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Dark Poetry #4
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songs we're never supposed to know
| Dark Poetry #4 |
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songs we're never supposed to know |
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young_blood Senior Member
since 2003-09-19
Posts 1115Indianapolis, IN 
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please ignore the spelling errors, i know they are there, just read and comment on the content/form/ect...thanks songs we're never supposed to know locked in this box shaped like a musical note, good boys and s listen to dulled music, they wonder "why is music the only communication?" if they only knew the answer.... perched atop a high back chair in the front of the room, a black bird claws its eyes out looking for carnage, the bodies that lined the street are now buried before he can get hit pick-axe beak into their delicious flesh. a hand reaches up and strokes the dethly bird, the eyes that are related to the hand, see that it's brother, the one with the fingers left, is bleeding yet again. "wait until deth comes to you, my friend." the mind speaks out. rising from the chair, the lightman with an easy smile approaches the music box and puts it away, hiding the sounds that the children sing along with. "we'll teach them to lie, how to beat themselves and then die." thats the tune the mediaman sings to himself. he leaves the room chuckling as the melody plays in his head again, "we'll teach them to obey, how to surrender everything and then fade away." on his way down the silt soaken street, the lightman passes a robed in her insecurities. "ah, heres a who knows our songs." the thought travels through his mind like a passerby. the glances up only for a moment before she averts her eyes. its the hand she sees. that hand has been everywhere on her; feeling, prodding, evaluating. while it may not have been that man specifically, many others have beat and come away with ragged fists that left bleeding tears to fall alone in submission. these mediamen who tell us that violations are everyday, commonplace things that are taboo, but yet something that people bathe in. in the background she thinks that music is playing, "beat upon beat, its ok they all love your heat." she's memorized the words to that one and they comfort her enough to forget the hands.... the mediaman passes a boy who knows the songs as well, he's felt the harmony surging through his veins, oh yes, it takes him higher, to a place forgotten, that he cannot reach without his stinging friend. the lightman nods to the boy and pays enough attention to avoid the biohazards scattered at the boy's feet. this young man only feels echo's in his head, things he means to say and do come and go with the importances lost. he dreams in his own colors, believes in his own years, but the number left of those is so small, that flowers won't grace him. on his radio, in his head, cold and unthinking, drone the words "take the plunge, these tastes are trivial after the first lunge." he's alone in the affects of his unprescribed medicines, only the music plays doctor to his needs. the light cloaked mediaman reaches his home, a castle of perfection in the waste of a city. he calls out a cry of his very own, "honey, i'm home!", it reverberates around the house. setting his briefcase full of tomorrows ruin down, he marches around the first floor, noting the cleanliness. the kitchen has no smell of upcoming dinner and the family television is unconcious for once. "check your personal domain." a voice whispers, its quiet, but urgency often is. mediaman runs to his bedroom full of comforts, and sees that someone has redecorated it. blood ran down the walls as though someone had performed a dance across the white wash. the light man takes not notice of this, he concentrates on the two unmoving dolls on his bed. mother and son, what a cute dethly pair, they lie back with grins on their faces and knives in thier chests. in the background, the mediaman hears a song he wrote, "the caring is ending, so end it before you're left alone" "no....no...they were never meant to listen!!" the mediaman's cry is watched silently byt the black bird, he's hungry and waiting too. now you know why, dear children, they play those songs for you: to make desperation take over and for you to pay. the mediamne get rich off the deths of us all, the needles, the promisciuty, and our life ending toys. turn off the radio and make your own music. |
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| © Copyright 2003 Alex Lewis - All Rights Reserved | |||
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green_itchy_stuff Senior Member
since 2003-06-26
Posts 1929New Caney, Tx |
This poem is good and I'd love to give a through critique, so I will. and since you'd like for me to tear it up for you here it goes. *this is my first critique of this intensity* songs we're never supposed to know ---------------------------------- this line puts a wonder in the poem from the very beginning -------------------------------------------- locked in this box shaped like a musical note, good boys and s listen to dulled music, they wonder "why is music the only communication?" if they only knew the answer.... --------------------------------- the first thing about this stanza is obviously the pass over of what inference tells me was "boys and [girls]", which in its self isn't quite so vital since its easy to see what you meant. The rest of it seems to set up for a later stanza, and is nicely done at that ------------------------------------------- perched atop a high back chair in the front of the room, a black bird claws its eyes out looking for carnage, the bodies that lined the street are now buried before he can get hit pick-axe beak into their delicious flesh. a hand reaches up and strokes the dethly bird, the eyes that are related to the hand, see that it's brother, the one with the fingers left, is bleeding yet again. "wait until deth comes to you, my friend." the mind speaks out. rising from the chair, the lightman with an easy smile approaches the music box and puts it away, hiding the sounds that the children sing along with. "we'll teach them to lie, how to beat themselves and then die." thats the tune the mediaman sings to himself. he leaves the room chuckling as the melody plays in his head again, "we'll teach them to obey, how to surrender everything and then fade away." ------------------------------------------ it seem like in this stanza maybe you should have put a few more stanza breaks. right after "get hit pick-axe beak into their delicious flesh." It would have been nice to start a new set of ideas with another stanza "a hand reaches up and strokes the dethly bird," seems like an entirely different process of thoughts", but this isn't so bad with the constant random ideas and thought processes going on. It makes kind of like a movie with constant shot changes that all relate to a particular scene. Although alot of these random switches seem more like flips of the channel. Deth is misspelled whether this is on purpose or not I thought I'd point it out. And nice use of the more brutal and savage vocabulary to depict the raw and semi-violence at the beginning of this stanza. And again this stanza seems to set up for a later stanza. And it also does come back to the beginning stanza and ties in with the questioning of the music and its real purpose and a sense of an undesired control. nicely done ----------------------------------------- on his way down the silt soaken street, the lightman passes a robed in her insecurities. "ah, heres a who knows our songs." the thought travels through his mind like a passerby. the glances up only for a moment before she averts her eyes. its the hand she sees. that hand has been everywhere on her; feeling, prodding, evaluating. while it may not have been that man specifically, many others have beat and come away with ragged fists that left bleeding tears to fall alone in submission. these mediamen who tell us that violations are everyday, commonplace things that are taboo, but yet something that people bathe in. in the background she thinks that music is playing, "beat upon beat, its ok they all love your heat." she's memorized the words to that one and they comfort her enough to forget the hands.... ------------------------------------------- What is a robed? I know this is poetry but This robed is female and I'm wondering why? "Ah here's a who" it seems like another thing you've developed with this poem is indirect statements of actions of characters. Something that would also help is if you used more capitals, unless you did that on purpose to cause the reader to think harder about what he/she is reading, but to me it just makes it seem hard to focus on and really takes away from the content of the poem. More of a distraction than an encouragement to think. At "the glances up only for a moment" maybe you would have done better using the word "that" instead of "the". You start this stanza with beautiful imagery in the silt street, then when you get to the part about the hands it turns invassive,and I want to compliment that change. Nice. I don't see what would have been wrong with a stanza break here "...things that are taboo, but yet something that people bathe in." between these two lines "in the background she thinks that music is playing,..." Again picking back up smoothly from the stanza before and leading nicely to the next stanza. ------------------------------------------- the mediaman passes a boy who knows the songs as well, he's felt the harmony surging through his veins, oh yes, it takes him higher, to a place forgotten, that he cannot reach without his stinging friend. the lightman nods to the boy and pays enough attention to avoid the biohazards scattered at the boy's feet. this young man only feels echo's in his head, things he means to say and do come and go with the importances lost. he dreams in his own colors, believes in his own years, but the number left of those is so small, that flowers won't grace him. on his radio, in his head, cold and unthinking, drone the words "take the plunge, these tastes are trivial after the first lunge." he's alone in the affects of his unprescribed medicines, only the music plays doctor to his needs. ------------------------------------------ In this stanza I saw a little deeper into the meaning of the poem then maybe I was supposed to have, then again maybe not. But I think I know now what the songs are about. This stanza is fine as is. The connecting pass from to stanza to stanza was again well done. -------------------------------------- the light cloaked mediaman reaches his home, a castle of perfection in the waste of a city. he calls out a cry of his very own, "honey, i'm home!", it reverberates around the house. setting his briefcase full of tomorrows ruin down, he marches around the first floor, noting the cleanliness. the kitchen has no smell of upcoming dinner and the family television is unconcious for once. "check your personal domain." a voice whispers, its quiet, but urgency often is. mediaman runs to his bedroom full of comforts, and sees that someone has redecorated it. blood ran down the walls as though someone had performed a dance across the white wash. the light man takes not notice of this, he concentrates on the two unmoving dolls on his bed. mother and son, what a cute dethly pair, they lie back with grins on their faces and knives in thier chests. in the background, the mediaman hears a song he wrote, "the caring is ending, so end it before you're left alone" "no....no...they were never meant to listen!!" the mediaman's cry is watched silently byt the black bird, he's hungry and waiting too. ---------------------------------------- Nice introduction of this stanza. For the first time you don't mention the music, but you've already introduced the mediaman and made it carry nicely. Just check spelling. all in all good job on this stanza ---------------------------------------- now you know why, dear children, they play those songs for you: to make desperation take over and for you to pay. the mediamne get rich off the deths of us all, the needles, the promisciuty, and our life ending toys. ------------------------------------------- Just check spelling. This stanza seems like the peak of the piece. This stanza is good. ------------------------------------------- turn off the radio and make your own music. ------------------------------------------- The music returns and the meaning of the poem comes full circle. Well done. Again this is my first intense critique so if you don't agree with certain parts of the critique, just know you have a satisfied reader who has ended up getting more of an understanding than he other wise would have. GIS Closed will remain closed until opened. [I try hard to have a father, but instead I had a dad...]- Kurt Cobain [This message has been edited by Sunshine (12-16-2003 08:27 AM).] |
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young_blood Senior Member
since 2003-09-19
Posts 1115Indianapolis, IN |
thank you green itchy, you're critique helped so much. im only 17 and this was the first time someone has really critiqued my poem before.the part about "robed" or whatever, it was supposed to read something like "this * robed in her...." my filter on my computer at home wont let me type many words such as * and de*th. thank you again for the critique, your comments will be put to good use. now im alone, but not lonely like before |
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cusick Senior Member
since 2003-07-27
Posts 668 |
Young blood this is your poem and may get better advice from others. I understand what you are saying but it could have been said in a shorter version. Just my thoughts. Maggie |
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