Young Writers Society

Morning driving on a sun-stung Mexican highway,
concrete wisps around like Sahara sand,
flickers on and off through the eons.
Sweat pulses like the tide,
men sprouting from behind tattered
trucks, AK-47 trigger-depressed.
The bullets rain down like sunlight
through closed eyelids.

At night, we hear the owls snorting crack
and hoodying through cold-parched backcountry.
Sometimes I go with them,
and they hardly glance at me, but they give me water,
and it tastes like shit and like heaven.
No cars, just low-flying swag and
jokes about girls and about blood.
They sneer wide, but I realize that they're all rape
and no kill, except themselves.

Life is a dead sister on a battered car mattress.
Sometimes her blood still drips on me, little girl blood,
but I don't complain. It feels soothing,
like drug-smothered love,
or something. Emotions are painful in this heat;
try to shut them out, try to fall away,
but it was so quick. Gangs are like that,
just a tattered truck and then a breath of fate
and a whimper.

Kafka.

Just stopping by to lend a thought or two. Nice work as usual, but I do think there's room for a few comments here and there. Allow me to get to things.

First off, and you may or may not disagree, but the opening two lines read so off to me. It just didn't quite seem to roll off the tongue as well as sun-stung Mexican highway. I think you could definitely find some smoother way of introducing driving than morning driving. It's just a little sliver off the beginning I smudged through subconsciously in my head to carry on with the imagery of the rest of the stanza. No bueno, Kafka.

Also in the first stanza, not to sound all nit-picky, but the word tattered used in reference to a chunk of metal like a truck just doesn't quite mesh the right way. Maybe try throwing in a different word. As for the overall flow of the first stanza, it seemed a bit too cut-and-dry compared to the following stanza. Then again I'm still trying to decipher whether that was purposeful or not. You're bringing in images in flashes that takes on a certain personification as to what you're describing. It seems to work in regards to a stylistic effect, but not quite so much in sync with the rest of the poem.

I really like how you could describe and shape words in more pristine and collected sentences in the second and third stanzas. Though I'm loving the images the flashes of description give me in the first, I wish all three stanzas could better match and level up to each other in the same respect. But maybe that's just my own preference. Your closing lines were so on key. I was able to really target your words and the environments/situations for what they really were. And that was plain raw, southern border Mexico. xD

I commend you on this piece. You really knew how to draw the proper inspiration. It was a good read, but considering the last review I gave you, being so focused on my impressions, I'll spare you the fierce pat on the back. ;]

-Smylin'

Kafka,

I only managed to read SmylinG's review afterward, so there might be a few things I repeated. Ah well.

Morning driving on a sun-stung Mexican highway,
concrete wisps around like Sahara sand,
flickers on and off through the eons.

I actually love the opening lines, however you confuse me here with the third line. I am a fan of the fragmented style, but here, I have to stop and wonder what exactly is it that is flickering? I don't think it's clear. That being said, I'm loving the use of "sun-stung" for a highway, and the metaphor with the Sahara sand - you get a grounded sense of imagery right off the bat, plus loving the sounds ^-^

Sweat pulses like the tide,

What a weird verb choice. Tides don't pulse o-0 Or sweat for that matter. When I think of pulse, I think of a heartbeat, or a wave, or even like music pulsing can work. Dictioary.com has it as "throbbing" So when I imagine sweat pulsing, I get this really disturbing image in my head --like the Mummy where those bugs sort of bubble out of his skin? That's what I'm imagining happening with the sweat. It's very bizarre, and I'm not sure what you are going for with that particular image.

men sprouting from behind tattered
trucks, AK-47 trigger-depressed.
The bullets rain down like sunlight
through closed eyelids.

I love this bit right here, I get this image of those typical scenes in a lot of heist/action movies, especially with that description of the bullets raining down part. Though "tattered" I'm not a fan of its usage here. I like the alliteration, but other than that, I just can't see it. I mean, I get what it is that you /mean/ but I feel there's a better word for it. With tattered, I always think of worn, ripped clothing. Not necessarily mechanical trucks.

At night, we hear the owls snorting crack
and hoodying through cold-parched backcountry.
Sometimes I go with them,
and they hardly glance at me, but they give me water,
and it tastes like shit and like heaven.

The "them" here confused me - I thought it was referring to the owls at first. Though I love that image of them as crack addicts, hehe. Those owl-eyes. It explains everything! xD

No cars, just low-flying swag and
jokes about girls and about blood.
They sneer wide, but I realize that they're all rape
and no kill, except themselves.

Last two lines: Interesting, interesting, I like the turn of phrase, because we're used to the whole “all talk and no action” – but this “all rape and no kill” not only reveals something about the men in the poem, but it reveals a little about the speaker as well and makes a really nice segway into that next stanza.

Life is a dead sister on a battered car mattress.
Sometimes her blood still drips on me, little girl blood,
but I don't complain. It feels soothing,
like drug-smothered love,
or something. Emotions are painful in this heat;
try to shut them out, try to fall away,
but it was so quick. Gangs are like that,
just a tattered truck and then a breath of fate
and a whimper.

I don't have any complaints here, by this point I'm marveling. Yeah, the imagery is nice—but the voice of the speaker really develops within these last lines. There are some great sounds in this last part as well. Love that first line here especially. Still not so sure about “tattered”

Overall I enjoyed the imagery, of gangsters, and the drug-war Mexico, the violence, the heat. It all comes together very well. I like the voice - the only thing I would consider are the specific word-choices. ^_^ But that's an easy fix, no?

Hope this helps!

~ as always, Audy