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CRITIQUE REQUEST The Workshop

Discussion in 'SHOWCASING' started by RiverNotch, Mar 21, 2014.

  1. October


    I. The Demon


    i must away for break of dawn has come
    wings are sprouting from my scapulae
    my mouth becomes a beak; i thought
    i was a demon, not a bird

    there are no birds in hell:
    the ground festers, the trees
    their branches all weighed down by ropes,
    and the malebranche are avid hunters

    or so i thought: not feeling, my God
    turned me, into, a Dante: i have
    been in hell for so long now,
    i may as well be dead: my body as decayed

    as all of theirs, as corrupt, that now
    like maggots even feathers grow
    from earth like flowers
    suicides reaching out to sky


    II. The Ninth Circle

    sweet suckle, sin like a whoresmouth
    Satan's satisfied face reflected on
    the screen, the mirror, the showerhead
    steam of the morning shower, on the mirror

    written, into the exhausted wrist
    stitched: hunger
    or regret -- Satan
    suckling on thinning hairs, my fellow traitors

    hanging over ice, two by the threads,
    one by the throbbing head -- sweet
    suckle of the grave, you have the pleasure
    of life and breath, of fire and motion, while the rest

    lie deeper and deeper in, without even room
    to throb, to choke, to drown, the shower's
    pool of semen chilled by the morning
    madness into a mirror


    III. The Bedroom

    only in your presence can I become
    a woman, only in your presence
    am i considered as impotent
    as i truly am, only

    in your presence
    can the silence
    sound like voices,
    drumtaps, and the walls

    distorting, giving way
    to mirrors, doors, though in no way
    concrete or able to be drawn, the way
    a patient lies all day in bed, the way

    you turn your head towards the door and say
    "you are the word, I am the word made flesh --
    to be with you is to be impotent,
    and I have a mission to fulfill"
     
  2. from PIPS, December 2017

    Vertumnus and Pomona



    He. And should we explore the purposes of love
    by subverting the most ancient opposition?
    But the way is dark: a tree stands for its end.

    She. And on that tree hangs
    the lovelorn Anaxarete.

    He. It was Iphis who hanged himself:
    Anaxarete, for rejecting him, turned to stone.

    She. And around the corpse, apples
    ripe and heavy. But even as you drop
    your warty witch's face
    here at the end, your nails remain uncut,
    your arms still sag with age,
    and your breasts...

    (He seizes her. For a moment, all is still.)

    She. You've already transitioned,
    my brilliant little god.
    Now peel me like an orange.
     
  3. Baptist

    this is the voice of one crying in the wilderness
    listen to the man whimper like a pup
    his robe is rags, his hands are covered in stings
    he dips his hands into the river, hoping for a miracle

    he wants to make the river straight
    he wants to build a dam and a canal
    the first to give power, to supersede fire
    the second to prepare the way for his lord

    his head on a platter, his body in a ditch
    the king full of fear, the daughter of lust
    a city rises in the wilderness
    it smells like wet dog
     
  4. more IISZ 2018

    The Queen's Dreams



    1. Seltzer explosion ejaculatory image. Shoes and youth as fetishes, or perhaps mementos of a childhood without latency.

    2. Sexual jealousy, or unbirth.

    3. Consider palpable fertility of the royal sister, along with recent rumors regarding Lady---

    4. Porcelain figurine suspected to be about a poem written by one of her clients in praise of Saint Cecilia, as well as the incident at the masque. For a deeper reading, porcelain figurine and magnificent imagery surrounding evoke strongly if indirectly fashionable royal portraiture.

    5. Sympathy for the Jews, mixed with appropriate self-loathing.

    6. Anxiety concerning recent declarations of a Golden Age.

    7.

    8. Medicines literal, surgical, confessional. Shelf distance, distance of HMelancholy. Shop depth recalls womb. Jar burial urn (a most unconventional choice: possibly influenced by audience with Moroccon envoys? Shown shone. Brightness recalls portraiture.

    9. Illness.

    10. Relief at execution of former favorite? Imagery obviously tied to triumph at the channel, but such feels both too easy and too difficult, especially with the subject herself being underwater. Could be about disasters crossing the Atlantic, but reports came after the dream. Will consult colleagues.

    11. Vision remains inscrutable. Mr. Dee willing to allow for the Supernatural:

    9. HM judged by an actual vision of the gods, possibly concerning either , or her audience with Morocco. (Preposterous)

    10. Prophetic dream, noting rumors .

    11. With the crew's safe return, and tied to the other dreams referred, possibly blessings from three of the Gods, orange being the color of Copper, red Iron, and yellow Lead (paint. Insightful)

    12. Erupting mountain phallic image. Faces and ornaments as fetishes: still anxious, but more comfortable, more genital.
     
  5. Syncing

    Saturday morning shower hair
    pillow at my bedside damp and salty
    stains, teardrop pearl
    headphones plugged into my phone, into your naked
    ears: deep in the world, you breathe
    "I've got your music."
     
    #246 RiverNotch, Jan 31, 2018
    Last edited: Feb 7, 2018
  6. The Ganja Dream

    They'll find out what isn't
    there to be found when they look
    deep into your gaze and guess
    by the stench of three-days-living-on-the-bed
    something else, something less
    than the snowglobe of your stupor.
     
  7. more IISZ 2018

    Home, after a restless vacation


    There's the bright orange of the two lone lights
    still open in my room: the eye-glazing screen
    and the power-sucking bulb; there's the darkness outside
    pitted with brief lights
    and the half-full moon inverted
    over my voyeur neighbor's house; I'm naked but the aircon's
    never cool enough; I suspect I'm not in the right country,
    I think my phone is dead but say lobat,
    I look out over the sterile snow


    Sometimes I mingle memories
    with dreams
    but this one I remember
    clearly: her elaborate
    right arm tatoo, her mousy
    face, her thin frame
    glasses and the piercings
    on her nose, her ears
    her half-American voice
    my gaze shifting here and there

    Sometimes I watch
    her welcome me
    in a foreign tongue,
    toss away her legged bag and lift
    her dress above her chin.
    Sometimes I look
    out over her shoulder
    to the world passing by,
    then rage over my choice
    of thoughts, words,
    advances,
    as if I had a choice.
    Sometimes I close my eyes.


    that suddenly turns to mist like the rough bodies of those we
    proselytizers and infertile mothers loved, hands clasped
    in the dark. No I will not succumb. There is no night that will
    not lead our eyes to close, nor blidness when oracular dreams
    refuse to answer Hineni, Hineni. There is no turn approaching.
    There is a voice that cries
    out over the wilderness,
    over the eternal fire-
    works over Boracay,
    over the sterile snow--
     
  8. lost boy dream fragment (open)
    Pan's not the only one who fell in love. There were six of us with him, each more mortal than that perpetual youth: each remembering the love of a mother, a sister, even a lover.

    But you'd take only him into the garden, to dance with the pixies. Only with him would you sit on the rocks, dip your toes in the water, and talk with each passing mermaid about love and growing up and raising kids. Then the two of you would hush your voices, wait until dark, and climb up trees, towers, mountains, just to kiss.

    Peter and Wendy, playing mom and dad: as if some of us played with sand, and not fixed the day's lunch.

    Soon enough, his luck ran out.

    When I woke up, I remembered everything clearly: Hook skewering the boy, Slightly carrying his corpse to some Piccaninny altar, myself lying next to the body -- claiming, with my red skin and slanted eyes, that I knew certain *victuals*, *victuals* to make dead meat green again. Then I played, played the fool, Peter Pan, feeling his face, hands, genitals, with a mixture of fear and delight. Whereas you felt only delight.

    And I watched Peter knife-fight angels in the heavens, force Jesus down the silver, just to get back to you. But after that, I don't remember.
     
  9. Thunbergia

    The vine
    catches a flower
    plucked by the wind.
     
  10. improv (open)
    i'd like to hang out with you
    under the sun on the sands of boracay
    we'd get two crosses and have the sea wind
    blow on our faces dying of thirst
    tomorrow's breakfast daing