The Gymnasium

[wildsweetone]

see my thoughts in blue

I didn't understand what you were suggesting in this line:

hands pinned, pistons flaring in fevered(Hands, do pistons flare?)my bad, sorry. Hands is to correct the 'h' into 'H'.

But yes, pistons can flare if flare (or flaring) can imply sudden movement.
ah, i didn't know that. thanks for telling me

I was also wondering, is this terminology obscure (or unheard of) outside of the US?:

I sound a melody and she howls,(she is an animal now, not an instrument?)

I have heard many references to various instruments wailing, screaming, etc., but it might just be in my little corner of Earth, I have very little global consciousness, sadly.
you're not the only one. i was merely thinking of it as a mixture in metaphors and i wasn't sure it fit smoothly. maybe someone else has an idea

and I strike a chord like a rock star,(replace 'strike a chord' - what else does a rock star do? think of microphone, drums, sing, dance, act, etc)
reunion tour style.

I know this is a cliché, as I posted when I posted this poem, I have tried literally dozens of alternatives but none make sense with what I am trying to achieve. She tells me to hit her, I was trying to find a way to tie it into the music theme, "striking a chord" sounded a bit better than "so I punched her in the face" However, I hate using a cliché in this line, it is my favorite portion of the poem except for that. I am really looking for other people's ideas of what if anything could replace that, I don't think singing or dancing really inspire the same violence ("So I waltzed on her head"?) but none of my ideas are doing the trick.
hmm, either working more laterally with ideas as i suggested or how about working on 'hit'... can a rock star take a hit, or give a hit of something?

Do you have any more cropping suggestions ws1? It would be highly appreciated; I agree that it needs to read brutally, to the point with little or no excess.

do you have any edits on what you've posted, first? i'm fairly good at cropping but need a clean slate to work with and i think i messied this one up. lol

 

[darkerdreamer]

hmm, either working more laterally with ideas as i suggested or how about working on 'hit'... can a rock star take a hit, or give a hit of something?

do you have any edits on what you've posted, first? i'm fairly good at cropping but need a clean slate to work with and i think i messied this one up. lol

Oops, yeah, that should have been my first move.

This is 1.12, not 1.2 until I fix the end, the "take a hit, give a hit" idea completely opened new venues though, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Brutal

in a symphony of sweat-soaked sheets
she tells me,

"fuck me hard."
brutal, yet
I oblige.

in a mechanical motion
pumping and gyrating until obsolete,
she needs the pain to feel alive.
she shifts into a gear called reality,
crying and writhing.

I feel like the conductor of an orchestra
when she lets me play her.
I raise my baton and she sings,
sunday's finest church choir.

honestly, I hope the neighbor
keeps pounding on the wall,
that bass line is incredible.

she rips at my hair, tears at my skin
grasping for something beyond
this.
my knotted shoulders can't even
feel it anymore.
hands pinned,
pistons flaring in fevered frenzy,
her eyes are wild for the kill.

predator,
fucking brutal.

"hit me,"
and I strike a chord like a rock star,
reunion tour style.

------

Still to do for next version: the last lines which I am fiddling with two promising variations currently. Re-evaluate my re-evaluated punctuation. Also, the more I read "pumping and gyrating" the more I hate it... really hate it. I might need a new word for baton, it sounds to me like I'm making a dick joke.

------

Okay folks, rip and devour the new(er) version if you please. Or if you don't. Just Nike It.

 

[wildsweetone]

Oops, yeah, that should have been my first move.

This is 1.12, not 1.2 until I fix the end, the "take a hit, give a hit" idea completely opened new venues though, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Brutal

in a symphony of sweat-soaked sheets
she tells me,

"fuck me hard."
brutal, yet
I oblige.

in a mechanical motion
pumping and gyrating until obsolete,
she needs the pain to feel alive.
she shifts into a gear called reality,
crying and writhing.

I feel like the conductor of an orchestra
when she lets me play her.
I raise my baton and she sings,
sunday's finest church choir.

honestly, I hope the neighbor
keeps pounding on the wall,
that bass line is incredible.

she rips at my hair, tears at my skin
grasping for something beyond
this.
my knotted shoulders can't even
feel it anymore.
hands pinned,
pistons flaring in fevered frenzy,
her eyes are wild for the kill.

predator,
fucking brutal.

"hit me,"
and I strike a chord like a rock star,
reunion tour style.

------

Still to do for next version: the last lines which I am fiddling with two promising variations currently. Re-evaluate my re-evaluated punctuation. Also, the more I read "pumping and gyrating" the more I hate it... really hate it. I might need a new word for baton, it sounds to me like I'm making a dick joke.

------

Okay folks, rip and devour the new(er) version if you please. Or if you don't. Just Nike It.

is 'brutal' in line 4 referring to something 'she' says or something the lyrical subject is thinking?

sorry i just need to clear that one up in my head first.

 

[darkerdreamer]

is 'brutal' in line 4 referring to something 'she' says or something the lyrical subject is thinking?

sorry i just need to clear that one up in my head first.

The brutal is intended to be internal monologue. I added "request" to try to emphasize that. I liked it better as just "brutal", but it seems even more vague like that.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Schottky Diode (You Are My Electric)

.....

 

[Tathagata]

Front-ended voltage
that leads to high efficiency
output

marked by
more “ohm!”’s
than one might find

in a normal circuit
of the same ampere. Warning,
though slight:

high thermal instability
may cause
reverse leakage current.

Nothing, you say,
that can’t be corrected
by a warm shower
afterwards.


*for an honest friend. Thank you.

when we slow dance
that static cling
there a Tesla coil
in our groins
i get a charge out of you and later
I'll commit
battery
and you writhe under
the charge
of the light brigade

 

[annaswirls]

remind me why we glide
down the blah blah loverly landscape
every scene has a moon
usually wheat or some such grain
bent in soft metaphor with
mourning dove precision
and the path leads to death
or love
or a search for meaning
rarely cotton shark with felt teeth overbite
broken styrofoam snow
or g-spot instruction

he says
"it is a good idea to press down on her pubic bone"
god the "how to" guide was right
I want to pee so bad!
your shirt from the floor
tucked under hips because I swear
I swear I am going to pee the bed and
don't be afraid
don't be afraid
just let it happen
just let it happen
piss if you have to on this floral landscape
always with autum leaves or butterflies
or some such thing
beautiful, bird song, street light
clean pressed lines
for sleep

 

[clutching_calliope]

Winterisms

.....

 

[clutching_calliope]

11th Hour Miracle Writers

.....

 

[darkerdreamer]

With a little more than three days left
a red sea parting has taken place
in my inbox

just when I thought all the waters
were quelled. I didn’t ask

for any miracles today
but some lesbian love song
caught my eye
and now I’m re-evaluating

everything that has gone before.

(Oh why couldn’t you have thought
to have called
14 days and 40 curses ago?)
Tick tock.

I stumbled over the line in my inbox both times I read this.

Also, is this line break necessary:

and now I'm re-evaluating

everything that has gone before.

The only things I saw, my humble two bits. I quite enjoy this piece.

 

[darkerdreamer]

Brutal 1.2

Finally figured out that last line cliche.

Brutal

in a symphony of sweat-soaked sheets
she tells me,

"fuck me hard."
brutal, yet
I oblige.

I feel like the conductor of an orchestra
when she lets me play her.
I raise my baton and she sings,
sunday's finest church choir.

honestly, I hope the neighbor
keeps pounding on the wall,
that bass line is incredible.

she rips at my hair, tears at my skin
grasping for something beyond this.
my concrete shoulders don't even
notice it anymore.
hands pinned,
pistons flaring with fevered frenzy,
her eyes are wild for the kill.

predator,
fucking brutal.

"hit me,"
and I drop her like
the last Microdot on earth.

------

Removed a whole stanza, changed some adjectives, and those last two line changes. Comments? I still am not happy with it.

 

[LasciviousSanity]

She's A Stevie Nicks Song

My latest effort. I posted it to my blog but thought I'd share it here to get some critiques:


She's A Stevie Nicks Song


She’s a Stevie Nicks song.
A witchy groan.
A Tori Amos wail
of feminine mystique.
She’s the pulsating bass driven throb
of a Bjork melody.

And he said…

“Baby I’d die for you”
Like Prince
After late evening showers
that reflect a purple glow
off slick pavements
from neon signs.

And she said…

“Baby I will cry for you”
Like KC hiding tears
behind dark shades of pride.

She’s a Stevie Nicks song.
A landslide of imperfection
Awaiting the return
of her numinous soul.

©MLB (LasciviousSanity)

 

[clutching_calliope]

Derrida-da-ism

.....

 

[Tzara]

This, the movement of things falling apart,
the shaking and quaking
as teacups on a metal counter
and the bolts of those
lost loosely.

This is the sound of deconstruction.

It leads not to a reconstitution
of what lies on the tile broken
but

to no broom, no dustpan, no quick steps
and cursing breathes. This is where art
comes to die, unchewed. Make

no mosaic or erection
to the apathetic purposeless of profundity.
It’s garbage
with nothing to say
in no particular order.

Lacan au Go-Go

I am as unconscious as language. I am
mere mirror of the body, which is always love,

and I am other and am Other. Sometimes
I'm but a Little Object. Symbolically real

only to poor Imagination. Still, I am French
and, so, trendy. Dance, mes petits, dance—

my work keeps a steady beat. And there are
always those flights of méconnaissance

on which we can survey my faults. You are safe
with me. You are, you know, home. On my turf.



You win, of course, Ms. Derridadaist. Excellent poem.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Descartes, Before the Horse

.....

 

[Tzara]

Descartes, Before the Horse

Oh, God, I'm sorry! I was laughing so hard at that title, I spit up all over your poem.

Here, let me just wipe that up. Sorry. Sorry.

 

[Tzara]

.....

 

[loserstyx]

I like this poem, But I know it can be so much better, I usually write and get it all out in my head so I am hesitant to change anything about my poetry, but I recognize that with some help I could make the images in this poem come to life with more striking beauty, the beauty that I see when I think about the picture that I want to make. So please feel free to completely rip it apart, basically rip my poem a new one because I want it to be as close to perfection that I can get it.
----------------------------------------------------
The Portrait of My Broken Soul

A picture in my head longs for print
A sun wheel represented in the upper right corner
A blue oval dominates the center background

comprised of lyrics from the songs that remind me of you​

An angel is the masterpiece

Her back turned
Her wings outstretched across the page
Her right arm upraised
seeking the sun​

A dress of gold adorns her figure

hanging below her feet​

A braid of silken strawberry-blonde

flows down to the small of her back​

Another angel dominates the bottom left corner

His face upturned
His wings crumpled
His right arm upraised
seeking Her​

He falls...

His right wing white
His left wing black​

They could not support him

As She rises
Into the Son
He falls
Into Pandemonium​

Alas, these poor hands are not adept
And this Portrait will never adorn Her mantle
---------------------------------------------------
Specifically Imagery, I want the people reading it to have a definite image in their mind of the picture that I am trying to make.

Oh and if anyone knows how to indent lines without it spacing the indented lines out, that would be a huge help as well, then I could make this poem look like I want it to as well.

Thanks in advance to any who are willing to help me with this!

 

[champagne1982]

Hi loserstyx. Here are a couple of my thoughts on your poem.
____________________

The Portrait of My Broken Soul

A picture in my head longs for print
A sun wheel represented in the upper right corner
A blue oval dominates the center background
........comprised of lyrics from the songs that remind me of you
An angel is the masterpiece
........Her back turned
........Her wings outstretched across the page
........Her right arm upraised
........seeking the sun
A dress of gold adorns her figure
........hanging below her feet
A braid of silken strawberry-blonde
........flows down to the small of her back
Another angel dominates the bottom left corner
........His face upturned
........His wings crumpled
........His right arm upraised
........seeking Her
He falls...
........His right wing white
........His left wing black
They could not support him
........As She rises
........Into the Son
........He falls
........Into Pandemonium

Alas, these poor hands are not adept
And this Portrait will never adorn Her mantle
____________________

First let me suggest the format change I've incorporated. Use the white dots instead of the indent feature since the vB tools automatically insert a paragraph break after reading an indent. If you want to submit it into the archives for publication on Literotica, if you write it in MSWord, you can upload the doc file directly (Do not type in the text block of the submissions form if you do.) or you can choose to format your poem using HTML tags, I don't know enough about that to help, but there are tutorials all over the web on how.

As far as imagery inside your poem, I don't really see my own vision, but instead, I'm trapped in what you keep telling us to see. If you are going to direct your audience in this, you should try to wrap your impressions up inside symbology that makes us visualize rather than telling us. A classic show don't tell lesson.

In the first three lines you inform us that you are going to describe a vision. This turns me off right away. If you want to do that, why not paint a picture rather than write a poem? Thereafter you give me a paint by number list of instructions that totally disallows my interpretation of beauty and again, shepherds me into your outline. When I read this, I am forced to imagine a neon on velvet painting and not the glorious beauty of your angel.

Can you imagine how to give us the impression of the two angels without blatantly directing us in how we're to interpret your words? Maybe, try using biblical names for these angels. How about Michael and Lucifer or I'm sure there are more feminine names, the angels of the bible are all male, but in other literature you may find a female.

To aid us in the hemline of her gown, (L11) you don't need to tell us that it hangs below her feet if you include the trained length in your description. For instance:
......A golden gown adorns this glory,
......she hovers, draped in veil and train
......and a braid of silken flame.
......He strives below her heart

I hope that helps clarify what I mean by showing us rather than telling us. It's a concept worth mastering and when you actually paint us a vision, it will all seem so obvious in the end.

Thanks for letting me have a go at your poem.

 

[Tzara]

Neil Tunes His Amp

none too carefully, though. That raw
sound is his sound, that grit
on chords, that dirt. It's his dirt
and it should, by God, scrabble in the dust.

You don't "tune" an amp, anyway.
You tune an instrument—a guitar or horn
or even kettledrum. Watch
the poor percussionist who tunes

his copper coffee cup, sheathed
in thin stretched skin, mid-performance,
and try to hear his delicate pedal. Tap tap tap.
His is just a drum.

But on an amp, I crank the volume,
set the thunderclaws to high—treble, gain
and boost—so as to wipe the mind.
I am not psychologist,

I'm just a kid who wants to blow away,
oh, dust with sound, with lots of sound.
Hey. Did I say I once could play
bad covers of the Stones?

 

[champagne1982]

Neil Tunes His Amp

none too carefully, though. That raw
sound is his sound, that grit
on chords, that dirt. It's his dirt
and it should, by God, scrabble in the dust.

You don't "tune" an amp, anyway.
You tune an instrument—a guitar or horn
or even kettledrum. Watch
the poor percussionist who tunes

his copper coffee cup, sheathed
in thin stretched skin, mid-performance,
and try to hear his delicate pedal. Tap tap tap.
His is just a drum.

But on an amp, I crank the volume,
set the thunderclaws to high—treble, gain
and boost—so as to wipe the mind.
I am not psychologist,

I'm just a kid who wants to blow away,
oh, dust with sound, with lots of sound.
Hey. Did I say I once could play
bad covers of the Stones?

Good morning... I can't sleep, so I'm looking at poetry. Why aren't I fucking... or something? Anyway, I'm not sure I appreciate the way Neil becomes I in the middle of the poem. If you choose to change it, get rid of the possessive in the first strophe, it still sounds good if you don't tell us whose dirt it is, specifically. I like my dirt to belong to everyone, God too.

It's a catchy poem, very audible to my imagination. You'll have to send me an MP3 of a bad cover, though, since I don't think the Stones do good covers of their own songs. Must be why they do it live.

 

[Tzara]

Good morning... I can't sleep, so I'm looking at poetry. Why aren't I fucking... or something? Anyway, I'm not sure I appreciate the way Neil becomes I in the middle of the poem. If you choose to change it, get rid of the possessive in the first strophe, it still sounds good if you don't tell us whose dirt it is, specifically. I like my dirt to belong to everyone, God too.

It's a catchy poem, very audible to my imagination. You'll have to send me an MP3 of a bad cover, though, since I don't think the Stones do good covers of their own songs. Must be why they do it live.

Oop! Over-identifyin' with me avatar, I think. What us psychology majors call transference.

Thanks for pointing out my, um, lack o' editing, m'dear.

 

[Tzara]

Rock Star

God. You're sixty. God bless
your zonked-out self. Oh,

Iggy, please launch
your ripped junkie's body

—bug-eyed, hyperkinetic—
launch your motherfucking body

horizontal. Launch yourself
into lust for life, into

some unmild retirement, into
that energetic anger that befits us,

your stolid, safe confrères.
No, I don't do heroin,

I don't not ever even caffeinated tea.
But, hell, my mortgage is paid off,

my kids are of age, and I say
launch your body for me, James

Newell Osterberg. Launch it.
Launch it, in substitute for me.

 

[ShyErraticTable]

Writer's Block

I can't write upon your hands or on your neck or on your eyes.
I can't write upon your calves or on your lovely inner thighs.

I can't write on your thick hair or on your gentle curve of spine.
I can't write around your lips and how they look and taste divine.

Nor can I write upon your breasts nor especially your mons,
because all of these together are an already perfect poem.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Queue

.....