The Exorcism of Aphrodite

Hold it in,
a lecherous, sickly bulb
with little white hairs growing from it,
twining into the dirt, sucking,
hot and black and lazy inside
like texas oil.

Weed it out,
run from this garden, this fallen courtyard
where men and women stand alone,
their faces eaten and ragged
painted with seepy cosmetics and lies.

There you sleep,
a purple funk,
a pupated slumber,
lying cold and soulless,
like a thirsty ghost-town.

You hold your breath in the dark
and close your eyes, lidded and hopeless.
Your breath creaks (tremulous)
and your fingers clench up, blistered
by the freezing glassiness of your bedsheets.

It is stamped out, ground out,
juiceless, like herbs in an apothecary's hands.
Nothing more than a breathless wink,
a sinful gyration, a whisper maybe.
(the wise stars shape me a chastity belt.)

We sit in the back of her chevy truck,
looking out – away – at anything but each other,
our hands just inches apart,
but untouchable,
like old, stern things in an antique shop.

Forbid it, stifle it,
stamp it out with your heel.
Keep it with a good intention
until it is nothing more than a fossil:
a few scattered traces and dry bony imprints
in his rotten dreams.

Hey there Kylan, June here!


I believe I have mentioned before that I don't like reviewing your work because of how well written it is? (Yes, I know, that sounds twisted, as if I only like reviewing works with flaws so that I can harshly correct them-- but!)

I noticed that a lot of your poems have a "southern" touch to them; meaning that when I read them, I sense something of the south lying in the words. I'm not sure how you do it, but it comes off perfect every time.

I really enjoy your style! Your combination of big and small words always sounds flawless and flows perfectly.

The similes and imagery in this piece are brilliant; There isn't a single thing in this poem I would change.


My apologies for the lack of constructive criticism/anything valuable to say .

Gold star, great job. Brilliant!

June

Hey, Kylan.

I've always found your poems incredibly hard to critique, because I always thought that they were perfect because they were written so brilliantly. So, can I say that this poem didn't work for me?

It's the commas, dude.

Hold it in,

a lecherous, sickly bulb

with little white hairs growing from it,

twining into the dirt, sucking,

hot and black and lazy inside

like texas oil.

There's too many commas in here, and it disrupts the flow. A comma in poetry is a short rest, right? It doesn't sound right, especially in the bolded line. First, lecherous and sickly contrast each other in sound, and it just doesn't sound right. I think its the 's' on the end of lecherous that cuts into the 's' on sickly and it messes everything up and makes it sound weird. So... just get rid of some of these commas, man. I can't say I'm too fond of the underlined line. It's... a very simple line, and it contrasts with the rest of the poem.

Weed it out,

run from this garden, this fallen courtyard

where men and women stand alone,

their faces eaten and ragged

painted with seepy cosmetics and lies.

Can't say I like the bolded part too much. When you said "it" in the line above this one, you're implying that we are supposed to weed "it" out of the garden; thus we are running "it" from this garden. What I'm trying to say is insert the word "it" after the word "run" in the second line, because it sounds and looks weird without it. Because you're not imply that we are supposed to be running out of this garden (this fallen courtyard) >> I really enjoyed that part. ^_^

I like the third line... but... it doesn't sound right. I think you lose your beat in this line, majorly. It takes a lot of time to say "men and women" for some reason, and it loses everything. I like the imagery I get... but this just isn't working. But I can't offer any suggestions to change it. Epic fail, Jared.

The next two lines are fine.

There you sleep,

a purple funk,

a pupated slumber,

lying cold and soulless,

like a thirsty ghost-town.

I really enjoyed this stanza. It contrasted with the rest of the poem because of it's short lines, but it fit in nicely.

You hold your breath in the dark

and close your eyes, lidded and hopeless.

Your breath creaks (tremulous)

and your fingers clench up, blistered

by the freezing glassiness of your bedsheets.

I don't like the (tremulous). It doesn't fit in with the rest of the poem, and when I read it, it came out jarring, like it was hastily inserted. The second to last line, you can ditch that comma, for stylistic purposes. It is a rather dark couple of lines? Gah, I'm having a hard time trying to explain myself here. >.< When I read the last two lines, I get this dark picture of a blistered hand gripping something freezing. I mean, that's not a happy picture in my head, and so ditching that last comma will add to the effect, I think.

It is stamped out, ground out,

juiceless, like herbs in an apothecary's hands.

Nothing more than a breathless wink,

a sinful gyration, a whisper maybe.

(the wise stars shape me a chastity belt.)

Again with the commas. They just don't work here, man. I don't know what to say to get rid of them, but this needs to be reworked. I really feel that the commas are jarring this pretty poem up into a pretty horrible poem.

We sit in the back of her chevy truck,

looking out – away – at anything but each other,

our hands just inches apart,

but untouchable,

like old, stern things in an antique shop.

Things?

THINGS?

Wow, Kylan, you can do much better than that. Be specific. If you're sitting in your chair right now, thinking, "I put the word 'things' in there for a purpose," you must know that it just doesn't work, especially with the beautiful words that you have in here.

I loved the rest of the stanza. ^_^

Forbid it, stifle it,

stamp it out with your heel.

Keep it with a good intention

until it is nothing more than a fossil:

a few scattered traces and dry bony imprints

in his rotten dreams.

I love the first couple lines. -----

Tell you what. I have to go right now. I'll come back later and finish up this critique. Hold on til then.

-Jared

EDIT: Back from Del Taco with a full belly!

Anyway. I loved those first couple of lines. The rhythm was perfect! I enjoyed it a lot. In fact, this whole stanza was very well done. You did a great job with this poem, Kylan! I'm very pleased to have read this, but it's those commas, man. You have to fix those, because they are killing this poem.

Great job, Kylan. Looking forward to more from you soon.

-Jared

Kylan --

What what what can I say about this? On first impression, your writing dazzles. On second impression, your writing dazzles. I've said it so many times, but you are such a competent writer and I adore your adoration for the singular word. It's like you understand this chemistry words have that other people (me) seem to fail to figure out.

But I'll comb through this a third time, and try to offer you comments.

Hold it in,
a lecherous, sickly bulb
with little white hairs growing from it,
twining into the dirt, sucking,
hot and black and lazy inside
like texas oil.

I love the last three lines much more than the first three. Lecherous seems like a strange word to use, but it's still appropriate because the hard sound of it echoes the harsh sounds in this stanza. At the same time, the harsh almost dirty sounding imagery almost draws me in more, because it makes me want to know where you are going. If anything... perhaps no comma after lecherous?

I don't care for the tremulous in the parentheses, that single word almost trapped in there -- I feel there should be more in the parentheses, are just no parentheses at all.

Comb, comb, comb...

You know what, Ky. I just don't have anything else really to say. You write well, and I really enjoy this poem. It's even fun to read, with the word choice you have, and the story you tell.

Oh yeah, great review. *not* Kylan, you are the one who challenges us to squint at writing and ponder deep things.

~ Clo

I've decided to be all official and proffesional-like with this review, just like all them other good writers do.

a-hyuck.

Kylan wrote:Hold it in,
a lecherous, sickly bulb
with little white hairs growing from it,
twining into the dirt, sucking,
hot and black and lazy inside
like texas oil.

the underlined: that sounds strange. howsabout a sickly, lecherous little bulb?
the bolded: blech. don't like it. doesn't quite float my boat. are you implying that it wants to grow, or that it's rotting?
the italicized: that doesn't really need to be there, now does it? the stanza would sound better without that.

Weed it out,
run from this garden, this fallen courtyard
where men and women stand alone,
their faces eaten and ragged
painted with seepy cosmetics and lies.

There you sleep,
a purple funk,
a pupated slumber,
lying cold and soulless,
like a thirsty ghost-town.

You hold your breath in the dark
and close your eyes, lidded and hopeless.
Your breath creaks (tremulous)
and your fingers clench up, blistered
by the freezing glassiness of your bedsheets.

It is stamped out, ground out,
juiceless, like herbs in an apothecary's hands.
Nothing more than a breathless wink,
a sinful gyration, a whisper maybe.
(the wise stars shape me a chastity belt.)

We sit in the back of her chevy truck,
looking out – away – at anything but each other,
our hands just inches apart,
but untouchable,
like old, stern things in an antique shop.

Forbid it, stifle it,
stamp it out with your heel.
Keep it with a good intention
until it is nothing more than a fossil:
a few scattered traces and dry bony imprints
in his rotten dreams.[/quote]