The child holds the dream in her hands
The thousand-year old bike
Passes the gutter
Uttering my frog-like name
I look at your pictures so I can pretend you're still smiling at me

Civil war, huh
Time for blackouts

Sunshine
(from Songs in Ziklag: 1888)

Bathed in balmy odours
Sitting upon flow’rs,
By the rippling waters,
Thus we pass the hours.
In the trees above us
Gaily sing the birds,
Making pleasant music
To our whisper’d words.
Yonder in the open
Pours the sunshine down
On the stooping reapers,
And the harvest brown.
In the stream the fisher
Lightly drops his cast.
All around is happy;
Would that it might last!

Allen Upward (1863-1926)

>>23551340
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone's in the midst of all.

>>23551545
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone's in the midst of all.
Easter, 1916 by Yeats

>>23551548
you can delete the other post
>>23551340
that calls to mind a Russian naturalist painting, I like it
thanks, Frater

You're a cretin in chitin;
A carapaced cock;
A wretched roach;
You are like an old television set;
You're a black bee buzzing around brown flowers;
You have six legs;
You're a very bitter critter;
I can see your skeleton;
You're a snake without scales (in other words a worm);
Your wings are transparent;
You, a pestilent proboscis poker

You're evacuated bile;
You're a 'piss' bubble;
You're a caca-daemon;
You're a diaper changeling;
You are poop con Nim;
You're the god of last year's harvest;
You're poetry in bowel-motion;
You're brown flowers;

inb4 juvenile insults aren't poetry

File: fragment - orbital decay.png (240 KB, 1402x1694)

240 KB PNG

>>23551790
I think insults can be poetry but you start off strong and then overdo it with inferior insults
let it rest for a while and come back to it, I guarantee you'll see what needs to be cut/changed
>>23551611
this is me
I made a post a couple of days ago asking whether it's a good idea to try and build an audience on social media instead of going the traditional route
I know posting my work here may not be the best idea, but I need feedback and I figure it's safe enough to upload one of my fragments

>>23551880
yo what the fuck? what are you doing here?

Catch-up

We had a catch-up
My friend and me
After years apart

We downed some beers whisky and wine
We talked about the old wild times

Now grown apart our paths diverging
A new life for each emerging
It was fun I wish you well my friend
Now is now and then was then

Oh, I wish that I could write,
Something beautiful,
To describe the colours of a rose,
In verse as colourful.

Let me scrawl musically,
Of pain or love, alone,
To paint words that move reciters,
To worlds hitherto unknown.

Please, let me make my mark,
Beauty, I will extol,
I'll dedicate my silence,
To touch a single soul.

>>23551880
Imo, the thing with that is, yes it’s true the only way you’ll gain any readers and clout is social media, but you don’t do that by making your poetry the focus, but instead, you accumulate general clout and then make your writing adjacent to consuming you as an identity, you have to think of consuming your material as a sort of social currency, what is the manner and so forth that people perceive by consuming you. Which is a cynical view but that’s what everyone from BAP to shad has done. The question of accumulating popular readership is largely not about skill or quality but rather these social questions, while I’ve no intent to ever gain any sort of readership, I’ve been in groups where they starve for it and I’ve seen even semi popular YouTubers seething daily about how to accumulate clout and how to strategize, it’s just the state of affairs in a world where poetry and prose are not really interests people have in itself, when it’s associated so much with expression and affiliations. I mean hey, perhaps it’s fun and your thing, getting on podcasts, YouTube debates and all of that sort, but if you’re not willing to sell your persona, you’re just not gonna get popular by shilling verse like that.

Because, who has done that, that you know of?

>>23551790
Do post it! And glad you like it, here’s another verse.

Oberon's Palace

by Robert Herrick
After the Feast (my Shapcot) see,
The Fairie Court I give to thee:
Where we'le present our Oberon led
Halfe tipsie to the Fairie Bed,
Where Mab he finds; who there doth lie
Not without mickle majesty.
Which, done; and thence remov'd the light,
We'l wish both Them and Thee, good night.

Full as a Bee with Thyme, and Red,
As Cherry harvest, now high fed
For Lust and action; on he'l go,
To lye with Mab, though all say no.
Lust ha's no eares; He's sharpe as thorn;
And fretfull, carries Hay in's horne,
And lightning in his eyes; and flings
Among the Elves, (if mov'd) the stings
Of peltish wasps; well know his Guard
Kings though th'are hated, will be fear'd.
Wine lead him on. Thus to a Grove
(Sometimes devoted unto Love)
Tinseld with Twilight, He, and They
Lead by the shine of Snails; a way
Beat with their num'rous feet, which by
Many a neat perplexity,
Many a turn, and man' a crosse-
Track they redeem a bank of mosse
Spungie and swelling, and farre more
Soft then the finest Lemster Ore.
Mildly disparkling, like those fiers,
Which break from the Injeweld tyres
Of curious Brides; or like those mites
Of Candi'd dew in Moony nights.
Upon this Convex, all the flowers,
(Nature begets by th'Sun, and showers,)
Are to a wilde digestion brought,
As if Loves Sampler here was wrought:
Or Citherea's Ceston, which
All with temptation doth bewitch.
Sweet Aires move here; and more divine
Made by the breath of great-ey'd kine,
Who as they lowe empearl with milk
The four-leav'd grasse, or mosse like silk.
The breath of Munkies met to mix
With Musk-flies, are th' Aromaticks,
Which cense this Arch; and here and there,
And farther off, and every where,
Throughout that Brave Mosaick yard
Those Picks or Diamonds in the Card:
With peeps of Harts, of Club and Spade
Are here most neatly inter-laid.
Many a Counter, many a Die,
Half rotten, and without an eye,
Lies here abouts; and for to pave
The excellency of this Cave,
Squirrils and childrens teeth late shed,
Are neatly here enchequered
With brownest Toadstones, and the Gum
That shines upon the blewer Plum.
The nails faln off by Whit-flawes: Art's
Wise hand enchasing here those warts,
Which we to others (from our selves)
Sell, and brought hither by the Elves.
The tempting Mole, stoln from the neck
Of the shie Virgin, seems to deck
The holy Entrance; where within
The roome is hung with the blew skin
Of shifted Snake: enfreez'd throughout
With eyes of Peacocks Trains, & Trout-
flies curious wings; and these among
Those silver-pence, that cut the tongue
Of the red infant, neatly hung.
The glow-wormes eyes; the shining scales
Of silv'rie fish; wheat-strawes, the snailes
Soft Candle-light; the Kitling's eyne;
Corrupted wood; serve here for shine.
No glaring light of bold-fac't Day,

Cont

>>23552173
Or other over radiant Ray
Ransacks this roome; but what weak beams
Can make reflected from these jems,
And multiply; Such is the light,
But ever doubtfull Day, or night.
By this quaint Taper-light he winds
His Errours up; and now he finds
His Moon-tann'd Mab, as somewhat sick,
And (Love knowes) tender as a chick.
Upon six plump Dandillions, high-
Rear'd, lyes her Elvish-majestie:
Whose woollie-bubbles seem'd to drowne
Hir Mab-ship in obedient Downe.
For either sheet, was spread the Caule
That doth the Infants face enthrall,
When it is born: (by some enstyl'd
The luckie Omen of the child)
And next to these two blankets ore-
Cast of the finest Gossamore. djody
And then a Rug of carded wooll,
Which, Spunge-like drinking in the dull-
Light of the Moon, seem'd to comply,
Cloud-like, the daintie Deitie.
Thus soft she lies: and over-head
A Spinners circle is bespread,
With Cob-web-curtains: from the roof
So neatly sunck, as that no proof
Of any tackling can declare
What gives it hanging in the Aire.
The Fringe about this, are those Threds
Broke at the Losse of Maiden-heads:
And all behung with these pure Pearls,
Dropt from the eyes of ravisht Girles
Or writhing Brides; when, (panting) they
Give unto Love the straiter way.
For Musick now; He has the cries
Of fained-lost-Virginities;
The which the Elves make to excite
A more unconquer'd appetite.
The Kings undrest; and now upon
The Gnats-watch-word the Elves are gone.
And now the bed, and Mab possest
Of this great-little-kingly-Guest.
We'll nobly think, what's to be done,
He'll do no doubt; This flax is spun.

>>23552173
Meant to reply to >>23551611

>>23552165
I know what I write is not your cup of tea (we've analyzed each other's work before you went on hiatus), so thanks for the effortpost
you are correct in your analysis, especially
>you have to think of consuming your material as a sort of social currency
I am not above doing what everyone else is doing if it means people get to see what I want to say to them (even if it's "accidental", secondary to consuming Hyperion as an identity)
but it's a moot point, I don't have any connections to any podcasters or socmed personalities, so for now - it is what it is

>>23552187
Eh just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend effort into it or your own idea o worth, know what I mean, I even think the man making Royal road slop puts in a lot of genuine effort.

>it’s a moot point

Eh, only if you make it one. We’re on 4chan, we are used to a culture of not shilling yourself, and rightfully so, but if you want to do that, you have to be ugly and undignified and force connections, get on low tier podcasts that’ll take anyone, force yourself into conversations on twitter, be a chaser, a horrible ugly thing but you know, that’s the price if you want to force connections that don’t arise naturally. People who’ve sold a lot of book online in that Royal road sphere for example are very easy to contact via Twitter, discord and other such which you can then use to access their contacts and get the ball rolling. It sounds like a lot of work and not enjoyable, but it’s just the way this works, it’s faster than expecting to generate momentum out of a thing people find boring, writing that is.

>>23551889
what do you mean what am I doing here?
>>23552196
there's got to be an interesting, dignified way
I can't contact people as my real self either, it all has to be through the pseudonym
I'm going to look around and if it's all as bad as you say, I'll fall back to my trad publishing acquaintances (and whatever hoops I have to jump through there, though I loathe those as well)

>>23551611
Oops, fuck. I meant to post the rest of it

>>23551548
The end that I forgot to pay because I'm a traumatized dumbass

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Easter, 1916, by Yeats

Sorry about that, /lit/

I hope you're happy
I really do
The limerence faded
The very second you betrayed me
For a scumbag that treats you like
A toy
You suckled at my hope and took my dream
Pretty girl, you are too bitter for me
Jaded like you are, burning like a star
This is all a game to you
Roll a d20, bitch

>>23552228
I mean you're writing actual publishable stuff, there's nothing you can gain from this place. I like your imagery a lot, do you have a blog or a substack or something?

>>23552302
He said he wanted feedback from here and that's why he posts here

>>23552310
Of all the things you can get help with on /lit/, I think poetry is one of the worse ones, because it's not like discussing a bunch of history books or philosophy. My feedback is that I like it and I want to read more. It feels like it's part of something larger.

>>23552333
check'd
I'm glad you like it anon, really
it IS part of something larger, all my poetry is part of the same central structure (think a very long "epic" play), some of which are fragments which "fail to achieve structure" - I have an essay on poetic form which elaborates on this
I'm telling the story of humanity from 4 billion years ago to a future when the Earth is Eliot's waste land after the storm sweeps everything away
there are some very long poems and a lot of fragments which slot into the larger structure (each can fit in multiple places which alters the contents of the whole)
what is a substack?

>>23551790
This is only half finished but has potential; every single one of these lines is missing a punch line.

>>23552351
Have you read Louis Zukofsky or Ronald Johnson? If so what do you think o their works?

>>23551880
>and painted choirs sing
phenomenal

Fuck jews,
Fuck niggers,
If I see another non-white,
I'm gonna pull the trigger

lmao

hey this is pretty good, not puerile at all

>>23552351
Substack is an app for writers

>>23552382
>Zukofsky
funny you should mention him, the first part of my essay on form directly works off of his essay "Sincerity and Objectification"
I like his poetry but I sometimes get annoyed by his form, much more so than Reznikoff (mentioning Zukofsky, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention I really like Lyn Hejinian)
I have not read Ronald Johnson, what can you tell me about him?
>>23552502
I am going to check it out, I suspect you still have to have a substantial presence on other social media to make use of it?

>>23552671
Nah, I barely post here much less on fakebook

>>23551104
Burger boy in my ear
Shit myself because I was eh-scared
The shit should be a climax
If we are to to min max
Nothing more to say
Have a nice day

*mic drop*

a consumer caught up
in their own self-proclaimed
established medium based
informational intellectualism
and personalized stances
on the map of textbook philosophies
to the point of suicidal extremism,
a romantic for their headfuck
and perhaps forever turmoiled
to ego death in the hands
of the sake of aestheticism
and escapist disillusionment.
a magnetic artifice held by a mask
smogging the lost authentic self.
everything is either theirs or ours,
because you need to pick a side
then you can make yourself at home.

My love’s a shopping cart beneath the black
And bitter reservoir, beside the bike
Without a wheel and bag without a hold –
You know the one I am talking about,
Discovered in a distant memory
Below an orange sky, effusive air,
A dozen miles astray the local shop –
My love’s a twisted handlebar, the snapped
And broken frame, the rusted metal wheel
(Which broke awhile before the water came) –
Who sunk the shopping cart under the lake?
Which foolish memory submerged it there?
The love I felt became a shopping cart
And lies beneath a black and bitter snare.

>>23552137
The first stanza should rhyme and there should be punctuation. Besides that, though, it's a nice poem.

Here's a short alliterative one I wrote a little while ago. Mind you, it's the first of its kind I've written.

The lushous leaves blew gently;
they lulled us as we sat there.
The wind that moved them carried -
wafted Summer's scents:
Of grass just cut, and flowers,
which greatly pleased us.
And hand in hand we lay -
But hope was in the Night,
When none would notice us,
And nowhere were we watched -
When crickets played their melodies,
to calm our angsty hearts.
Those days, our days felt endless,
they danced forever on,
And seemed they'd stay eternally
- with start and end both gone.

>>23552352
>This is only half finished
My priority is to fill out the whole 3000 characters so I can begin spamming it (mostly on /v/) in order to cause as much chaos and confusion whenever someone says something silly (most of /v/).
I like the ones that sound like they're insults in other languages that don't translate well to English; it imbues them with more of that 'what?' factor. Much like my 'list of names'; refinement comes later and is a perpetual process. It's a "living, breathing" piece of work if you will – a work of questionable integrity no doubt – but a work nevertheless.

File: no.121.png (95 KB, 791x805)

95 KB PNG

I must assume there are no good kings among the Faerie

>>23552671
On Johnson, I personally don’t like him but he’s in a similar area. I think you’d like him if you read ark.

Here’s an excerpt from a poem. (Enjambment ruined by 4chan )

Tree
into the World,
Man
the chosen
Rose out of Chaos:
Song

Thunder amid held daffodil,
the hills of yellow celandine in sudden sun
electrum
"when the light walks."

When the light walks, clockwise, counterclockwise,
atoms memorize the firefly's wing
silhouette twenty-foot elm leaf
(worm's-eye view through three crisscross timothy stalks).
A blue hinged green at edge, the twilight
sinks as if half swimmer
—ankles in wrinkle through wood turtle
swallowing scarlet strawberry,
waist deep the warp then roof of star split clover, one pale
eye spool rayed Orion
thistle silk through soil particle—
to Euridice. Head deep
in neither
aether, nether:

"You will find, to the left of The House of Hades, a spring. . .

one white-leafed cypress at its side."

"Sometimes the prophet sees the image of Glory
in the midst of a cloud;
but the angel-messenger is invisible
because the angelic fire is too pure for one to see.
When one sees the fire flaming
up from the distance
one is only seeing the smoke that
surrounds it.
Moreover the angel asks:
What do you see?"

"I have seen the Eternal
interior,
not ocular, vision"

reply.
PALMS

Be
the man that walk in the way of day and night
like a tree of water, leaf
chaff which the wind
stand in

imagine the earth set against sun,
uttermost parts like a potter's O: trembling sands round about
Arise, and ray.

Stand in
your own heart,
and be still.
the light upon us
in time to the voice of ice:
no throat out in the multitude of ions belled But shout
for joy.

O
save me for
the grave who
all the night make I my bed to swim

O
lion, compass
turn
to on end but arrows sing

Out of the mouth of
moon and the stars,
What is man, that made him angels, beasts
to a perpetual end: the gates in the gates of net hid
snared in the turn into sight.
:let them be
imagined.
moved in the secret
ear to hear:
bird to mountain eyelid cup.

They speak tongue tried in a furnace of earth,
on every side,
I sleep the sleep of
all, not
one.

In the classroom of my youth,
I remember rhymes and tales,
And lessons of great truth,
Of what humanity entails.

And in high school I recall,
Great wars, victories, and defeats,
Empires rising, then a fall,
Men of destiny and great feats.

After that I spent some years,
In libraries, in lectures,
Studying strategies, and careers,
Sights set on adventures.

Now, I've no exams to prepare,
Just some emails, some replies,
App updates, phone screen glare,
A password forgotten, no retries.

>>23554856
It's a good start, but could use two major improvements: (I) regularizing the meter, and (II) in the first two stanzas writing about what you did, not what your learned, when you were young, as the former contrasts better with the final stanza.

The email

An email with a mild request:
A maintenance issue in our apartment complex.
For the good of all, not just my matter.
I thought they'd want to know about the matter.

I followed up a few weeks later, and again, after that, in a polite manner.
But no response: I was perplexed.
(To other emails they had said thanks.)

To God I prayed, what should I do?
The answer came: just let it go.
If it's maintenance you see, leave it to the committee.
No point in letting your pride be hurt, in good faith you've done your part.

Let Jesus love you and hold you tight, feel his embrace all through the night.

>>23554853
you are correct, I like this and I'm going to check out more of his work, it's quite like what I'm attempting
I have to say that though my greatest poetic love is shared between Eliot and Homer, there is a place wholly separate from any hierarchy reserved for Gerard Manley Hopkins whose quality of verse is insane and his love for God and all that is beautiful and good in creation is extremely rare

>>23552302
>>23552333
Nah, I'll be reaaaal fucking honest with you. I've been in a LOT of poetry forums/servers/sites/pages over the course of my life; whether that was my highschool poetry club, or online, or whatever.

Funnily enough, 4chan, by far, has the best poets, and subsequently, the best poetry, compared to anywhere else I've seen. And sure, you might say "Okay, well, your highschool writing club, and your college read-along circle, and some zoomer discord bullshit ain't exactly topnotch competition", to which I say fair enough. All the same, I find myself coming back here every now and then, because the writers on here are so much more eager to cut the bullshit. They really don't jerk themselves off, and when they do, others are so quick to check them on their bullshit.

I'll be scrolling through some of these poems, and I'll be like "damn, it's such a shame that once this thread dies, NO ONE will ever see them ever again", because they're so damn good, and they belong to a place like this (but there's some odd beauty in even that, I think).

I've done it myself before. I've wrote some absolute killers that I KNEW I should have saved in some random txt document, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it, because that's not what 4chan is for. This place isn't meant for fame, or fortune, or glory. We will never be able to take our genius out of 4chan and show it to the world, and even if we wanted to, we shouldn't, because 4chan doesn't care much for selling out your soul.

During those moments of regret, I always tell myself; "I have written countless amazing poems; and I can do it all over again", and that's all it takes for me to let my poem go. 4chan can have them; keep them, I don't give a fuck. Consider it giving back to the community that raised me up.

>>23555722
>We will never be able to take our genius out of 4chan and show it to the world, and even if we wanted to, we shouldn't, because 4chan doesn't care much for selling out your soul.
I totally disagree with this, it's a rationalization

>>23555722
You've touched on one reason I keep returning to 4chan despite periodically being annoyed and disgusted by the normalisation of racism and queerphobia (transphobia too, but 4chan is equally obsessed by trans selfhood).
The reason I keep coming back is for the genuine sparks of creativity, and camaraderie. 4chan is 4chan. You get what you get. But certain boards at certain times can be entertaining and heartfelt.
And I especially like that it all disappears as threads drop off the end of a board. There's a certain poignancy to that. But it weirdly lifts 4chan out of the endlessly archived internet (although this may be a convenient illusion since there are some sites which archive 4ch externally for posterity).

habanero habanero make me toasty
spicy foods and jalapeños, what a delight!
but when I go outside, the cartels fill me with fright
habanero habanero what ever shall I do
with spicy food that I eat every day, as any other Mexican also has to
green peppers tacos and burritos
they satiate the hunger in my belly, ay amigo!
when the boss calls me for work, I don't go
as the night before, cervejas made me louco
how do I tell el chefe that I need a break
piñatas and guacamole, as soon as I wake

Verse, pictures, music, thoughts both grave and gay,
Remembrances of dear-loved friends away,
On spotless page of virgin White displayed,
Such should thine Album be, for such art thou, sweet maid!

>>23552173
I really like this poem. What are your favorite encomiums and vituperations?

Pain and loss
I am every transactional encounter

bump

>>23555722
You can definitely apply what you've learned here elsewhere. You just have to be a bit stealthy in your application of it. I've edited for lit mags, edited full books for poets, etc., and I can tell you that today's poets work from a state of fear. They're particularly fearful of upsetting other members of the community, because it means risking ostracization from what is a pretty tight-knit group (relative to that of fiction) that doesn't easily forget. I see you've got a bit of talent, which is great. Don't waste it trying to impress /lit/ users. Do everything and anything you like with it.

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>>23554742
I reread this after I woke up and concluded that it kind of sucked. I was too lazy to write more and ended up ineffectively cramming imagery into too little space. I'm still too lazy to expand it so I went the other direction.
This one is shorter and I hope better.

Is the meter on this limerick correct? I've never written poems before.

Look, the Toofers are now come.
Their impression can never be undone.
Their offer, would you refuse?
One for the price of two,
And two, for the price of one.

I have sought you out in all the wrong places
You were not sitting on the throne,
Or handing swords to all the people -
You were not waiting for the lightning,
Or sweating blood of trepidation -
You did not judge me
You were
Lying by the ditch at noon
With your feet in the sun kissed mud,
Half asleep.

Who, then, is my Magdalene?

The strung out strigoi playing the dumb blonde,
Worldly enough to value nothing more than her amusement,
When really her mind matches her 24 karat hair,
Glinting superciliously through dead eyes,
And granting nothing, secure in her angel skull;
I break it open with her own knowing crystal ball,
And coat every karat on my fucking toilet.
Now she watches and whispers at my right hand,
Blowing smoke in the faces of everyone else;
And she curtsies every time she lifts the golden lid,
Delighted by the opportunity for dimples.
Blood is her raison d'être;
And I am a dealer par excellence.

A rock in the road
Makes a man so angry
Kicks it and throws
Can you blame thee?

>>23551104
What is truth?
Veiled and scared, aloof
Sailing down around the proof
Wailing hands demand it use
Shadows whisper of its clues
Abusive idols shout a few
There must be something I can do
It's not a formal recent view
It's as old as there is nothing new

There’s no point to words. What can I say to you? What point is there
in prayer to God, when He already knows
the truth? It’s a vain attempt to change the hand of fate, to beg for hope and
deny Truth! Is my silent acceptance not the greater love? So what plea or bargain can I
offer you, to twist and change your soul, so that,
at last, you can love me?

Yes! I would cling to you, and you to me! Oh, how many hours I’ve devoted to this fantasy!
To hold you, kiss you, breathe you, breed you!

Look! How I sink and rise in these waters of my own shame,
my dark sin clutching at my feet
to drag me down, down to the bottom!
I should let it choke me, but I’m a damned coward
I always swim back up to the surface and gaze at the heavens, imagining that
I could be there! call me Filippo Argenti! Oh!
My flesh seizes and gnashes and bites and thrashes!

Yes! Oh! To see your flesh,
to watch you dance and swerve, to kiss your every curve, to play with every nerve
until you fall to your knees, kneel, pray, and serve!

Look! It is not my insecurities that keep me from you,
But my pride! It is not my fear of you, it is
my fear of me! So, walk on!
before I drag you into this black sea of a river,
and we both drown in oblivion!
Be less damned with a less damned man!

>>23558001
It's kinda close actually. Here's how a limerick sounds:

The first one shall end in a [RHYME]
Again at the end of this [LINE]
You make a small (point)
So you can (anoint)
A final rhyme of the third [KIND]

>>23558234
cool
>>23558726
don't force rhymes. a rhyme that calls attention to itself (in this case by making the poem incoherent) is a shit rhyme
>>23558775
meh
>>23558895
gross