name:confussion
one for seven and six for three, there is no heaven and nothings free.
black twist with a jello shooter, satanic mist with a fat hooter.
beautiful, horrific and the moon, six feet under and half past noon.
scar tissue with an open wound, diluated eyes with a swallon woumb.
snap, crackle, and a pop, should of took my heart back on the spot.
crackled laugh with a slit throat, blood red river with a cold dead grip.
[lame French accent]
The poem so nice, he posted it thrice!
[/lame French accent]
Dammit, now that I think of it that line’s much funnier in a lame Italian accent.
This poem sucks so much it made me screw up my shitty joke, that’s how much this poem sucks.
Don’t worry though, I wrote some pretty wretched ones myself, when I was in High School.
My English teacher (who I was trying to impress because she was unbelievably hot) praied them, but in retrospect I’m pretty sure she was just humoring me.
That poem is awful in many, many ways. This includes the content, the spelling and grammar and the fact that it’s posted in the wrong forum.
Haj
I like it, 2leftshoes. (Of course, I would, as a friend pointed out to me last night that I fixate on poems that touch on death.) Reminds me a bit of Tom Waits.
You might want to fix up the spelling mistakes, and maybe lay it out on the page differently. Something like this, perhaps:
confusion
one for seven and six for three,
there is no heaven and nothing’s free.
black twist with a jello shooter,
satanic mist with a fat hooter.
beautiful, horrific and the moon,
six feet under and half past noon.
scar tissue with an open wound,
dilated eyes with a swollen womb.
snap, crackle, and a pop,
should’ve took my heart back on the spot.
crackled laugh with a slit throat,
blood red river with a cold dead grip.
one for seven and six for three,
there is no heaven and nothing’s free.
blood red river with a cold dead grip.
blood red river with a cold dead grip.
It has a driving, insistent rhythm. The images are stark and disturbing. I like the juxtaposition of “beautiful, horrific”. And the way you discard the rhyme scheme and change up the rhythm slightly in “crackled laugh with a slit throat, / blood red river with a cold dead grip” works quite well, I think, to counter the auditory expectations of the reader.
I hope you aren’t insulted by the changes I suggested. I think bringing the first two lines back near the end of this piece gives it a touch more symmetry, and that repeating the last line keeps it echoing in the reader’s head (it does in mine, at least).
I’m glad you posted this. I hope you keep writing.
May I suggest the Poetry Free For All site for some honest appraisal of your poetry by a lot of very experienced poets.
I’m going to put some, umm, constructive criticism in spoiler tags so you don’t have to read it and perhaps get offended. I can be quite (read: excruciatingly) harsh at times.
Now let me rip your poem to shreds, in the nicest possible way, of course. (Please don’t be offended, it’s great that there are more poets out there, and there are no set rules to poetry that must be obeyed.)
I have no firm idea what this poem is about. There’s no imagery in the poem that truly explains what is going on. The only thing that does is the title, “Confussion”[sic], and that describes this poem very well. It is just a confusing hodgepodge of imagery that doesn’t really mean anything. It sounds like what stoned and tripping beatnicks of the 50s would have come up with just before passing out in a drugged up haze.
I take it that English isn’t your primary language? Or perhaps you’re still in grade school and haven’t learnt grammar and spelling yet?
Well, perhaps we’ll be able to get something more from it if we analyze line by line…
What is that about? Cricket scores? Sale prices at the local kwikimart? Just random gibberish.
First part of this line means nothing, but the second at least has a consistent theme with the previous line (satanic/heaven) so maybe it’s about something religious? No clue so far as to what.
More gibberish and a death reference. Maybe the poem’s about death?
Huh?
:dubious:
Well, if it’s about some insane killer standing over a pregnant woman’s body mumbling to himself in a mental cloud, then perhaps, maybe, possibly, it could almost be salvaged.
The meter of the poem goes…
8 9, 8 9, 9 8, 8 9, 6 9, 7 9.
Hmm… it’s not very consistant and it speeds up near the end, when you’d expect a death poem to slow down.
It’s not all bad though, this line
is very good. It conjures up a vivid image of vulnerable flesh and fragile life. I’m not sure what you mean by “diluated” though. Either diluted (wet, crying) or dilated (large pupils- unconscious or on drugs) would do well there.