to the pretentious asshole who probably can’t actually speak French

[ajaxthesmall]

*because i know this guy.*


to the pretentious asshole who probably can’t actually speak French

you watched me over a steady stream
of fair-trade Columbian steam.
you were reading something with a wrinkled cover
and dark, miserable pages
and you looked at me like I was the type of coffee stain
that you’d take a picture of.
you would frame it in something ineffective,
something already broken,
on the exposed brick wall of your empty loft apartment.
art, you say, is suffering.
you watched my clenched fists,
the way my nails dug into my palms,
as if there was something beautiful in it,
something only for stirring you -
as if it wasn’t consuming me whole.
you wanted to write poems to the set of my teeth
and blow the smoke of carefully purchased cigarettes
onto your bare mattress.
suffering, you say, is art.
my anger was shrink-wrapped in poetic misery,
no preparation necessary
who needs happiness when you have
the quiet rage
of a stranger for inspiration?
I am sure to look my very darkest,
my most bruised,
and I prepare myself to be hung proudly
on the side of your refrigerator.

[Todd]

Hello again, your second piece again has great concrete detail. I looked for lines to cut, and while there are some that are possible cuts, I decided they fit well. It would be a good spoken piece. My only real criticism is I don't know if anyone would feel the need to come back to it, and read it again. While it does a great job capturing mood, it feels more like a performance piece--which isn't a bad thing. My critique than is more on what's left out then on what you've done. This is harder. I think you have a nice writing voice. You don't make a lot of classic beginner mistakes--probably the work with prose you mentioned. Find a way to elevate the piece. The one I'll recommend you study to give you ideas of what I'm getting it (you may have already read it) is Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds.

I'm sorry I don't have a lot to comment on. Others may have a different take. I enjoyed it. I just want you to elevate it.

Best,

Todd

*because i know this guy.*


to the pretentious asshole who probably can’t actually speak French--Love the title, draws you in.

you watched me over a steady stream
of fair-trade Columbian steam.
you were reading something with a wrinkled cover
and dark, miserable pages
and you looked at me like I was the type of coffee stain
that you’d take a picture of.
you would frame it in something ineffective,
something already broken,
on the exposed brick wall of your empty loft apartment.
art, you say, is suffering.
you watched my clenched fists,
the way my nails dug into my palms,
as if there was something beautiful in it,
something only for stirring you -
as if it wasn’t consuming me whole.
you wanted to write poems to the set of my teeth
and blow the smoke of carefully purchased cigarettes
onto your bare mattress.
suffering, you say, is art.
my anger was shrink-wrapped in poetic misery,
no preparation necessary
who needs happiness when you have
the quiet rage
of a stranger for inspiration?
I am sure to look my very darkest,
my most bruised,
and I prepare myself to be hung proudly
on the side of your refrigerator.

[Todd]

I just reread Olds. Maybe what I'm missing is memorable imagery. You have great detail I think Olds will show what I mean better than I'm expressing here.