Empty

Spoiler

Edited

The air is a billowing thicket of acrylic heat,
since no AC saves four-dollar-gasoline
for jaydrivers in the zenith of their days,
those days when driving left feels right—
to lean over and report back that in fact
the world is flat
or bat shit crazy—
and later I remember
our moment's posthumous hush
filled by analog skepticism of a stop light's meaning
at empty intersections,
feeling for my knob-dial-grooves,
you forget that jazz and rock
and roll are just different words for sex
or whatever you call what we did
the night before, soaked like tiramisu
and vaulted by lightning-less thunder
receding behind the timbre of prayers-in-vain—
but what did I know of gods
who build their temples over one-match-away-oil
but what do I know.

The Chinese fire-drill is over.

Compass points to empty.

I didn't really feel that the repetition of 'I'll never die' was needed for the last line, but overall a solid poem. You have put great effort into this, if it is a little bit colloquial. I felt that the part about the gallons in brackets, '($4.35/gallon)', disrupted the flow, even if it was nice to see that. I think your main improvements are to proof read your structure and your use of language. Overall, nice job.

I really enjoyed you piece; though like that last comment "I will never die", did not need to be repeated like that.
If you choose to keep that line though, I would suggest putting a coma between the two lines there like this "I will never die, I will never die." Or to add some more emotion into it write it like this, "I will never die...never."
Thanks about it.
Well done overall.
Keep up the good work!
Will.

Hello inkwell.

Nice. Good. I'm liking it. However...

The air is a billowing thicket of acrylic heat

This line sounded nice, but "billowing thicket" just didn't seem right once I really thought about it. When I imagine a thicket, I think "tangled copse of trees" or something to that effect. Hence the oddness of the word paired with "billowing". I would suggest comparing heat to something more fluid, but your choice of words in this instance doesn't detract from the poem, so do as you will.

and later I remember
our moment's posthumous hush

I love this. The French compare sex with death, and I interpreted "posthumous hush" with that in mind. Perhaps not rightly, but it made sense and was very well done in my opinion.

Overall, your poem was great. However, there were a couple of instances where it became muddled. I felt like you knew what you were talking about and referencing, but the majority of your readers don't. The ending especially was overwhelming. I followed you in the beginning and middle sections, but once I got to "soaked like tiramisu", you lost me. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that the last section seemed scattered.

...buuuuuut maybe that was your point? Reading over it again, the significance of the repetition in the last line starts to sink in. Madness? Insanity? That's the feel I'm getting. Typically repetition reiterates the ultimate message, but this didn't seem to drive any point home. Hmmm...just trying to figure it out, is all.

So. Try to be clearer in your diction and conclude your poem carefully. I know I tend to rush the ending because I'm more concerned with the rest of the poem. But this just makes your piece trail off at the end and leave the reader without a sense of completion. You may as well print "To Be Continued" at the end. You (the writer) manipulate the emotions and attention of your readers. If you don't want to go out with a bang, at least don't leave us wondering what you were trying to say.

Sorry for the rant. I did truly enjoy this piece. Good work.

Sincerely,
Rose

The flow seemed a bit too fast for me, to be honest. Almost like it was all one run-on sentence. Other then that, I really liked the poem. It had a nice feel to it, and the last line really gave relevance to the title. I know, this review isn't as good as the ones before it, but I'm not that good of a reviewist. Anyway, like I said, the flow just seems a bit to fast for me, but maybe that's just personal choice. All in all, good piece and keep writing.

Comes off quasi-Ginsberg and then imagery thick and heavy with multitudinous stew of Friedman reporting times-are-a-changing perceptions.

What's your culture inkwell? Who are you? Granted, I think you know both of those fairly well, it's why your poetry isn't half bad and I appreciate some of the deeper things you do. I really do. However, that 60's spirit man....it really is gone. Because while people still protest and riot and rebel, they've lost a common cause to do so. Happened all throughout history, but the 50's and 60's were the popular time to harken back to because they're the modern time many people can remember, be shown on TV, etc.

But paint dries inkwell. The puns get old and the memes wear faster still. We need to drop dimes and impress people and not talk.

inkwell wrote:The air is a billowing thicket of acrylic heat,
since no AC saves four-dollar-gasoline
for jaydrivers in the zenith of their days,
those days when driving left feels right—

The first line just feel dropped into, like you're dropping some sleazy pornesque atmosphere on me and you know and I know it and it's just odd for both of us to reflect. I like how you work in images with your voice, and you don't sacrifice this for voice. Not at all. Very nice. But, you rely far too much on literary aspects of language more than you actually do more than say say say and a little show. I can't find any emotion in this is the problem.

to lean over and report back that in fact
the world is flat
or bat shit crazy—

Ooo, emotion. Not. Just stating. It seems like a police report in a way. Where's the inflection of a voice Inkwell?

and later I remember
our moment's posthumous hush
filled by analog skepticism of a stop light's meaning
at empty intersections,

Big words big words big words big words. Needs more voice. Fine images. Such big ideas. Such giant feet you have grandma but a human head!? There's something not quite right there!

feeling for my knob-dial-grooves,
you forget that jazz and rock
and roll are just different words for sex
or whatever you call what we did
the night before,

The beginning, a little predictable, not totally sure what pretentious level of foreshadowing to musical references to jazz and music and sex (see now, how those words reference, why do they reference? What do they mean today? That's far more interesting for a poem Inkwell. Find the right questions, the right life experiences, the right angles.) you are going to, before you lazily roll over and say the sex was something....you did the night before. Mkay. I'm as uninterested as your speaker comes off. Wait, if this the point of the poem?

But I'm just analyzing. I stopped getting into the poem because the speaker's voice is belabored with their own self doubt. Their own epitome of life shown in boredom. Sad. :/ What is about these things in their lives that you can show even more? Give personality and a shot of life, hmm? Not just a love stain on the seat.

soaked like tiramisu
and vaulted by lightning-less thunder
receding behind the timbre of prayers-in-vain—
but what did I know of gods
who build their temples over one-match-away-oil
but what do I know.

The chinese fire-drill is over.

Compass points to empty.

One thing I do appreciate in this poem is your playfulness with the sound of words and words that have to do with sound. Very good. And to be honest, you do a good job of playing with rhythm and defining space and form...but get a little deeper in there.

Get that post modern existential crisis of lack of meaning out of this. It's not attractive and won't get you the right lovers. Find the right charismatic voice to do more than mindlessly slam though; you need emotion, powerful voice, and a way to label the poem as yours and yours alone. Something that makes people reader, more than just your fans, but many people. Even if they hate what you do. Your ending right now could work, but make the build up as sure as the meter becomes empty. Good luck.