Diplomacy

This next poem is the latest from the scrawl of my algebra notebook. I really love it, and I don't know why. I guess I love it because it is a memoir. It is all I have to remember,so, critics, come one, come all. It's a personal account. I'm hoping this poem pleases the literary gods more than my last. I'm going to put it in my creative writing portfolio at school. The teacher is putting our portfolios in the library for the whole school to view, so any help polishing the stone would be much appreciated.Enjoy. Social diplomacy is my favorite sparse topic. It's such a stupid concept.


There is a black hole of existence
stealing the senses back:
To the drippy old gutters
and complaining of crickets,

as amber midnight reflects rainwater
to and fro on the porch swing
feeling of degenerating wood paint,
and the musty grime of humidity

which airs the mutiny of tongue to deny
the feverous wet earth---
that ignores the staccato of your every pulse
I feel with your head on my shoulder.

Neither does the dark disguise, head bowed,
your broodful nature,
nor the sideways glances
denoting synchronization, as I know you---

Wrestling by the car for the keys
where I fall into your arms,
stiff for a moment,
and you nearly push me away.

It is adamantine.
I am your porcelain doll:
wan and vacant at your discretion
like the "free" couch on the curbside,

of its own accord,
yet always yours by default---
that which you refuse to claim
for the color of the upholstery.

And all the while, the singular moments
in this venus fly trap situation,
of either way, once more in your eyes
and over the edge to our end...

There is a black hole of existence
stealing the senses back:
To the drippy old gutters
and complaining of crickets,

You start off with this beautiful "black hole of existance", lingering on it for a second, and then you take off on a different tangent, completely forgetting you left this incomplete.

as amber midnight reflects rainwater
to and fro on the porch swing
feeling of degenerating wood paint,
and the musty grime of humidity

This is pretty, but it seems to serve very little point to the poem. I don't believe it even sets the scene, so please, could you make it clearer how this ties into the rest of the poem?

which airs the mutiny of tongue to deny
the feverous wet earth---
that ignores the staccato of your every pulse
I feel with your head on my shoulder.

Neither does the dark disguise, head bowed,
your broodful nature,
nor the sideways glances
denoting synchronization, as I know you---

Again, pretty, but somwhat vague. Not as much now, though, because I can see you leading to a point. But it takes you two stanzas to do so.

Then, you begin the actual poem - with a point, reason, action, whatever. I think this goes well.

and over the edge to our end...

Just a nit-pick, but I hate it when people end the poem with "..." it seems airy, and I think you could've ended this with a defintite period. The drifting is unnessary, because by the end of the poem there is no more mystery. You have revealed most or all of it to us, and so there is no need for wonder - hence, no need to drift away.

Umm what more can be said? Other than i liked it, and agree with gummy