dividing this into stanzas, and Bilbo, thanks for pointing out the transition (or lack thereof). I looked back and it does kind of smack you in the face serge, forgive me if I sound like a giant prole, but doesn't "opera" relate only to music?

[serge gurkski]

nope: ,-) in bloody boring Latin the nominative plural is opera.
But: opuses is absolutely ok with me too.
I do not mind at all prole, btw ;-)
Oh, i (<--- proud prole ,-) )also hear not just octopuses but of course: oh pussies, too.

Have a fine day

serge ( not a big fan of Latin btw)

[Stalker]

Those savages outside, eating their mothers as clouds join
and separate like commuters glimpsed from a train

hey! I don't know what this is, and who is eating the mothers, and whether I am in danger from it

but I like it alot.

StalKeR

[heslopian]

Thank you for your comment, Stalker.