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How to Bleed (Free verse) by MacFrantic Do it slowly
And grimace
Watch the red drops dance
But never stray
Never bleed alone
Close your eyes
Bleed in silence
And be thankful that
Your heart still beats
Up the ladder:
To Be Happy
Down the ladder:
dreamer
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 5.4
Posted: June 29, 2006 9:52 PM PDT; Last modified: June 29, 2006 9:52 PM PDTWeighted score: 5.0476813 Overall Rank: 6906 Comments:
[8]
Dovina @ 12.72.36.154
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30-Jun-06/6:36 AM
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Reply
This starts out really great, like a poem that would move me. But when I get to "But never stray, Never bleed alone," the magic stops. How do you not bleed alone unless your cuts are intentional and in company of someone? The last three lines are good. Put something catchy between the good start and the good ending and this could be really good.
A giant globule of spittle or the moist lips of an accountant attending an course on the new Sarbane-Oxley Rules.
Stephen Robins! "Sarbanes-Oxley"? Never say you're an accountant! It would be so very disillusioning.
I am not an accountant. I can prove this. I have a sun tan, I have a finely tailored suit - not of the machine washable variety - my shirts do not have pockets and my cuffs are double at the wrist rather than cut off at the elbow. I do not find auditing whether a company has as many paperclips as it states in its accounts even remotely horny. I have never paid for sex, usually because I am too pissed by that stage to do anything but wet myself. The only 360 degree appraisal I have ever conducted has been in a mirror whilst rubbing my colossal manhood. I do, however, find the new regulations surrounding corporate governance and the role of accountants and their consulting services so exciting that I arc ropes of cum over my belly a bit like spiderman throwing a cobweb.
What is this modern obsession with shirts without pockets? The other day I went to a party after work and didn't have time to get changed. When I arrived some people laughed at me because my shirt had a pocket. I was like "yeah I don't really care what clothes I wear I'm like more into the casual freestyle scene and like I don't need to be confined by the rigid 'no pocket' mores of society."
The next day I rushed to the shops and bought a pocketless shirt. Good Christ what have I become?
You have become a hoax, unrecognized by the previous hoax.
Such a relief! I much prefer my image of you as a rather dashing, plummy, amusingly foul-mouthed/minded Bright Young Thing (more pre-Great-War Edwardian, you understand, as opposed to Sloan-ish). Carry on. And watch the ropey trajectories, would you? I just had this dry-cleaned.
P.S. I went camping with my best friend, a pocketless Gay, these past couple of days, and we laughed endlessly over "bell-end." Your fame extends.
More fragment than poem; hard to connect w/it. Needs flesh. ;)
How delightfully emo.
I like the "do it slowly and grimace" part...I can relate...A silent ecstacy in pain. You write from the heart.
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