07-15-2015, 04:56 AM
Hello fluorescent-
Hmmmm??...
citrus scents the wet air; good start
water drifts down the small of my back, does water really drift? doesn't work for me
glides across the curve of my thigh. can't have it both ways with the water, which has gone from drifting to gliding. Does water really glide? Things glide on it
nothing will remove the blood OK, you got my attention back
running down my calf
like a train headed for the sun,very odd metaphor comparing blood to a train, especially one headed for the sun
searching for a
breath of immortality. If I read this stanza as one sentence, I understand it as blood searching for a breath, and that metaphor crashes my train of thought. The blood transforms from a train to a breath? Really?
you're dirty, sick.
...an anomaly.
i touch my breasts,
coldly.
that's right.
a... fucking monster. the f-bomb may seem like a big punch for an ending, but it strikes me as more of a cop-out. F***ing is so f***ing over-used these f***ing days that it has lost all its f***ing power.
While you start the poem with a concise image, you seem determined to drive it toward obscurity. You wind up as a monster without really showing me how you got there.
Your poem reminds me of one by Lucille Clifton, "Wishes for Sons": QUOTE" i wish them one week early, and wearing a white skirt." END QUOTE
No f-bomb needed. Simple language works.
Good luck with this one,
... Mark
Hmmmm??...
citrus scents the wet air; good start
water drifts down the small of my back, does water really drift? doesn't work for me
glides across the curve of my thigh. can't have it both ways with the water, which has gone from drifting to gliding. Does water really glide? Things glide on it
nothing will remove the blood OK, you got my attention back
running down my calf
like a train headed for the sun,very odd metaphor comparing blood to a train, especially one headed for the sun
searching for a
breath of immortality. If I read this stanza as one sentence, I understand it as blood searching for a breath, and that metaphor crashes my train of thought. The blood transforms from a train to a breath? Really?
you're dirty, sick.
...an anomaly.
i touch my breasts,
coldly.
that's right.
a... fucking monster. the f-bomb may seem like a big punch for an ending, but it strikes me as more of a cop-out. F***ing is so f***ing over-used these f***ing days that it has lost all its f***ing power.
While you start the poem with a concise image, you seem determined to drive it toward obscurity. You wind up as a monster without really showing me how you got there.
Your poem reminds me of one by Lucille Clifton, "Wishes for Sons": QUOTE" i wish them one week early, and wearing a white skirt." END QUOTE
No f-bomb needed. Simple language works.
Good luck with this one,
... Mark