poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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Welcome to Poetry Critical, an online poetry workshop. To post your own poetry you'll need to create a user id by typing a name and password in the box above and hitting 'New User'. If you just want to critique or jump into the discussion, however, you can go ahead and get started!

Random Poem:

I'm not going tell you how I feel I'm going to show you [prose]

Mum's dead. Run over by a bus, in the 70's, in Bedford, England, and my life will become an immediate work of fiction. But do not for one moment think that I will be the one telling the story.
As such I'm not called Betty Grable.
The bird hoppity hops on little legs that resemble the small wooden batons in a game of pick-up-stix. You have to release them exactly so, for the future to be revealed.
"Fuck off wanker what's it got do do with you if I listen to the Dead Kennedys?"
Uh. Strike that. It was just a verbal slip-up. I meant to say. "Om many padme hum. Good morning honey, did you have a nice restful sleep?
Look at that bird, doesn't it remind you of the impermanence of phenomenons?"
I swear he has a deeper voice than Brian Blessed.
Anyway, as there are only women reading this, I feel I can reveal something a little more personal than usual. In the morning my love gets up and says this kind of thing.
"Where the fuck did I put God again?"
And so, I have to look through every drawer. If I don't, it's pretty much a given that he will fall back into mescaline, Dostoevsky or hallucinogens.
I imagine that the tire marks left on Mother's body must represent some sort of unique signature, and that each body part would have been more valuable than the next when sold at Sotheby's. I wasn't famous yet, nor did I ever become famous. I died at the same time she did. At the exact same time.
But he's within you my darling. He's in every just gesture and in every utterance of hope you pronounce. Did you know that every time you pray the earth rises by one millimetre? It may not seem like much, but it's more than enough to save Venice from sinking. I'll look anyway, just to make you happy."
Drawer 1:
The tune 'you sexy thing' by Hot Chocolate escapes. I can't quite recall the lyrics. My cousin and I used to sing it acapella when he came over Sundays to get bored together. I was thirteen and he was twelve and a half, and I used to think that by singing that song  his dead straight centre parting would somehow come unglued. I was obsessed with his centre parting. I hoped that it would explode and that all the straight and sharp lines from the explosion would somehow pierce my family and curse it for the next seven generations
"Ah hah haah hahaaah. You gotta see this" said the girl to her cousin "Lets cut the cat into four parts and save the largest part for my Mum. She'll love it, ah hah haah hahaaah"
Damn. The man in my life has managed to procure himself a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. When you're an addict it's virtually impossible to stop yourself.
And God in all that?
Drawer 2:
My soul, colourful and not without a certain kind of nobility, and solid too. For example, you can be sure that if in a certain Vietnamese restaurant in London the waiter has not placed a bottle of soy sauce on the table that I will revolt. I am a seasoned warrior of sauce. I unfold my serviette like I would unfold a human rights manifesto.
The bird is the wisest amongst us. He hoppity hops on his pick-up-stix legs and delivers his message to the world.
All you need is love, he cries out in agony; the sound of a violin on the image of a Vietnamese girl running on fire.
- Honey?
       - What?
Only your belly, with it's cosmic premonition of space can understand contemporary history.
- Have you ever heard speak of May-Lin?
       - What's that. a new kind of deodorant for arses who feel good in their skin?
Sleep well. You. The million and half dead in Vietnam. Everyone has forgotten you. Every one is getting bored to the sound of bombs in Iraq which kill you lots, more than once, and some still twitch.
Where is God?
We're sat by the gutter, my cousin and I. We could fall in at any moment, we're dangerous. A real menace to the established order of things.
We ask each other, him and I, what a girl's sex tastes like.
And every time I asked the question God was there. I felt him in my belly. I saw him. I met him because he came and sat down next to us. He was a boy, around our age, who didn't bother with the usual polite exchanges of inconsequence.  He fucked with us, but we did manage to explain in due course, that this was no way to create a world. It wasn't even worth trying.
He was very patient.
Drawer 3:
Some inside-out bandages, a couple of eye-wash cups turned upside-down like small seashells. Every grain of sand is a prayer. Every prayer is a beach. Uh. Fuck that. Well, you know what I mean.
Yes. I did see God again. Just one more time. He was walking along the pavement, wearing a funny sort of hat. He caught a red number seven bus to the train station. There was only a one in a million chance that I would ever see him again.
Lily always knew the word for laughter. Some said she wasn't my real Mother, but that she was my Aunt Trinny. But she smelt a lot better than Trinny, so she must have been my Mum. Irrefutable, even after having been run over. I'm sure she didn't feel the tires.
Mother superior jumps the gun
Much later.
My love was on top of me and it seemed to me that he was wondering what the fuck he was doing there. He was telling me, that at that present time he was hesitating between Shamanism and Shinoism. It was at that point that I began to soften and relax. Well maybe it had more to do with the voice of Paul McCartney, I would have preferred Lennon's. It was sharper, more acidic. Tighter.
Nothing is real
Yes, Judge, it was at that precise moment when I began to squeeze too hard. Just a little more each week, so he wouldn't notice.
It happened in the same week that I took my bus driver's license. I wanted to run over my mother to avoid all the consequences and inconveniences of existence.

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