Deep underground prospects at the river-crook of my arm,
where we buried charcoal with our melted-together clay-pot palms
in the hopes of diamond blood-bond love-root veins to come.
Your live hand on my elbow as we stepped nearby the fresh-meat stream,
surrounded by nakedly decorous walls of our own-made urn like a new cinema
waiting for the installation of a film, our planted not-yet sparkling dreams.
(There was an aspiring towards dichotomous patterning settling as if something
neither flesh nor earth, neither flesh-made nor earth-made, would keep
the reel reeling round, would keep the thinking-things reeling round our own-made urn.)
Our embracing blood-pumping bodies muscle vessel
that we used to move the soil on our banks, to water new-blossom foliage,
though the movie-moments and nearly-diamonds were found in and for
the internal waterways alone.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
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125,022 Literary Works • 672,759 Reviews
Unfortunetly, I have to agree with Chanson.
I think you over used the descriptions. As you read the poem it took too much time to try and figure out what you were talking about and the reader didn't really have the time to just enjoy the poem. For me, it was just too complicated, and I kept getting lost. And I'm still not exactly sure what it is you were saying.
I think it might help if you broke up some of the lines, just gave the reader smaller chunks to have to deal with, but it could also do with a little rewording in my opinion.
i think most people will think this is wonderful.
for me, it was far too ornate. over decorated to the point of making it almost tacky. i felt a kind of arrogance from this poem. i seemed to be weighed down by the images, the language. too much.