Golden Apples edit 2

[billy]

Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,

her ripe breasts to the oily rind,

and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.

the above could be poetry, but in general. the poem read more as a story than a poem. in general most of it could be said more succinctly and in a better voice. there are some images but again they feel too literal. i followed her through the clouds...how, can you fly? it needs to be clear more than literal. at present i think the first person narrative is hiding a lot of what could be done in respect to lifting the poem. personally i feel it needs a lot more work before being posted in serious.


The night before last winter fell, so it was [the last night of autumn? ]

I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk on my desk if you must but it feels too literal. let the reader fill in some of the poem

Golden Apples

The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk 
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead feels like filler [ i stepped outside]  isn't that a given unless you chair bound, bedridded, or legless? why not a simple [i went outside] the rest of the line adds nothing
saw death speeding low over the town, Death sped low over the [word of choice here as long as it's not sleepy] town
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. was she that close you could smell her? if so it needs to be mentioned.
death sped by then flew
over the [word] town

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son 
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window 
when a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.

A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.


Second draft:

The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale
on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage,
but saw instead death speeding low
over the town, her cloak
reeking of orange blossoms.

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town plaza,
Mrs. Miller's son had fallen
from Judy Bennett's window when
a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.

A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen!

First draft:

The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms.

Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door, 
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave.

So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.

As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.