Buzzcut Silence

[fluorescent.43]

Final Edit.

There are no voices in my head.
Just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream.

Let's go on a rampage!
Cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down. (I'm screaming
now. Can you hear me?)

I'm running away from
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
-heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.

There are tall new-yorky cities
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

Brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot- nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

My fingers are clutching angels,
stuffing fistfuls of halos into my ears
(I'm an atheist)

Pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily

[[again, i haven't changed much... i think this is where i want it to be, now. it was a big struggle to make this flow together and be coherent... anyways, i kept the 'new yorky' stanza because it meant a lot to me and i rather liked the childishness of a foolish dream. the ending two lines i also kept because... yup, you guessed it, i like the empty feeling you're left with. it was supposed to provide anything but closure, which is why i put a seemingly innocent word (drily) in the last line by itself (and i searched it up, 'drily' and 'dryly' are interchangeable). and i used capitals because i have finally come round to the idea. thanks all for the critique!]]

Edit.

there are no voices in my head.
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream.

let's go on a rampage!
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down.
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.

there are tall new yorky cities
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot— nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute.

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily

[[haven't changed much... i didn't want this to lose its intended freneticism. hopefully it's a bit clearer, but it wasn't my intention for this to become a straight-forward, to-the-point poem. still don't know if the title works, but i've got a better idea of what i want this whole thing to be.]]

Original.

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

[tectak]

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

If you were 80% asleep when you wrote it, how about rewriting it when you are 80% awake? That way you gain self respect and respect the crits. Titles talk loudest when they have something to say about the poem...they whisper down into silence when the poem says nothing...so make the poem speak and believe me the title will scream at you.
Best,
tectak

[Grace]

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

Dare I say, this is being read while 20% awake!!   

In answer to your question - yes!  

It has a surreal sort of feel to it and some good imagery going on.   grace

[Quixilated]

Dear 43,

1.) The Disclaimer: I am merely a fumbling newbie, learning the ropes, and scattering opinions like little seeds into the wind. Please heed my advice with caution.

2.) The Title: I have most often crossed three strategies for poetry titles. First, there are some which have no title and are merely referenced by the first line. That is hardly done these days though. Second, take a moment to consider the central theme, or overall message of the poem, and call it that. This at least lets the reader know what to expect from the poem. Third, the very clever people use the title as an extension of the poem and it is either the riddle the poem answers, or the answer to the riddle posed by the poem, or the key to unlocking the riddle of the poem, etc. I am not yet skiled enough to use this kind of title, but it is really fun when others do. Hope that helps.

3.) On somnambulistic writing: Writing when half, or mostly asleep can have benefits, inhibitions are lowered and the subconscious plays a stronger hand. You might say something you wouldn't otherwise dare, or didn't even know you mean. However, the subconscious can be a disjointed and confusing place, and will rarely produce a finished, coherent piece of art all on its own. It's a good idea to look at it in the daylight, discover what your brain was trying to say, and then with the sobriety of a good night's sleep, edit and form it into a perfect finish.

4.) On Salvaging: That depends on your goals. How important is the poem to you? Is it something you whipped up and can toss without a care? Did you put something of yourself into it, and need it to be heard? Do you have a message or goal of some sort that is important to you, or that needs to be said? What do you want it to say, and then make sure it says exactly that. Whether you have to replace one word or all, the worth of salvaging is up to you. But I'll let you know the parts that do and don't work for me, just in case that will help you make up your mind.

5.) Specific Moments: I liked the original title better, if my explication was correct. However, perhaps I misunderstood the meaning. I was confused by, and wouldn't miss everything in the parenthesis, and really the first stanza. This could be my inexperience, but I couldn't make hide nor tail of it. (Though if it is about pressure to achieve, then the straightjacket reference holds.). I actually liked the second stanza, but perhaps a different word here and there could clear up the meaning. But I sort of get the tranquility/resignaton message going on there. The pressure title tied in with the resignation for me, because I felt this was mostly a kicking against the goads of external pressure to do or achieve or be something.

My favorite part was the third stanza. Again, looking through the lense of my interpretation, I read this line to mean that the speaker's head has been filled with high goals. Whether they are the speaker's goals or another's goals for the speaker is not clear. The idea that the goals have been "painted" there, along with the rebelious nature of the rest of the poem leads me to assume the goals have been "inceptioned" into the speaker, and now the speaker feels too much pressure, bound by the requirement to achieve that is placed on those born into privilege. However, in the next line the image has been "drycleaned" from the speaker's mind. So is the force exerting pressure the one painting, or the one wiping the painting clean? Are the speaker's dreams irrelevent to the pressure, or are the dreams placed there by the pressure. I can't decide that part.

Anyway, I hope something in this long ramble helps you in some way. All the best!
--Quix

[Animal Riots Activist]

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

I often write when it's super late. I would say if you're going to edit, do not take Tec's advice and re write it awake. Wait until you're half dead again, maybe completely drunk or something (I don't know) and take a crack at editing. I think rewriting when you're in a totally different place when you originally wrote it wont work, or at least it doesn't work for me.

As for the title, it's not working too well right now, and if you do try to edit this one that's what I would go after. However I think the poem needs no editing. It's frenetic, destructive, and cool. I like it quite a bit as is. I think there's definitely value in letting an ephemeral poem be just that. Not every poem needs to be endlessly combed over, have all the nits picked out. That's just my two cents.
-Em

[John]

Hi, 43,

As you wrote this whilst 80% asleep, that's perhaps why I can't make head nor tail of it. I can't/won't read something into it for the sake of it, or because it's expected.

Did you analyse and redraft in the cold light of day, or was it posted hot from the mind?

I'm trying to understand free verse - and it worries me when you comment is this even worth salvaging?

I'm keen to learn through constructive criticism. Help me out here.

[tectak]

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

I often write when it's super late. I would say if you're going to edit, do not take Tec's advice and re write it awake. Wait until you're half dead again, maybe completely drunk or something (I don't know) and take a crack at editing. I think rewriting when you're in a totally different place when you originally wrote it wont work, or at least it doesn't work for me.

As for the title, it's not working too well right now, and if you do try to edit this one that's what I would go after. However I think the poem needs no editing. It's frenetic, destructive, and cool. I like it quite a bit as is. I think there's definitely value in letting an ephemeral poem be just that. Not every poem needs to be endlessly combed over, have all the nits picked out. That's just my two cents.
-Em

Note. Don't crit the crit. Crit the poem.Mod.

[fluorescent.43]

As everyone seems to think that this was written while I was 80% asleep, I'd like to make a small correction and say the original draft of this was written so. This version is actually the cleaned up, 100%-awake-edited version. But as everyone still thinks this makes no sense whatsoever, the only thing I can say is that this will be undergoing an even more thorough revision quite soon. Thanks to everyone who's read & critiqued! Much appreciated.

[fluorescent.43]

And... the edit is up! (Sorry the title keeps changing.)

[joesammsington]

Just my take, and I'm a new poet so please take my advice with a grain of salt ,
When you describe your mind being ironed and becoming vapid, I personally it would make more sense
If you said "Brain electrocuted into mindlessness"

[Wjames]

Edit.

there are no voices in my head.
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream. interesting opener.

let's go on a rampage! This seems like something a "voice" in someone's head might say. Is that contradiction intentional (or am I just reading too much into this statement?).
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down. 
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?)

we're running away from whose we? narrator and the voices?
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.  This stanza doesn't really do much for me.

there are tall new yorky cities I don't like yorky, it doesn't fit in with the rest of the seriousness. I think just "new york cities" would work, new york can work as an adjective I suppose.
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily

brain's been dry-cleaned, I like the oily paintings /oily clothes (or, in this case, brains) being dry cleaned.
ironed burning hot— nothing left
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute. More voices? That's the only thing I can think of this being.

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears This confirms that the narrator is in fact hearing voices in my reading, and trying not to hear them.
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily I presume you're cracking?

[[haven't changed much... i didn't want this to lose its intended freneticism. hopefully it's a bit clearer, but it wasn't my intention for this to become a straight-forward, to-the-point poem. still don't know if the title works, but i've got a better idea of what i want this whole thing to be.]]

Original.

we're going on a rampage
(cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down!)
listen: i'm not a god but
(but i can't forget you)

we're running away from
sleep-induced tranquility:
heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation
(it's like a drug, m'am)

there are tall new yorky cities
and clear-eyed stars painted on
the inside of my skull, oily.

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot:
nothing left except buzzcut silence,
pervasive music.
(boom,
boom,
deconstruction.)

pressure is a privilege, they say, drily

[[is this even worth salvaging?-- disclaimer: written at three in the morning-- 80% asleep. also, i can't think of a good title. how do you people come up with one anyways?]]

Just my thoughts as I read the poem, my only real "critique" would be the yorky bit.

I'm very rarely a fan of titles which are inside of the poem, and that's the case with this one as well. Why not try and make a title that adds another layer to your idea?

I like the poem though, to me it seems like someone convincing themselves they aren't crazy (or, trying to). "There are no voices in my head" followed by a string of what I believe are thoughts by these non-existant voices is my reading.

Of course, with such an idea (if that was your intent), it's almost impossible to critique because any sort of nonsense could just be these voices.

You do need to be careful though, if there's too much, it can just descend in to chaos so this poem walks a fine line (I think you're close to the edge).

[Turtle]

Edit.

there are no voices in my head. --- After reading the rest of this poem, on my second read through, I thought... denial?
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream. --- I dig this opening stanza. It's like the first line and last line make this wonderful oxymoron sandwich with the middle line as the fixings... that was the first analogy that popped in my head.

let's go on a rampage!
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down.
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?)

we're running away from --- We? This got me thinking about multiple personalities, and the denial I previously spoke of.
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am) --- voices?
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation.

there are tall new yorky cities
and stars painted on the inside --- I'm not really sure about this stanza. It doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the poem.
of my skull, oily

brain's been dry-cleaned,
ironed burning hot— nothing left --- The past tense followed by present tense here threw me off. Comma after ironed?
except for buzzcut silence
and pervasive music
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute.

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
drily --- I found myself at a bit of a loss here. I feel like there's something missing.

[[haven't changed much... i didn't want this to lose its intended freneticism. hopefully it's a bit clearer, but it wasn't my intention for this to become a straight-forward, to-the-point poem. still don't know if the title works, but i've got a better idea of what i want this whole thing to be.]]

Very interesting piece 43. I like the style of the writing, but it felt like a bottle rocket that went up in the air, and then didn't blow up. Once I read through it several times and let the flow resonate with me for a few minutes, I realized that there was a lot of build up and no pop at the end... it just fizzed out. This might just be me (very well could be), but a reference to the first stanza would be a pretty cool way to wrap up the ending.  

[kakashi1090]

I love the intensity. It strikes me as someone locked in their head with lots of issues going on up there. It definitely has this feeling of no holds barred.


My uncertainty with this one was its tendency to jump around. I see you said you wanted it to be frantic and sort of crazy but pieces hit me as irrelevant to the next and last a bit. And maybe that is an artistic decision and if so all the power to you. However, I would like to break it down some. Also, a spelling error that will be pointed out in parenthesis.

there are no voices in my head.
just the brazen roar of silence
and an occasional scream. ---at this point I am thinking "In my head, things are bad, boredom, anxiety, rage, panic"

let's go on a rampage! ---One line later it all of the sudden turns outward. Jarring, strong, but also pulls me out of the poem a bit.
cue the music; this straitjacket
is going down. --- This is where I feel I fell out. I felt thrown into the rampage and then I felt immediately thrown into an idea of music and a straight jacket
(i'm screaming now.
can you hear me?) ---At this point I was too far out. I was too confused as to what was going on and the poem just kinda left me.

we're running away from ---This line reeled me back in.
sleep-induced tranquility
(it's like a drug, m'am)
—heads collapsed, hearts
squishy with resignation. ---Still with you, getting more of a picture.

there are tall new yorky cities ---I found myself asking where.
and stars painted on the inside
of my skull, oily ---After reaching this point I felt back in the head of the character again. And maybe would have been better adjacent to the first stanza?

brain's been dry-cleaned, ---NICE NICE NICE! Excellent transition. I was thinking skull, I was thinking oil, You ran with it. I like this a lot
ironed burning hot— nothing left
except for buzzcut silence ---This line is definitely one that has me eager. If I just knew what buzzcut meant as an adjective to silence I feel this line would absolutely blow me away. I see why you named it after this line there is a lot of power here.
and pervasive music ---I see a theme of contrasting silence and noise to the character. Maybe removing the "and" would better showcase the dodgey thoughts of the character? Just an idea. I definitely like it though.
(boom,
boom...)

execute. execute.
execute. ----execute what?

my fingers are clutching angels
stuffing fistfuls into my ears ---Very poetic line. 10/10 on this one
(i'm an atheist)

pressure is a privilege, they say,
(dryly)



It's not bad. This is not a bad writing at all. Reading other people's comments I definitely see what they mean by reading through a couple times you get it more and more. Which is why I focused on where I feel I dropped from the poem. I felt maybe pointing out the points that I fell off the wagon would help you remedy people having to read it a couple times. I'd suggest looking at Maynard James Keenan's lyrics. He is one of my favorite lyricists and does a good deal of those finicky styled writings. One of his fortes for me is how he connects totally irrelevant thoughts through word play. You may find it enjoyable! All in all a wonderful read.

[fluorescent.43]

a final edit is up, just in case anyone is still vaguely interested in reading this. i hope it's not too crazy.

[ellajam]

Nice edit. I particularly like the fistfuls of halos. I think it manages to be loose and tight at the same time now, good job workshopping.

[Mark A Becker]

Hey 43- Though I'm late in the game, I've been watching from the sidelines...

I'm glad you stuck with the new yorky stuff, as it's in tune...

I guess only God knows why an atheist would get into halo stuffing, and the stanza is probably the best for maintaining the overall tone of the poem.

The poem runs out of gas, drily, but that's fine with me. Poems that run out of gas allow the reader to walk right by without stopping... (did you see that poem?) I'm already halfway down the block (what poem?) Cool effect when used well, and in this case it is...

I guess you consider this one "done", since you said so, so you might as well let it go now. Good job.

NEXT! ....
... Mark

[Grace]

The final edit is really good.  You've buzzcutted it.  I like the way you put the scream into a question  in brackets
    ....(I'm screaming
now. Can you hear me?)

Yes.  I can hear you.  I like the imagery of stuffing angels,  New-Yorky cities and stars painted..
also dry-cleaned brain, burning hot.

Yeah, pressure is a privilege    . Grace