Litkicks Message Board Archive

Letter - Plese Critique

Posted to Action Poetry

little fishies come, they swim around
broken dogeared tadpoles jump up and down
scared into a corner on there own they
swear and blaspheme, dirty water drifts
big fish swims round and eats them up,
red eyes burn through my soul,
swimming round.
absorbing those tears and rips,
tarmac weeps sorrows of joy as sweat bursts from
smooth black squashed flies
they try to jump and are restricted by there juicy remains that tye them to
a long and painfull death
flashing blue lights tell tales of lover mystery and romance
false loves dies yet herald often looks on and see's masarcre

Act 1

John the Bard Looks round, scours the view, takes his pick,
the yellow and blue berries of the morning
snatched away by messenger of night,
stale saliva bringing pleasure to those green sparkling jewels.
She dissapeared and left him standing staring out in the lonely dessert

Act 2

Lizard snakes and slithers, nearly eaten twice, twisted his way across the body of scales
and shiny leather which are displayed and pressed out upon his skin
rabbit tears and sucks, opening skin, dividing contacts and taking the
oil that oozes across rivers beneath stamps that flow in unison and never give up because they always go on and never stop you fucking fucking bastard bitch.

The narrater always lets his anger fulfill any feelings and step out onto what could have been a greeen and blue canvas for all to consider.
The internet lets juices flow like orange pistols, squirting and firing onto the block of black wood we call ebony, always pronouncing Kate and never realising it's real name that remains hidden.

random text patterns that snake like rivers repeating itself for lack of imagination are spoken between the lines of words that make up the cleches that everyone fucks.
Long slow, and hard very hard and very satisfying.

Sunglasses stenched along french roads of dust and irrigation running, sprinting, through open fields of guttering belonging to roads. Insanity is merely a function of truth, and truth merely a function of the mind, of everything. the truth resides in insanity which resides in nothing at all, and unlike many people thinks belongs in the realms of nice good people, and evil bastards.

Act 3

He, Want Want Want. Kindness and pleasure and happiness sweat from his jugular veins with great amounts, and sweet smelling perfume to his body, his skin, bursting with smell on a look repulsive enough to make her throw up hundreds upon hundreds of time.

Fuck it and give up.

A Childhood was once had and lost and not experianced, and in those years of strict adulthood and sensibility many years of growing up and being childish and learning those oh so crucial sums that add to two, he forgot the fact and delved into Nick headlong, sucking his great long twists of hair like strong winegums on a base of peanuts.

Money flows from the eternal river and everything can be described as both flowing and coming from that river, that stream, a waterfall of using Logic, that archaic device one assumes that similarities in form lead to similarities or differences in Factor.

I think many say the former.
She tried and failed, ignorant pile of pennies.

Act 4

Failure Flaunted like familiar argument spread across 2 aliens that extracted there silver and sucked there blood, making orgasm pulse, vibrate and throb to heaving death. Movements so lucid as to bring ones imagination to pure euphoria. Igor jumped up and down, used his twisted truth to push you to the ground and rape you, drawing blood and then licking his target clean, the clean pure and diligant consumer customer of high society.

Each factor, each form, each act combined and trickled through to him, shredding blonde visions of sex among feelingless feelings for anyone in a tight skirt. He knew he needed it, he knew what he wanted,
White light blinds and gets in the way
switch reduced by dimmer
dimmer broken
light bulb replaceable
no loss taken
broken glass
and shredded skin
Flattered and

Wet with envy