god

[Erthona]

god
 
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic:
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
 
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament.
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god.
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.                     
 
erthona
 
©1996

[Weeded]

dale,
there are parts of this that are absolutely amazing, but it takes a while to get there, notes below,
mike

god
 
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic:
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
 
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament. These first two stanzas feel completely unneeded. Very prose-y, very boring when compared the latter stanzas. I feel as if these sort of introductory stanzas could be compacted into three or four lines.
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because This line is very truthful, its amazing how many dopeheads are well dope-heads at most everything except dope. They cant tell you who is running for president but they can describe chemical properties, tell you all about their favorite brand of syringe, etc.
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment, I get a sense of the 'in the moment' cliche being alluded to very strongly here with the repetition in lines, don't quite find it necessary however
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm. The authenticity in these lines provide a strength to this poem that is unparallelled, good to know the narrator knows what hes talking about
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god. Damn
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me. My knowledge of meter is vastly inferior so I wont even try to critique you on that, but rhythym here is... different. Not quite feelin' the end rhyme
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament. I feel like 'for' is a bit erm, forceful. Again my knowledge on meter is shit but maybe remove 'for,' or perhaps replace it with unto (the archaism may be acceptable, here.)
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god: hmm, not sure how I feel about this. It's a clever play on words, the poem is very obvious in what it's about, but the way these two lines are worded just feels a bit oversimplified.
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion. This is an awesome idea, but these lines feel a bit more like tell than show.
I watch as the sterile water snakes [b/b]Nice.[/b]
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein. This literally makes me cringe, to which I say job well done
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time. Amazing ending.        
 
erthona
 
©1996

Thanks for sharing, I really like this one,
mike

[Erthona]

Thanks Mike,

Yes as you point out needs some trimming (not sure about removing the first two stanzas though), your other points are well made. The first two stanzas are a bit of a laundry list it's true, but I think it set up the reality of the rest. I will look at doing some judicious trimming, but it was never meant to be more than what it is.  This uses a cadence rather than a meter, but that does kind of goes flat here and there as you noticed.

Thanks for the critique, will use it in the rewrite.

dale

[RiverNotch]

god
 
I hold my breathe. Breath.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon. Cotton on the spoon -- lying's superfluous.
I slowly pull back on the plunger. Need the 'on'?
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic: Why not just orgasmic? You already went there. Or rather, not describe it at all -- I get where you're going, but this is a little premature, as it should be the ecstasy itself that even mentions climax.
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it. I feel like 'I don't want to dull the point' would be sharper, but then there'd be a missing thought relative to the preceding....
I take out one of my several bandannas. Need 'several'?
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm. Second 'carefully'.
I tie it in a slip knot that First time that the device of the 'I's really shows itself -- not complaining, though.
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
 
My breaths coming faster, Why not complete the sentence - come.
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs. In or at? even I'm not sure.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple. There we go. With this in mind, orgasmic earlier feels plain unnecessary. Also, I feel a Song of Solomon reference coming up.....but damn, it doesn't.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically, I see now how adverbs weakens the piece -- everything so far feels like ritual. In fact, why not, 'I run it up and down the vein, / preparing the vessel to receive the holy sacrament'?
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament.
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment, I would follow the earlier's suit of breaking 'and' and 'at' with a comma -- rhythmically righter, I think, however broken. Also, this is where I think stuff gets going, although I did kinda enjoy the earlier anyway.
I have the better vestments of my religion. Where did the worse ones go? (seriously though, do you need 'better'?)
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder. Need 'wet'?
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and, No need for 'and', I think -- three straight sentences listed would be here a better device.
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down . Eew. And your period is spaced out weirdly.
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette. Also eew.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm. Good grief, I hope you (that is, you the speaker) don't have, say, Hepatitis at this point.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god. The one time you mess with capitalization (at 'a'). And I just realized, this whole stanza doesn't need 'have', as it dulls the rhythm.
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas. Ahem, 'Pilate'. Pilot looks too much like a mistake.
I am a willing sacrifice, Actually, Jesus was a pretty willing sacrifice, too. He just knew he needed to die in a more symbolic way than, say, throwing himself to passing legions. That is to say, the 'contrast' here is plain weird, at least to the (even faintly) initiated.
I have sacrificed everything for my god. Although, if you continue with your Jesus-comparison, a little theologically incorrect, if continued from, say, the priestly comparison, or if, say, considered unsymbolically, I think 'to my god' would be better -- or maybe cliche?
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and 'Begging for scraps' is unnecessary.
I have been the high priest. At those times, when Ah, this would be more powerful (and considering the whole pre-eternal nature of the church, more true) if the 'have been's here were 'am's. And perhaps remove 'at those times' -- feels too wordy -- and just go with 'whenever'. (heh)
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me. No need for the ellipsis.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance Beg for. And though 'penance' is a continuation, I can't help but feel that it's the wrong word, or that the blander 'to do anything' would be more correct, if, again, blander....
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament. I actually don't think the holy sacrament is necessary here; makes the whole thing a little too pushy for me. Then again, I'm following this poem way better than I normally would, I think, so....
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand. The shortest line in the poem, and it's a ridiculously selfish one -- unless this is a more moral indictment of drugs, which right now I'm not really getting, having this be so emphasized makes the whole sacrament comparison much weaker, I think. Priests themselves may be selfish, but it's a key doctrine in I think most sacramental churches (well, having read about this mostly from their p-o-v, the Catholic church surest) that the sacraments themselves stand on their own -- that they, at least post indulgences (but really, that was a renaissance-RC phenomenon) are anything but selfish, at least on administration.
They would give me their first born, if Thinking about the earlier comment now, the repeat 'I's at the start could be a hint at that moralist direction -- but eh, it's too slight, it feels too much like a rhetorical device for its own sake (which is, of course, not a bad thing). Without considering this any further, and I don't really intend to anyway, I'd say 'if / I required it' should just be one line, it sounds so awkward.
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god: The power of god, or even, though maybe a bit off of your idea, the body. Generalizing a very 'Christian' poem's focus here feels, er, blasphemous? heh, I jest -- more untrue, really, and weakeningly so.
I can command anything, and my will, will be done. 'and my will, will be done' feels awkward -- would go 'anything -- my will be done'. But really, 'the power of god' speaks enough volumes, I think.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion. Every other religion, actually, they just have better standards than yours(, speaker.) xP
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe. I don't think plastic is necessary for this line -- otherwise, these last three lines ooze.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic. Ugh, it's just so weird having lines suddenly interrupt like this. I would break this, but I also get why you didn't, so I can't really say what should be done --- other than changing the alchemical 'transmuted' into the liturgical 'transubstantiated'.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly, Comma before 'and' unnecessary, I think.
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil. Comment on blood of Christ? Also, white to yellow to red -- maybe this is more alchemical than I thought. Titillating, but I'd still go transubstantiated -- let the hidden things be hidden. And, more importantly, where's the black? (you racist, xD) Oh, and 'up' maybe unnecessary.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart. Maybe degerundify 'release'? And two pulls then a push -- either that's a comment on how you're pulling back on life and jizz with this jizz (again, unlikely), or you missed an oceanic beat -- I'd go "I pull back the plunger, / see the red blood spurt into the pale yellow oil -- /with my teeth, release / the pent-up pressure of my heart / then push the plunger down, discharge / the [something] liquid into my [something] pulse.' but of course, that doesn't seem to be your style.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment, Isn't fleeting brief?
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god. The whole time, I was assuming your god was the powder itself, or at least the powder itself was part of it -- now, with the powder in you, you come face to face with your god, instead of already having been even in part face to face with him as you held his body, as you dissolved his blood? This really feels like an anticlimax to me -- so many religiously charged lines, and then this sudden, somewhat unfounded expectation to top it, to top it with something easy. 
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then, And I would have continued that earlier tirade with a note on how I've maybe missed the point until I remembered this line. THIS IS A MUCH BETTER (though still imperfect -- melding sounds so sci-fi compared to union) LINE TO SUM THINGS UP WITH. 
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union, 
I am already anticipating the next time. I do think that if you're gonna properly follow the 'I' device in your next edit, this is at least the best place to break it -- return the lonely union with god to something universal, to something unselfish, to something not-I. Or maybe just remove the somewhat unnecessary preceding line.
 

All for now. I was titillated, but not enough -- I feel like this could have been deeper, more, er, theological and junk. Oh well -- aside from the title, which is probably what made me hope for more, this promises what it does. Title change (and possibly better emphasis on the 'I's): 'my god'? And I'm in the not-remove camp -- I do agree that it drags, but it's not a problem for the sort of set up it accomplishes.

Silly edit: And with this prose-y list-y sort of poem, I'm really seeing how the beard fits. xD

[next]

(Since this is the Serious Workshopping thread, I'm assuming that comments, if they are
sincerely attempting to describe a reader's take on a poem, are appropriate even though
they don't constitute a thorough critique. My apologies in advance if this is not the case.)

I'm impressed by the gritty imagery, it's vividness.

But to me it seems wasted on a poem devoted to drug cliches, especially the "drug as
god" metaphor. This is the kind of subject matter that beginners think up when they are
trying to impress people with how "dark" they can write.

Leaving the strong images and editing out the editorial content might make for a good
poem. Changing the title, which emphasizes the worst cliche, is a must.

[tectak]

size=large]god[/size]
 A lot going down here, Dale...but if it seemed familar on a first read it was only the cliche calling. You would need god to be active whilst you wrote this...but as someone said "If you give a goat herder in the desert LSD, he would halucinate goats." So, how much is veracity...first or second hand? If first hand I cannot argue truth, if second hand I still can't...but I can argue translation. Here goes with nits in it.
I hold my breathe. typo breath
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as No to "as". Old chestnut. Are we talking "as" as in synchronicity? No, I don't think you could use "whilst".. I think we are talking causality; in which case there is not enough information here. I know what you mean because tongue twisting and concentration are familiarly linked. It seems odd, though, to need to emphasise "...inside my mouth", as against the more  familiar "tongue out" concentration. Am I on to something here?  
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe. So apropos of above, I think you could emphasise the "concentration" and link it to specifically what the "right" amount of pressure is...or is not
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon. Slight disconnect due to technical issue. You exert pressure on the plunger not the syringe. You, of course, know that a "syringe" comprises of a plunger and a barrel. No need for "lying" in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger. If you had used plunger above, you could have simply "pulled back". More drama and less obviously an instruction manual. Pull gently back on the "plunger" (part A) until the "liquid" (part B) is visible in the "barrel" (part C). Hmmm.
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft, No. I don't like this line. It is too descriptive in an over-inflated way. The "slowly steals its way..." is fine but BANG! " up the hollow glass-filled nylon diaphthalate thin-walled extruded transparent conduit..." .
a release that is almost orgasmic: Not sure what the release is but that is my lack of knowledge. You mean just sucking the stuff up in to a syringe is nearly (why not full-on) orgasmic? There are many who would argue that nearly an orgasm is worse than no orgasm
anticipation of what is to come. ...and though, OK, anticipation may be high, that is the thing with orgasmic tendencies, I just don't get the value of anticipation against realisation.  
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it. ...what? You don't want to dull anything? You mean " ...dull the point on anything it could catch." Pedantic pratt that I am. Punctuate that to clarity  
I take out one of my several bandannas. OOOOOO! Hark at you with you several bandannas! Who's a lucky boy? Which one will you wear tonight?
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm. Hmmm. Quickly but carefully...mutually exclusive? Isn't quickly and carefully simply "expertly"? Just saying..."expertly" tells me more than you did.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth. Well, yes, but now we ARE getting very "instruction manual". I am not sure where this is heading now. God seems to be a lost metaphor. IKEA rules. OK
 
My breaths coming faster, Come seems appropriate here...there's a pun in there somewhere. Sorry. Disregard that....I mean the bit about the pun. "Come" is better for tense continuity.
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist. The I, I, I, would normally become irksome by now BUT you are in a very introspective piece of prose here; I think it works.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin. Though "...above the skin" is emotive imagery it is not best described on two levels. First, it is better to let the reader IMAGINE the vein rising, so "above" the skin is superfluous. Second, I am still in "I" mode and so feel that "my" vein and "my" skin keeps the faith. I don't know how to rewrite the line so I will not try.  
I rub my finger up and down the vein, See? Told you so. MY finger, not THE finger, but still THE vein.I admit, I am getting picky.
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple. Great line and probably the right time to third-party the vein. This is good stuff.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab. BANG! Way too technically angled. So, you picked up an alcohol swab pack and tore it open with your teeth...I get it. It was square, you say...and made of paper. That IS interesting....and it ENCLOSED an ALCOHOL (60% w/w) saturated swab made of a polyester and cotton mix. This isn't sarcasm...I feel the shifts in consistency.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament. There is very nice chilled edginess in these last couple of lines. I may have to recant on the "my vein" thing...the third party vein is growing on me as a separate entity. Intentional? We will never know
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment, Comma overspill. The duplication of "moment" is a device upon which the sentence structure pivots. You may well have chosen to comma-in vernacularity (and if that ain't a word, it should be). Fine if you so did...otherwise semicolon after "acolyte" (pregnant pensive pause) then no comma after "but", no comma after "moment". It is still a...shall we say...interesting sentence structure.
I have the time, and at the moment,
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it. Nothing to add on this stanza except for the unrelated "it" at line end.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down . Getting to be an itty-bitty god. Needs bringing back to glory.
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god. Good. Good. Good. The veracity shines. Always a winner with me.
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas. Nor a navigator
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done. Awkward. Probably unnecessary cliche. Again, the character might well say this, so I cannot say I find it a criminal cliche...but you may be required to pay a small fine to the local pedant.  
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion. ....but don't go all carte-blanche on your cliches. Leave some for others.
I watch as the sterile water snakes ...I once had a sterile water snake. Boy, were its eggs clean...
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe. No. Just no[
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic. Getting wordy...like all religious testimonials. This is not in character at all. I know that junkies are not all morons...I know some who are academics...I know some who are intuhlektuals...but I know none who are not what they are when they shoot up. Your boy seems to flicker about multiple personalities...oh damn, now you have an excuse
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.  I gotta say it...this last stanza IS the poem starting from "I take the needle and gently, slowly....". I hope that is not to discouraging....wtf, what do I know. This is, though, my best shot and I enjoyed the read. Other people's poetry should make thinking obligatory....one's own stuff not so much so.
Best,
tectak                
 
erthona
 
©1996

[/b][/b]

[Lizzie]

Dale,

I think that what you said about the meticulousness of the routine is very interesting and makes the setup work for me. The comparison to an IKEA manual made me laugh, and I can see how that could be a danger. However, I never found the first two stanzas boring; I don't need poetry to read like a Michael Bay movie to make it interesting. I think you have a more understated personality. Some unexpected comparisons in the first two stanzas might help everybody stay engaged with you without compromising the voice.

[kolemath]

This poem captures an intensity of character and ritual quite well.  I'm a bit confused on the mix of sex, religious symbolism, and god.  Not that I'm against fornicating deities, but the language seems to mix these ideas.  A few lines..

god
 
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic: as someone mentioned a bit preemptive, but what's the release? its connection to god?
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth. like i said, the language of the ritual is strong
 
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple. the nipple image doesn't fit for me; can veins be shafts if we're going for sex? 
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament.
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down . I like the reflective switch to present-perfect verbs here
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god. good connection
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when good language connections in this stanza
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance your blessing or god's?
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament. so is the drug the god or is the drug the holy sacrament?
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand. the language of religion is lost here to my reading, unless the sexual violence of circumcision can be worked in; what other god images are sexually violent? how about deuteronomy 28? yikes..
They would give me their first born, if good old testament reference
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done. comma between will and will breaks comma rules (no comma to separate subj and verb)
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic. mundane and ecstatic connect to ritual/religion how?
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then, again, the ritual work is strong, but I'd like to see more of the god/worshiper interaction; ecstatic is repeated here, and I like the idea of melding and a rolling wave as visceral sensations, but how can the moment with god match the strength of the ritual descriptions and the worshiper profile?
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time. again, can 'next time' fit the idea of god/worshiper more closely?                      
 
erthona
 
©1996

thanks for the read

[Erthona]

RN,

Great, great critique.

There are a few explanatory things. The "I" at the start of most of the lines is to signify the total self absorption and self centeredness of the addict.

There are plastic as well as glass syringes, addicts, especially speed or cocaine tend to use 100 unit insulin syringes, so I wanted to note that, so no one was thinking I was talking about the era when heroin addicts had "kits" that had glass tubes and reusable surgical steel needles. It's a small thing, but it points to the culture. Plus the visual effect is different when looking through plastic versus glass.


In terms of the "I have", it was an attempt to mimic liturgy. Sonic I agree that "I've", would work better and probably only need that once.

"transubstantiated" (sic) but I still love it.

On the correlation to Christ. This is not allegorical and so there is none. This more references those people who have not been Christ, yet who have developed stigmata. Christ did not have stigmata. The line:

"I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas."

Simply means I need no one to force me to sacrifice myself to my "god", which is this case is the drug. So in this one point I would have to disagree with you, there is no Christ connection or symbolism going on. However, if you really think there is, let me know and I will eradicate it, as that is not my intent.

Thanks especially for the "'Pilate'. Pilot" quite embarrassing that.

As I said, great, great critique and it is much appreciated. I will make many changes based on this.

dale

[Erthona]

Tom,

" So, how much is veracity...first or second hand? If first hand I cannot argue truth, if second hand I still can't...but I can argue translation."

All that is not symbolic is factually accurate.
_______________________________________________________

"I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.

The break at as was meant to create tension, could do without the comma though.
________________________________________________________

I suppose I could say
"I push the point (needle) down onto the cotton lying in the spoon. Although the "it" would seem to be obviously the syringe. Thoughts. But no I do not exert pressure on the plunger, I do exert pressure on the syringe. The cotton filters the impurities from the powder and water. To do so the needle must first be pushed down into the cotton. The cotton will obviously not work as a filter if the needle is hanging above it in the air.
__________________________________________________________

" BANG! Way too technically angled. So, you picked up an alcohol swab pack and tore it open with your teeth...I get it. It was square, you say...and made of paper. That IS interesting....and it ENCLOSED an ALCOHOL (60% w/w) saturated swab made of a polyester and cotton mix. This isn't sarcasm...I feel the shifts in consistency."

You could be right, although the hyper realism was purposeful, as this mimics the addicts state of mind. I will consider.
_________________________________________________________

"Getting wordy...like all religious testimonials. This is not in character at all. I know that junkies are not all morons...I know some who are academics...I know some who are intuhlektuals...but I know none who are not what they are when they shoot up. Your boy seems to flicker about multiple personalities...oh damn, now you have an excuse"

Actually it's called amphetamine psychosis
__________________________________________________________

There is much work that needs to be done and I will take on your other suggestions. As always I appreciate the in depth critique. Sorry it took me so long to respond.

dale

I slowly pull back on the plunger.

---

lizziep,

Thank you for your gracious comments,

dale

---

Kolemath,

" My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic: as someone mentioned a bit preemptive, but what's the release? its connection to god?"

Simply the release of the fluid from the spoon into the shaft. In a sense the potential has been actualized, but not yet used.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

"I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple. the nipple image doesn't fit for me; can veins be shafts if we're going for sex? "
_______________________________________________________________________________________

" mundane and ecstatic connect to ritual/religion how?"

Well I could write an exegesis on that, but as that is not even in the poem I think I will forbear. It says the mundane is transmuted into the ecstatic. An example of this is the last supper where wine is transmuted to the blood of Christ and bread into his body. You can substitute "holy" for ecstatic if you wish, but in the esoteric traditions it means the same thing.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
The idea was that one strokes the vein (where the injection will occur) in a similar way that a lover would stroke a nipple: to create arousal and as foreplay to sex. As both Central Nervous system stimulants and sex effect the limbic system, i.e., the pleasure center in the brain, the build up to climax follows a similar path with both.
__________________________________________________________________________________
" your blessing or god's?" Mine, as I am the one with the drug. Them getting the drug is the blessing, whereas the blessing of God might be peace of mind.

_____________________________________________________________________________________
"so is the drug the god or is the drug the holy sacrament?"

The addiction is the "god" the drug is the "sacrament". Although at times they seem almost interchangeable. It is not uncommon in native cultures to identify the plant, such as peyote as having a spirit and that spirit Mescalito as the god of the plant. So some of this draws from that tradition, not just the Abrahamic/Christian one.
_____________________________________________________________________________

"I demand. the language of religion is lost here to my reading, unless the sexual violence of circumcision can be worked in; what other god images are sexually violent? how about deuteronomy 28? yikes..
They would give me their first born, if good old testament reference"

I think that is answered with: "No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion." Although God did demand Abraham kill Isaac, not to mention the flood. Allowed his own son to be brutally killed, do I need to go on?
____________________________________________________________________________________________

" again, can 'next time' fit the idea of god/worshiper more closely?"

I think you are maybe trying to makes this allegorical, when it is really just an extended metaphor. This is not a one to one correlation. The template follows Rumi more closely than it does any particular religion.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for your time in going over this and thinking about it. You have made some very valid comments, and some suggestion I will take on board for the rewrite. Thanks for your help.

dale

[shemthepenman]

hello,
i haven't looked at this one till now. the title put me off. seriously people, titles! and 'god'? come on Dale, you can do better than that. i haven't read the other crits, nor your replies to them, so forgive me if i repeat what has been said.

i am not going to give this a line by line, despite it being in serious. it seems you have more than enough responses addressing the finer details to be going on with. so i will offer an impression from only two readings.

well, my first thought is, i have heard this before in every book ever written about intravenous drug addiction. in fact, so much so, that i actually think i could, given a copy, point out chapters from 'trainspotting' and 'junky' that are almost word for word. please don't misread this as an accusation of copying in any way shape or form. it happens. in fact, it is a bit of a compliment. i love those books. however, the descriptive parts were always the most skippable. the syringe in the spoon. the cotton in the spoon. the tourniquet around the arm. . . blah blah blah. and it always sounds so fake, anyway. it's like doing a bank robbery and then writing a poem about the traffic driving to a bank robbery. in fact, after the first two stanzas of your poem, i was certain it was going to be about insulin. like a play on the whole thing. but, by toilet water, i realised you were playing it straight. and i started to get bored of it.

that isn't to say there aren't some really beautiful ideas and images in there. but these are few and far between. personally, if i were to edit it, it would be about 5 or 6 lines long.

and the whole religious angle is awful. awful in concept and execution. it reads like a parody of a jim morrisson poem. and the whole 'god is a drug' thing is not only tired but entirely lazy for its misrepresentation of addiction.

anyway, sorry i couldn't offer more but time is against me at the moment.

[QDeathstar]

god
 
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
 My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic:
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.

so, that's how you shoot up... neat. I think this stanza could be improved if you expounded upon the metaphore cast in the title. Tie it into preparing to go to church, or preparing to go to heaven, perhaps. it needs more spiritual imagery.
 
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab, my guess is that before this line perhaps you weren't absolutely sure where the poem was hidden, but finally decided here.... all of a sudden we get some drug-God connection that was lacking in the past.
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament.
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god. you are obviously expressing here the low things you have had to do to practice your religion, but here, I don't think you are particularly effective. We don't get tied back into religion. there is little connection between the last two sentences and the first several. I would suggestion developing this idea was the persecution you you and your religion, like the Jews.
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.        [b]i think by now the reader gets that you are an addict. so these last two lines are redundant. I like the poem better ending with "we are joined in an estatic melding"         
 
erthona
 
©1996

[Erthona]

Shem,

This was originally written in 1989, I don't know when those movies came out, but this has been published prior to 1998. I am still working on it because the religious aspect, at least the ecstatic element is drawn from Sufism, but I have never been pleased that, that came across. I know a lot of songs use the metaphor that sex is a drug and although I am sure some have used the reverse, I am unaware of any. Which JM song are you talking about?

Thanks for the comments, Sorry it took so long for me to respond. I had classes to attend which really wiped me out and my IP has been less than stable for the last four days. Was out completely for two. I could have used my phone, but no...

dale

---

Thanks for your comments QD will consider them on the rewrite.

[Gardy2016]

Hi Dale. I know I don't belong in this forum just yet. But I've read this thoroughly and wanted to give critiquing a go. I have a limited skill set obviously but the poem was very interesting and I could not pass it up without comment!

"I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as    -- These first two lines hooked me. I was interested from the get go.  You have what I teach my grade two students, a super way to start. It made me want to keep reading.

I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.   So this is where the reader is let in to the story. I knew it was either about drugs or diabetes.. but drugs seemed more likely.


I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.   -- Your images her are clear. Although I think the word choice is kind of boring. Push and pull are plain verb choices. Alliteration is nice though.

I slowly pull back on the plunger.
 My breath goes out as the fluid  
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,   -- I wasn't sure about the word steal here. It again flowed because of the abundance of S sounds in the poem, but just how does the fluid steal it's way up the shaft? I would reconsider this word if it were me.


a release that is almost orgasmic:   ---- My feelings on this part have already been expressed by another critique. It is very cliché. The orgasmic euphoria and anticipation of such may be totally accurate. But it's been said before. Perhaps you are already aware of this and chose to leave like this intentionally?  Needle addiction in our world is starting to become a cliché in and of itself. It is a commonly travelled path of many unfortunate souls.

anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
 
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as  the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein.  Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament.   There is nothing new about the spiritual element of drug use. Finding ecstasy, finding god, finding oneself, it has been done and wrote about throughout all of human history. If you were going for new, you didn't get it right. 
 
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,                         

   --- I agree that things start to get interesting in these next stanzas. "fastidious acolyte" is a very unique phrasing. I liked it and had to google it. It also sounded cool in my opinion. I am curious about the repetition of the word "I" followed by a verb.. I am not critiquing this, just curious. Were you going for something by writing it in this style. Was it to create flow and rhythm? Energy? Was it to create a sense of alone that a drug addict may experience? Was it to express the egocentricity of the addict? I am very interested in knowing what you were thinking and your process so to speak.

I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
 
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.                                    

 -- I really liked this section. Great images of a much uglier past.

I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god.

--In this section you made the religious metaphor work for you I think. This was fresh IMHO.
 
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.   I really liked your word choices here.

I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull,      --- I really loved this section. You captured the high in such a new way. Good stuff!
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.    

---- You have some great word choices in here. Excellent imagery and the metaphor seems less cliché as the poem goes on and we really understand the mind of the speaker.                 
 
erthona "
  

So Dale, I hope that my critique was ok. I really liked reading this poem. It was a million times better than anything I can write. I think it was a helpful excersise for myself to go through it and critique it. I won't be offended if my ideas and critiques are shot down. lol I hope that this was more in line with what is expected in this poetry forum than my previous comments.1996

[Erthona]

Thanks QD, I know I wrote a response to you earlier, but I guess I forgot to hit the post button, it was a more in depth response, but I do appreciate the comments. Will take them under advisement for next edit.

dale

---

Gardy,

No, I thought you did a very good critique (especially for wading off into the deep waters of serious). Keep up the good work. I appreciated your time and effort and you had some insightful things to say. Glad to have you on the site.

dale

[shemthepenman]

Shem,

This was originally written in 1989, I don't know when those movies came out, but this has been published prior to 1998. I am still working on it because the religious aspect, at least the ecstatic element is drawn from Sufism, but I have never been pleased that, that came across. I know a lot of songs use the metaphor that sex is a drug and although I am sure some have used the reverse, I am unaware of any. Which JM song are you talking about?

Thanks for the comments, Sorry it took so long for me to respond. I had classes to attend which really wiped me out and my IP has been less than stable for the last four days. Was out completely for two. I could have used my phone, but no...  

dale

---

Thanks for your comments QD will consider them on the rewrite.

No worries. I have been busy. On my phone at the moment. So excuse typos and brevity. I wasn't talking about the films but books. I think junky came out in the 50s and trains potting in the early 90s. Regardless, I get what you're saying, and I genuinely wasn't suggesting any coal play. The fact is both those books read similar at points of description. It's just how many ways can one describe a very specific process. Probably a lot. I just didn't think yours was particularly different from the standard. But God, this all sounds trivial, now. Again, the Morrison thing wasn't about his songs but rather his poetry, which I happen to really like [i think I'm the only one though], and I meant it in a general way. It's a bummer trying to read you poem on my phone, so I cannot quite remember the specifics of why I made the Morrison comparison. Just a note, Morrison poetry sometimes reads like a parody of itself, anyway. So I am not sure how that fits in: anyway, I love give it another read when I reach a proper computer. This fine business is ridiculous. Hare Krishna.