A Deeper Cut

[Erthona]

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright,
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up.

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long?”

It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.

The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.

© –Erthona

[tectak]

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright,
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up.

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long?”

It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.

The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.

© –Erthona

This is worthy.I will get back. Too happy to comment further right now. Needs serious consideration.
Tectak

[Philatone]

hey dale
some thoughts

I was interested in a number of your adjective because they occasionally felt like too-much for me, though perhaps it's appropriate for the theme. more specifically..

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub ...while accurate, "yellow-brown" didn't sit well with me
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6 ...if desired, this description of the motel could be made more concise. the "drug-infested shooting gallery" felt too direct for me in a poem on this topic
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin: ...oh, I35...fun times...
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51. ...felt a bit extra to me
Although not incredibly bright, ...as with this line
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up. ...in some way, could trim this line and end on EMTs to make them feel more like an 'enemy' of hers or something like that

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm. ...why the ellipsis?
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be. ...get the sentiment, feels a bit clunky
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping. ...i like these details
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising: ...again, a clunky feel to it
that strange sucking tearing sound. ..."sucking tearing" I'm undecided on how I feel about it. I do get the sentiment.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours ...again, this line doesn't read as smoothly as it could. it also is direct
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life. ...dramatic? gives a sense of judging to the speaker
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It. ...I get the desire to repeat and emphasize this It, but for me it would read just as well in this form:

Green eyes had distanced herself/ moved on/ didn't have energy/ no longer cared.

but that is entirely personal. as is, it strikes me as trying to be a bit too emotional
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long?” ...need the "you"? I don't think it needs to be introduced to this piece

It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.....sometimes when I read, it feels like the metaphor is dragging on too long

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

...ok, it felt as though this stanza kept spiraling into details for me, though each is only held for a few lines before moving on. rather than giving me a sense of depth, i don't know what to do with the information. at times again, the metaphors dragged for me

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs ...the adjectives didn't grab me
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time. ...nice pun, but it struck me as coming at the cost of content. I thought this was the woman's poem. it feels as though it is turning into the support group's poem.
the way that the support group is introduced intially makes me think that it will be a quick mention, but here it is receiving so much focus. it catches me off-guard; as i give it more reads, perhaps my mind will change

The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color...could combine this and the next line: "staining it that unbleachable color" (if desired)
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars ...why do i need to know this? I'm sure it's important, but it feels tacked on
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.

© –Erthona

[billy]

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s i think this line is great, (down to earth)
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special. the narrative feels strong yet it also feels overburdened

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright, too much
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef.
She had to carve deeply downward downward is redundant because of the next line
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up. to patch her up feels redundant, you need to leave us something to imagine

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound.
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child: i like how the act or parts of it bring back memories.
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It,
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long?”

It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat.
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group” great image/metaphor
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.

The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.

© –Erthona

on first take it reads as prose with enjambment, the narrative adds to the feeling of prose, but the way it flows turns it into prose poetry. (as well as a couple more poetic devices.) it powerful yet gives the reader too much information. (well yes, i mean me ) the great thing about it is it's originality and the tale. i think some of repetition takes something away from the overall feel but i thoroughly enjoyed it, though i'm not sure it repulsed me or saddened me as much as it should, it felt emotionless and maybe that was part of your intention, if so it succeeded.

thanks for the read.

[Erthona]

Thanks Billy. I think you are correct on some of those suggestions, especially the repetition.

Yes, it is suppose to be dispassionate, almost bored, as this is the feeling those close to this person felt, and that is the overall feeling I wanted to convey.

Dale

[tectak]

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood. Opening lines are diminutive in a matter-of-fact way. This sets the scene. Not quite a police forensic report, but emotionless. Any surprises later will be because these opening lines seem very deliberate in their tone. Nothing wrong with that.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery This next grouping continues the reportage; abandonment of sentence structure may be just permissable in a notebook but the dangling word "Located" irritates me. I want "Located in a drug infested.........blah...blahhh, THE bathtub..." see what I mean?
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.Though some would say local knowledge required to understand these lines, I do not. I quite like the texture of familiarity in a written piece, even if it is only familiar to the writer. It kind of draws the reader in to a cosy trust

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51. This line fine, next line not fine. The use of this vernacular technique, almost a damning by faint praise, does not sit well. It is cynical and sarcastic in equal but small measures and though it says what you mean it to say, it is not you saying it!
Although not incredibly bright, Try "Though intellect was not her ally," or somesuch. This puts the observation back in to "factuality" rather than in to opinion....yours
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep, Watch out for "you had to" because 7 lines down it is "she had to" again. What's wrong with "she had to slice deep" here?
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef. Excellent. Well grounded metaphor that begins itself, lives on its merit, and ends itself. I like the whole encapsulement precisely because it is a like for like comparison. Not really sure it is a metaphor....it is far to accurate.
She had to carve deeply downward Danger of repetition here, in the methodology if not the semantics. "You (she) had to slice deep" above then "She had to carve deeply downward". In fact, I think it is the deep and deeply I don't like. There are hundreds of alternatives to "deeply" which would impart a sense of clinical horror.....from the most simplistic "steeply", hardly an improvement, to the more descriptive "intently". Just a suggestion.
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up. Yes to this as a knowledgeable technique to more certainly claim death than by the haphazard "wrist-slitting" method, but I still think that you are guilty of inadmissable surmise here. Inadmissable in that you are reading the thoughts of your character BUT putting your own slant, and a cynical slant at that, on to a tragic and serious situation by imputing that "she wanted to fill the tub", and this was her raison n'etre pas (excuse translation...but you get the point). Do you expect me to fill this tub? No, Mr. Bond....I expect you to die.

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm. Aha! I was right. Another word to describe the deepness. Is that a word? Comma after arm to complete a sentence with the next line
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be. A bit clonking , this. I think that "it seemed" implies some knowledge a priori. It is the clash of "it seemed" and "it should" in the same sentence that is wrong. Perhaps "she hoped" or "she imagined" or "she figured" (to keep our american cousins on track) would work to an advantage
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping. Small t on the
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising: Full stop here. You will see why in a line or two
that strange sucking tearing sound. "A strange, sucking, tearing sound
(that) reminded(ded or ding) her of when she gave birth... " Parataxis rules. OK
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child: Excellent imagery in all its aspects. I can even SMELL the scene
a precocious green eyed daughter, perhaps pre-precocious? Surely not precocious at birth....but at sixteen. Rearrange.
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come,
green eyes would not be upset.
Mother and daughter had not lived together
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It, You sly old dog!!! I nearly fell for It
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It. drop "she" for me, please; in this line, in this list, in this sentence.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long?”

It was never questioned. You are now pushing "it"
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.I don't think "finally" is necessary. In fact, it is better read without it.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER,
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat. ungently.....Ilike this use
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time. Not clear on the last three lines. Oh, I know charcoal burns and all that, but we are talking in a different room. This is medical. Fuller's earth, charcoal absorption etc. Physical not chemical. Not burning...why burning? Help.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.) Now this is all very interesting stuff but the germanity has gone. You are off on one of your favourite rides....the Cerebral Carousel. I am not going to crit the rest of this stanza unless you punctuate it it away from the synaptical rant it has become
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.

The arrival of the too-late-this-timeOh.. you're back. Welcome. And what a fine day it is. Now you are going to behave, aren't you? Yes to the rest. Quite excellent
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.

© –Erthona

Well....I enjoyed that. Quite cathartic, really....with a bit of blood-letting tossed in for good measure. Truly commitment verse and you know I approve. Most of my comments, sadly, are those made to pull the piece into my way of thinking....and so are probably invalid in this forum. After
all, if we were all the same we could crit ourselves to bits in a box.
Yes to this, but sometimes I believe that we (all) get excited by the flow of blood to the head and begin to jerk off cerebrally. A calm edit and a Kleenex usually brings us back to our own normality.....I hope I am there for you Anyway, it was good for me...how was it for you?
Best,
tectak

[Erthona]

Located at a "motel".
-----------------------------------------------------
"Although not incredibly bright, Try "Though intellect was not her ally," or somesuch. This puts the observation back in to "factuality" rather than in to opinion....yours
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep, Watch out for "you had to" because 7 lines down it is "she had to" again. What's wrong with "she had to slice deep" here?"

Yes I agree, I will fix those. Good points.
----------------------------------------------------
"She had to carve deeply downward"

Yes, Billy noted this also, I will probably drop the "downward", which I suspects I put in for the alliterative quality.
--------------------------------------------------
"she wanted to fill the tub " Hyperbole yes, mind reading no. It is just a way of saying that by her actions (cutting along the veins and not across) she did this in such a way she knew she would be dead before the emt's got there.
--------------------------------------------------
Not clear on the last three lines. Oh, I know charcoal burns and all that, but we are talking in a different room. This is medical. Fuller's earth, charcoal absorption etc. Physical not chemical. Not burning...why burning? Help.

Sorry, nothing to do with charcoal. It refers to other people's compassion. Probably need to look at that. I didn't notice the connection. My fault, I presumed too much about readers knowledge of that kind of charcoal.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
"nless you punctuate it it away from the synaptical" did you mean syntactical?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh.. you're back. Welcome. And what a fine day it is. Now you are going to behave, aren't you? Yes to the rest. Quite excellent

Sorry, it can't all be just action. Boredom is the point.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks Tommy, and excellent critique! (I do mean that)


Dale

---

Sorry Geoff, I missed your comments and went straight to Billy's. I'll reply shortly.

Dale

[Universalchild]

I enjoyed reading it because I'm morbid, but (funnily enough considering what you thought of mine!) I felt like it is a bit unrealistic and overly sharp and cynical. I know we're practically on opposite ends of the spectrum on this subject, but you stated that this was meant to reflect the feelings of someone who was once close to the person... So I feel like this poem contains too much of how you feel, rather then taking on another person P.O.V - I really don't honestly believe that, short of a sociopath, anyone would feel emotionless about someone close to them committing suicide, even IF they hadn't been close for years. I think that just disregards memory and the power of relationship. I worked with a little boy whose mother was a seriously awful heroin addict who abused and neglected him to the point where, at seven, he wasn't even toilet trained... But he still missed her. Ties that run deep are hard to cut, and even when cut, you don't just forget.

[Kubla Khan]

A Deeper Cut

At the end of her road of self-absorption
was a yellow-brown mineral stained bathtub
overflowing with a mixture
of warm water and hot blood.
Located in a drug infested shooting gallery
of a Tom Burdettless Motel 6
on the north bound feeder road
of I-H35 in south Austin:
one block from the new Luby’s These last three lines disrupt the flow of words.
where the blue hairs were lining up
for the blue plate special.

Serving time had just begun
on that Thursday morning at 10:51.
Although not incredibly bright, Really, not incredibly bright? Is this the same speaker?
she had finally figured out
that you had to slice deep,
just like the server at Luby’s,
was doing to the roast beef. So she watched some old woman carve meat and became a potent cutter? Profound
She had to carve deeply downward
from elbow to wrist right along her
much abused leathery veins
if she wanted to fill the tub
before the EMT’s
got there to patch her up. Spooky[\b]

This time…she went willfully deep into the arm.
It was a lot harder than it seemed it should be.
The skin and flesh not so much slicing as ripping.
But the sound,
that was what was so surprising:
that strange sucking tearing sound. [b]More lame than morbid
It reminded her of when she gave birth
to her only child:
a precocious green eyed daughter,
now sixteen,
who did not yet know that in a few hours
she would be making arrangements
for the final physical remnant of a wasted life.
When the call did come, Did come?
green eyes would not be upset. The best line I've read so far, but it doesn't adhere to the prior
Mother and daughter had not lived together Flat
for the past three years.
Green eyes had distanced herself from It, another good line, followed by three more almost good lines
had moved on from It,
didn’t have the energy for It,
she no longer cared about It.
She thought the same thoughts as everyone
when they heard the news:

“Why did it take you so long? Oh, we're that deep in a mordant reality

It was never questioned.
It was going to happen.
Too many dress rehearsals
to not finally put on the show.
The tickets had all been bought,
and paid for several times over
years and years and years ago.

The last good rehearsal she had
was when she OD’ed,  
snowballing heroin and coke.
She ended up in the ER, Ended up in the ER? how about she was lurid in the ER, I mean anything really. The language is so bland
charcoal shoved most ungently down her throat. You do not need most ungently. Shoved implies enough. Most ungently is redundant
Certainly not the most dramatic time by far.
There had not been anything left to burn
for a very long time. That is very obscure to me.

Nobody was playing her game anymore.
Except for those equally whacked out members
of her sexual abuse support group:
it had been second verse same as the first
for so long that everyone knew the tune, What? These musical innuendos come out of nowhere, and are immensely obscure in contrast to the rest of the poem. After some deliberate concentration I think I deciphered she is always doing the same thing. But if the entire poem flows unabashedly and then you have this stinking, obscure morass, slowing your reading to a halt to comprehend, it is discomfiting to the reader.
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)
So the thousands of wasted dollars
on home security devices
to keep out the non-existent
cult members had less affect
on her audience
than an unscheduled timpani roll
drowning out the oboe solo
in the last movement of a Berlioz symphony.

The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group”
that had only fantasy upon which to hang
their undersized hats of non-existent self-esteem,
were always up for game of
one-up-man-ship until
someone would get so fed up
with the one-ups
that they would one-up,
one final time.

The arrival of the too-late-this-time
EMT would bare witness
to her testament
of self-absorption.
Signed in cheap red ink
soaking into the dirty porous grout
staining it that unmistakable dark color
that can’t be bleached out:
waiting until the manager who collected
a mere twenty-six dollars
for the rent breaks down and
has it ripped out…………again.              

© –Erthona

If the speaker in the poems beholds no semblance of poetic language is it still a poem? This just seemed very bland to me, which you seemed to endeavor to do, yet within all of those lines there was ample opportunity to conjure a poetic essence. I don't think there is an instance of a poetic flash, a turning of the senses. It's gloomy, as was your intent, but Even so it did not have to become dulled. Even dark morbidity such as this has room for color long as you mind the shade.

Thank you for posting, though. I may try to revise it in the future if that settles well with you.

[Erthona]

Kubla Khan,

Thank you for commenting. I hear what you say, that it is boring. There are certainty things that need to be tightened up, but I do not think the tone is one of them. Or at least I will say the off handed, matter of fact way this is voiced was intentional. I did not feel the need to make it dramatic or sensationalize it. I thought over all the events that move the story along would speak well enough for the story without any trickery. I guess I can give a further look at what I thought should be occurring, although I suspect you will disagree with it. The idea of the clinical nature of the speaker was because this was someone he had once been in love with, but as with most people who are involved with addicts he became burned out because of her attitude and behavior over the years he has known her (I have witnessed this many times when families come in for a session before meeting with the therapist and the addict. Their responses are wooden, their eyes are glazed, they have no emotion left for the person, not even anger (which is generally the last to go). The same sort of burn out is also mentioned about her family. He has no emotion left to give to her, the best he can do is this wooden observation, which is suppose to indicate the emotional distance that is between them. Whether it works poetically (whatever that means) or not, it does reflect reality in these types of relationships, especially if it has been going on for a long time. Eventually they have to quit caring as they are getting where they can no longer function. As this is what they are capable of in terms of coping skills (and there is no reason that should be different), that is what they do. Sorry, I cannot get my head around this idea of being "poetic," or a "poetic flash," or a "turning of the senses." I never think "how can I make this poetic" or more poetic. I certainly use tropes, but I use them without much conscious thought, much in the same way I do not think about what cord inversion I am using when playing music; depending on all the elements around it the right chord just comes. You should get along well with Leanne, she is very conscious about her writing, and very intentionally does whatever she does. Me? Not so much However I will take your comments under advisement. I probably do need to work this one over, it certainly needs it.

"If the speaker in the poems beholds no semblance of poetic language is it still a poem?"


I suppose you could call it prose poetry if you choose, although there are plenty of poetic tropes scattered within it to make a valid argument that it is poetry. Personally I don't care. I do not start writing by saying I am going to write a poem. I am adept or have been adept with all the major poetic forms over many years. I do not consciously start writing by picking a format. I let the format pick itself during the course of the writing. So it does not really matter to me what you call it. I do not think of prose as somehow inferior to poetry. Prose is a form, poetry is a form, both have advantages and disadvantages. I let the writing go to what seems best.Poetic language is just another, and less exact term for poetic tropes, which I believed I addressed. I have read, studied, critiqued, and written poetry for over forty years and I have never heard the term "poetic essence." Maybe you could supply a definition since the words by themselves convey no meaning, at least to me. I did do a search on the term "poetic essence" and what came up appeared to be some kind of establishment for spoken poetry and discussion, but it shed no light on what poetic essence is.          

'Although not incredibly bright" Yeah this is a bad line and will be removed along with about ten other lines.

Sorry if this is a bit disjointed; I am in a bit of a rush.

Glad to have you on board,

dale

[Brownlie]

This needs to be cleaned up, and I'm quite lazy right now. However, there are some very good lines here. The part about carving the roast beef was great (It's possible it would be better in relation to something besides cutting, but it is a good detail). I would be hesitant to advise you to cut some of your best lines here. However, I agree with the adjective comment. For instance, I don't think you need abused and leathery.

[Leah S.]

I also need more read, but had to check in.
I LIKE 'yellow-brown'. I immediately had a vivid image of that tub.
I don't get 'Tom Burdettless'. I even Googled it, thinking I was (as usual) pop-culture-impaired, but I only got insurance agents and FB pages.
Luby's must be particular to Austin, I had to figure out that it was a diner from the context.
I was grossed out by the depth of your (inaccurate) description of the sound of slicing into human flesh. It only makes a noise like that in grade B horror movies. In real life it is quite silent.
I do think you belabor some of your images. Example: "The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs
of the multi-tentacled “twice weekly support group” " WHOA NELLIE!
I like the premise of the poem, but if you are going to do depressing meaningless suicides, you need to stop jerking the reader out of the mood with strange unrelated musical references and one-upping one (or two) too many times.
One last quibble: I didn't like the repeated reference to the daughter as "green eyes". If the color of her eyes is important, you never tell us why that is.
Also, I've never seen charcoal used for a narcotic overdose.......

Your poem is definitely not boring, and I also consider it "worthy."
Will give you a more thorough read later.
Best, Leah

[bena]

(am wondering how leah knows that cutting into flesh is silent. It is, but it's creepy she and I both know that)

[ChristopherSea]

(am wondering how leah knows that cutting into flesh is silent.  It is, but it's creepy she and I both know that)

I agree (squeamishly)! It’s only in the movies where you hear that bizarre 'sheathing sword sound' during a knifing. I diced off the tip off my finger cooking over the holidays. In addition to not hearing anything, I did not feel anything until the tidbit flicked to the cutting board and the shallots looked like they were bleeding.  

[Leah S.]

(am wondering how leah knows that cutting into flesh is silent.  It is, but it's creepy she and I both know that)

18 years as a cop. Same reason I could say I've never seen charcoal used in a narcotic overdose. Sorry about the creepy....I was aware it was, a little.

[Erthona]

Brownlie Sorry I can't drop "leathery" but I will drop abused.
_______________________________________________________________
Leah "I don't get 'Tom Burdettless'. I even Googled it, thinking I was (as usual) pop-culture-impaired, but I only got insurance agents and FB pages."

Yeah that is kind of dated. I think this was originally written in 1998. At the time there was a TV commercial on every five minutes that, that referred to. Needs to be taken out now as it is dated.

"Luby's must be particular to Austin, I had to figure out that it was a diner from the context."

I think it is maybe limited to Texas and Oklahoma. I know there are ones in Dallas and Wichita Falls. I probably should put "cafeteria" after the name to make it a little more obvious as it isn't a nationwide chain.

"I was grossed out by the depth of your (inaccurate) description of the sound of slicing into human flesh. It only makes a noise like that in grade B horror movies. In real life it is quite silent."

Sure, except this isn't in "real life" this is in the perception of someone suffering from severe amphetamine psychosis. Considering that effects one's auditory sense to an extreme degree I have no problem having the addict hear that. It is after all not uncommon for people with this condition to have auditory hallucinations.

"I do think you belabor some of your images. Example: "The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs" possibly, although that is said with a certain amount of disdain by the speaker. Certainly looking back at cult and sexual surviver self help group with no one but patients to run the group, and these people believing any weird idea that happens by I do think it is an apt description. I probably didn't handle the description as well as I needed to, but in general it is close to what I want to say.

"I like the premise of the poem, but if you are going to do depressing meaningless suicides, you need to stop jerking the reader out of the mood with strange unrelated musical references and one-upping one (or two) too many times"

There is no musical reference, and one upping someone, which in this case means telling about more dramatic abuse than the last person is quit factual.

"I like the premise of the poem, but if you are going to do depressing meaningless suicides, you need to stop jerking the reader out of the mood with strange unrelated musical references and one-upping one (or two) too many times."

I don't remember what the technical name for it is. It is activated charcoal which helps to latch onto any toxic substance in ones substance and sequester it so it does not enter one's system. It was given either as a liquid or in capsules. In the liquid form it kind of looks like liquidated Oreo cookies without the cream. How that works on something that has been injected IV I have no idea, but I have seen it used for that many times. The first time I remember seeing it was on this chic's gown, sitting up and conscious having puked out some the delicious substance, and the nurses were trying to get more in her. I don't know what else they gave her, but I do know that she was dead weight when we carried her into the hospital and there was nothing that could wake her until they did whatever they did. My last job was at the hospital for five years and it was my job to watch suicidal or homicidal patients to make sure they didn't kill themselves or someone else, and I often worked in the ER. Up til 2006 or so I'm pretty sure they were still using activated charcoal treatment when people came in with various toxic conditions. In terms o0f the person this poem is about, I had to do an intake evaluation on her at the hospital as she was being transferred into the public treatment center (detox unit) where I was working and I can say with out a doubt she had a large very black circle of tar like substance around her mouth. when I asked what it was, I was told it was charcoal.

"One last quibble: I didn't like the repeated reference to the daughter as "green eyes". If the color of her eyes is important, you never tell us why that is." The color of her eyes was important as that was her most noticeable feature, and also contrasted her aliveness with her mothers..non-aliveness.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I think I have answered your question Chris, somewhere up there. ^


Thanks for the comments folks,

Dale

---

Well I did answer all the question and then somehow lost them. I will repeat the one answer about the "sound" that everyone is harping on. This is a description of the perception of the addict. This person is suffering amphetamine psychosis (and no I do not refer to it. you have already beat me up for to many technical details so you can't have it both ways). One major effect of amphetamine psychosis is auditory hallucinations. As I have had hundreds of cases where people talk about the odd things they hear and at the time believe to be true, I have no problem with the main character hearing such things as she hears. It is quite in keeping with the condition she has. People with amphetamine psychosis often think that they have amber crystals under their skin, or sometimes worms. The reason that CNSS (central nervous system stimulant) addicts have round sores up and down their arms is from trying to get these things out with a knife or some other sharp object. BTW skin only cuts smoothly if the item you are using is sharp. So if she were cutting deep to get to the veins (arteries) with a somewhat dull knife, it would not cut smoothly. A person under the condition described could very easily "hear" what was described, it would be more strange if she did not.

Well this is rushed as I have run out of time. I will try and return to answer the rest of the questions later.

Thanks for the comments,

Dale

[Leah S.]

Brownlie Sorry I can't drop "leathery" but I will drop abused.
_______________________________________________________________
Leah "I don't get 'Tom Burdettless'. I even Googled it, thinking I was (as usual) pop-culture-impaired, but I only got insurance agents and FB pages."

Yeah that is kind of dated. I think this was originally written in 1998. At the time there was a TV commercial on every five minutes that, that referred to. Needs to be taken out now as it is dated.  

"Luby's must be particular to Austin, I had to figure out that it was a diner from the context."

I think it is maybe limited to Texas and Oklahoma. I know there are ones in Dallas and Wichita Falls. I probably should put "cafeteria" after the name to make it a little more obvious as it isn't a nationwide chain.  

"I was grossed out by the depth of your (inaccurate) description of the sound of slicing into human flesh. It only makes a noise like that in grade B horror movies. In real life it is quite silent."

Sure, except this isn't in "real life" this is in the perception of someone suffering from severe amphetamine psychosis. Considering that effects one's auditory sense to an extreme degree I have no problem having the addict hear that. It is after all not uncommon for people with this condition to have auditory hallucinations.

"I do think you belabor some of your images. Example: "The feeble pathetic torso-joined-limbs" possibly, although that is said with a certain amount of disdain by the speaker. Certainly looking back at cult and sexual surviver self help group with no one but patients to run the group, and these people believing any weird idea that happens by I do think it is an apt description. I probably didn't handle the description as well as I needed to, but in general it is close to what I want to say.
   
"I like the premise of the poem, but if you are going to do depressing meaningless suicides, you need to stop jerking the reader out of the mood with strange unrelated musical references and one-upping one (or two) too many times"

There is no musical reference, and one upping someone, which in this case means telling about more dramatic abuse than the last person is quit factual.

"I like the premise of the poem, but if you are going to do depressing meaningless suicides, you need to stop jerking the reader out of the mood with strange unrelated musical references and one-upping one (or two) too many times."

I don't remember what the technical name for it is. It is activated charcoal which helps to latch onto any toxic substance in ones substance and sequester it so it does not enter one's system. It was given either as a liquid or in capsules. In the liquid form it kind of looks like liquidated Oreo cookies without the cream. How that works on something that has been injected IV I have no idea, but I have seen it used for that many times. The first time I remember seeing it was on this chic's gown, sitting up and conscious having puked out some the delicious substance, and the nurses were trying to get more in her. I don't know what else they gave her, but I do know that she was dead weight when we carried her into the hospital and there was nothing that could wake her until they did whatever they did. My last job was at the hospital for five years and it was my job to watch suicidal or homicidal patients to make sure they didn't kill themselves or someone else, and I often worked in the ER. Up til 2006 or so I'm pretty sure they were still using activated charcoal treatment when people came in with various toxic conditions. In terms o0f the person this poem is about, I had to do an intake evaluation on her at the hospital as she was being transferred into the public treatment center (detox unit) where I was working and I can say with out a doubt she had a large very black circle of tar like substance around her mouth. when I asked what it was, I was told it was charcoal.

"One last quibble: I didn't like the repeated reference to the daughter as "green eyes". If the color of her eyes is important, you never tell us why that is." The color of her eyes was important as that was her most noticeable feature, and also contrasted her aliveness with her mothers..non-aliveness.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I think I have answered your question Chris, somewhere up there. ^  


Thanks for the comments folks,

Dale

---

Well I did answer all the question and then somehow lost them. I will repeat the one answer about the "sound" that everyone is harping on. This is a description of the perception of the addict. This person is suffering amphetamine psychosis (and no I do not refer to it. you have already beat me up for to many technical details so you can't have it both ways).  One major effect of amphetamine psychosis is auditory hallucinations. As I have had hundreds of cases where people talk about the odd things they hear and at the time believe to be true, I have no problem with the main character hearing such things as she hears. It is quite in keeping with the condition she has. People with amphetamine psychosis often think that they have amber crystals under their skin, or sometimes worms. The reason that CNSS (central nervous system stimulant) addicts have round sores up and down their arms is from trying to get these things out with a knife or some other sharp object. BTW skin only cuts smoothly if the item you are using is sharp. So if she were cutting deep to get to the veins (arteries) with a somewhat dull knife, it would not cut smoothly. A person under the condition  described could very easily "hear" what was described, it would be more strange if she did not.  

Well this is rushed as I have run out of time. I will try and return to answer the rest of the questions later.

Thanks for the comments,

Dale

Re: 'there is no musical reference' ----
"everyone knew the tune,
front to back, and back to front,
it was Mary had a Little Lamb,
sung again and again, ad nauseam.
It had not been an interesting jingle to start.
(If you plan on keeping the crowd interested
you got to have some new material
every now and again.
A raised fifth on the same tired old theme
won’t get anybody going.)"

I don't think the charcoal is all that important, sounds like it is still used a lot more commonly where you are.

Looking forward to edits.
Best, Leah

[Erthona]

Sorry, I forgot that was up there. I looked but somehow missed it. I have not gone over this poem in over two years since I posted it. Yes, looking at that I agree, not necessarily because of the musical reference (I'm not sure "Mary has a little Lamb" the original not the Stevie Ray Vaughn one is really a musical reference) it is however overdone and needs trimming. That's a good catch, thank you.

Dale

[Leah S.]

Sorry, I forgot that was up there. I looked but somehow missed it. I have not gone over this poem in over two years since I posted it.  Yes, looking at that I agree, not necessarily because of the musical reference (I'm not sure "Mary has a little Lamb" the original not the Stevie Ray Vaughn one is really a musical reference) it is however overdone and needs trimming. That's a good catch, thank you.

Dale

It was the "raised fifth" I was mostly thinking of, as that is a pretty technical musical term, and doesn't really tie in with the rest of the poem. I think you might consider just deleting it.
Best, Leah

[Erthona]

Probably. This was long enough ago that I wasn't quite old enough to have gotten over trying to drop in stuff so everyone would know how smart I was.

dale