the ending
An interesting Text Art News Article about the Anatomy of Type, Basics and some Effects. I'm sure you'll learn from it!
Devious Comments
Our sight is lines of light – so call it blood.
Our fingers clasp and clasp – so call them worms.
Our hair is wept venom – so summon a myth
of noise and thought to hold these shapes.
We compose the body like a fugue.
Excellent.
--
(Do illiterate people get the full effect of Alphabet soup?)
All those who believe in telekinesis, raise my hand.
Smile, and the world will smile with you. Laugh and they'll all think you're on drugs.
Our fingers clasp and clasp – so call them worms.
Our hair is wept venom – so summon a myth
of noise and thought to hold these shapes.
We compose the body like a fugue.
Excellent.--
(Do illiterate people get the full effect of Alphabet soup?)
All those who believe in telekinesis, raise my hand.
Smile, and the world will smile with you. Laugh and they'll all think you're on drugs.
a dog tending its voice like a fireplace! that's great stuff!
Watch yourself for melodrama. I don't care if you write melodramatically, I just want you to be sure that you're aware of this definite potential within you after every single poem you write.
On occasion you are not clever enough to sustain it.
For instance - Never again write "Our fingers clasp and clasp - so call them worms"
The fact that you include that line shatters all hope of incantatory rapture, and drops the other two precariously placed lines into the stinkhole with it.
I'm going to beat you with a big stick if you ever do that again, James.
You dance with melodrama, man, and personally I do not mind; but there is a point where concessions can't be made. Mostly when there's no skill involved, ponce.
I am also unimpressed by this manifestation of the Euminedes.
Sometimes your proclivities overrun your creations and make them more a mawkish gesticulation of personal rhetoric than anything else, and I find myself saying "Well, I hear masturbation is good for the health, clears the mind, and ejaculating on paper makes for an easy clean up, but if this next one doesn't fuck I'ma go find me a mockingbird that can make momma sing."
Perhaps I'm not allowing you enough leeway - let's consider.
Never trust a trait that follows you from line to line, poem to poem, and in every instance of its cropping look hard to see if it be weed or bloom.
For instance -
"and guess the dead are stirring"
You are overly fond of ambiguities, perhaps.
Should I follow you there, you who utilizes this freedom to make them speak as such?
I do not believe, no matter the satisfaction the idea of this 'guess' may supply me, for an instant, that the Eumenides would be the ones to make this guess. They would know; it would be done.
Stanzas three and four are masterly.
You've got to learn to mark the smell of your own ass, though, James, whenever your head's so lodged in it.
This poem should be better than it is: 1. you're better than this 2. you made the error of producing a simultaneously fav-inducing poem that makes me laugh at it - remember, James, greatness requires more justification than dross will ever draw.
*shrug*
That's all I've got.
--
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
On occasion you are not clever enough to sustain it.
For instance - Never again write "Our fingers clasp and clasp - so call them worms"
The fact that you include that line shatters all hope of incantatory rapture, and drops the other two precariously placed lines into the stinkhole with it.
I'm going to beat you with a big stick if you ever do that again, James.
You dance with melodrama, man, and personally I do not mind; but there is a point where concessions can't be made. Mostly when there's no skill involved, ponce.
I am also unimpressed by this manifestation of the Euminedes.
Sometimes your proclivities overrun your creations and make them more a mawkish gesticulation of personal rhetoric than anything else, and I find myself saying "Well, I hear masturbation is good for the health, clears the mind, and ejaculating on paper makes for an easy clean up, but if this next one doesn't fuck I'ma go find me a mockingbird that can make momma sing."
Perhaps I'm not allowing you enough leeway - let's consider.
Never trust a trait that follows you from line to line, poem to poem, and in every instance of its cropping look hard to see if it be weed or bloom.
For instance -
"and guess the dead are stirring"
You are overly fond of ambiguities, perhaps.
Should I follow you there, you who utilizes this freedom to make them speak as such?
I do not believe, no matter the satisfaction the idea of this 'guess' may supply me, for an instant, that the Eumenides would be the ones to make this guess. They would know; it would be done.
Stanzas three and four are masterly.
You've got to learn to mark the smell of your own ass, though, James, whenever your head's so lodged in it.
This poem should be better than it is: 1. you're better than this 2. you made the error of producing a simultaneously fav-inducing poem that makes me laugh at it - remember, James, greatness requires more justification than dross will ever draw.
*shrug*
That's all I've got.
--
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
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On occasion you are not clever enough to sustain it.
For instance - Never again write "Our fingers clasp and clasp - so call them worms"
The fact that you include that line shatters all hope of incantatory rapture, and drops the other two precariously placed lines into the stinkhole with it.
I'm going to beat you with a big stick if you ever do that again, James.
You dance with melodrama, man, and personally I do not mind; but there is a point where concessions can't be made. Mostly when there's no skill involved, ponce.
I am also unimpressed by this manifestation of the Euminedes.
Sometimes your proclivities overrun your creations and make them more a mawkish gesticulation of personal rhetoric than anything else, and I find myself saying "Well, I hear masturbation is good for the health, clears the mind, and ejaculating on paper makes for an easy clean up, but if this next one doesn't fuck I'ma go find me a mockingbird that can make momma sing."
Perhaps I'm not allowing you enough leeway - let's consider.
Never trust a trait that follows you from line to line, poem to poem, and in every instance of its cropping look hard to see if it be weed or bloom.
For instance -
"and guess the dead are stirring"
You are overly fond of ambiguities, perhaps.
Should I follow you there, you who utilizes this freedom to make them speak as such?
I do not believe, no matter the satisfaction the idea of this 'guess' may supply me, for an instant, that the Eumenides would be the ones to make this guess. They would know; it would be done.
Stanzas three and four are masterly.
You've got to learn to mark the smell of your own ass, though, James, whenever your head's so lodged in it.
This poem should be better than it is: 1. you're better than this 2. you made the error of producing a simultaneously fav-inducing poem that makes me laugh at it - remember, James, greatness requires more justification than dross will ever draw.
*shrug*
That's all I've got.
--
Not All Who Wander Are Lost