Hiatus

[burrealist]

Hiatus


Sweet beer is a lampshade askew I thinka  little rephrasing will help this introduction. You've got the tone set, that's good. Are you referencing light from the lamp piercing the beer bottle? It's not exactly clear.
in the corner of a must-scented *Musk? I think just say "musky". Simpler. Or something strong like "piss musk in the corner." Piss and beer are both musky and beer makes you piss.
room, blue for the evening, 
with a blue stained sofa borrowed I like the change of hue in the last line, but the repetition is kind of bland. Is the blue a scent you'd like to describe, or a light you'd like to compare to the beer?
years ago from one of mom's The line-breaks can be re-worked in here. 
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years. 
I mean a poem is like a dream I'm imagining that all the beer has caused a black-out. 
in that you don't remember most of it. 
Or the moon is like the broken The usage of simile is strong here, and can be made stronger if you decide to go for the metaphor. Do you think the metaphor will smooth out the phrasing at this point? I just don't like the many words in the line.
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not Always try to expect the best of your audience. We're probably capable of following your train of thought, so try to condense this. "Christmas gift//which was delightful at first".
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever  This sounds like a repetition of the previous line. Just as well, it sounds misleading. Maybe I didn't follow your train of thought so well, but I thought you were comparing its now awful look to its delightful look when you first got it. 
with its crocked up lid and needle, Yes, I like this line. 
with its dust, only it plays This is where you explain what confused me before. I think this explanation can come earlier. Condense some of the lines, etc., and clear out some of the unneeded detail.
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable. Here you can screw with us. Just what does the wobbling or warping of the sound actually sound like? 

False plants curl in the shadow I like this line. It's full of wilting life. 
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd 
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair. Aw, is the dog stuck there? 
The typewriter I rarely touch
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight. I've written a poem about my surroundings before. That's what this reminds me of. The detail is pretty good, as well as simple, in these lines.
I've written some good poems on that machine. Eh, I can see the humility, but maybe this line is not as nastalgic as you intended for it to sound. It seems more of a self-satisfying statement. That's probably fine, but some of the audience will think, "So?"

*So I've thought about this line some more. This time around I think it sunk in. This is one of those lines... I'll like it, I'll dislike it. 

Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect I think some condensing, again, will remedy these four lines. Extraneous detail helps the drafts come together, but they are overkill for a final product.
but at least themselves. Years ago
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed. Try explaining which parts haven't changed- scratches, ink spots, writing tools lying in the dust, whatever is there. I want to know.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark— Good, tying the beginning in.
covered with scratches and cup rings. Oh hey, here's some of that detail I wanted.
This is the same house, rearranged. Rearranged, but still the same?

Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon. Don't justify with "I mean." It may be a technique I'm unfamiliar with, but personally I think you don't need to tell us that you mean anything. The poem speaks for itself as it's written.
I've got work, and also 
I think I'll lose my mind. Hmm, what for?
Just a little. In spring I'll move out. Getting older.
Leaving my parents and sister, and Saying goodbye.
most of my things, until my parents also 
move and my sister goes This reminds me of another poem I wrote (similar topic). I like that you aren't telling us she is your younger sister. She is just your sister following your footsteps. Definitely creates an atmosphere. 
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximity
will drift forever from my life
and become the stuff of dreams. I love, but hate nostalgia. Seriously.