dormetheus's profile
AGE:
28
LOC: Springfield, MO
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: September 23
LOC: Springfield, MO
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: September 23
I am a college student, currently pursuing my English MA. After that I intend to get my MFA and teach creative writing on the college level. I focus on poetry but really enjoy fiction, especially slipstream scifi/fantasy.
My writing bends toward the surreal and metaphysical where rhythm provides most of the narrative, though a story is nothing without substance. I write a lot about sex and relationships, trying to draw a middle point between gender, or blurring it. There is some solace in confusion.
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Version 1
6 Reviews
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Welcome to the field of dead flowers, the stamen craving that buzzing touch and left waiting. Listen, you can hear the void of wings, the ghosts hopping petal to petal in the springtime snow. It doesn't matter much to you, the gardens we walked in on the year's first blue moon are being overturned for parking. You always hated the unexpected sting of bugs, the way your bright pink shirt attracted dive-bombs when you tried to eat Chinese take-out in the park. Maybe you'll feel better now that ...
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Version 1
4 Reviews
2 Comments
I’ve spent too many hours of the day Waiting for the night to slip its silent veil So I may sneak, loud and restless, away Into the comfort of my couch and sail On waves of mindless fantasy, desire Slipped like women’s arms into silky sleeves Of my clothes. I admit the weight of age Has collapsed, like houses in rampant fire, My body. The ambition of my youth leaves And leaves me nothing in its wake. * The drinking starts to numb the scattered thoughts Of what should be done, where I am now, ...
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Version 1
4 Reviews
4 Comments
“If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.” --William Blake The living room pulsed in cream shades of lamp light, outline of tigers cast across the walls. The kitchen groaned with appliance, a white noise of the fridge, scurry of dishes piled in the sink, silver hunger of knives. She laid the blindfold silk on the coffee table, ear buds seeded in her glomed fist, waited seconds until she felt the gathered cloud of pain pills, Jack, and mushr...
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Version 1
5 Reviews
0 Comments
He was consciously anonymous, staying up in late motel rooms to watch scrambled porn. He ignored the life he led, pausing briefly for the songs that were written for him. Why lie? He waited for himself. His wife was home alone, browsing home renovation catalogues to find the best pool boy package. She loved her husband very much but honestly we all have needs, we all need someone to come with when no one’s coming home. He never went first or last, showed up at the exact time in the exact same...
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Version 1
4 Reviews
0 Comments
I: was drowning in Echo's pond and fell in love with man, my high cheek bones burn with the flush solitude of sex. What could be more lovely or reversed than the rippled mirror of my face, pursed lips encroaching with desire equidistant. Here the even dance is Dionysian, pain and pleasure come with the folded sharpness of a staple, a church bell. To you, my chest dangles limply in a cocoon of cotton candy hair, to me, it is a harp strung taut and humming on the fingers of my own best hand. - ...
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The crux of writing a short poem is that you have to be even more exact with your words. "No world, only rain" has a nice sound to it, almost chiasmic. Remove the redundant "only" in line 2. You need a verb in your first stanza. Nothing has happened so far. I'm not sure why the narrator is numb. After giving sensual details like heat and scent, then how could the narrator not sense them? It's contradictory. "Only our spirits ache/for the feel of each other's touch." --again, you have a redund...
The simplicity of this poem is attractive. I love love love the usage of place names, though i wish I could get a better sense of them through imagery. Also, your ending seems ambivalent. I wish it opened up more into the emotional world and gave me a sense of loss or distraction. Maybe some metaphor would help, or maybe it would just distract from the linear narrative.
funny. Sort of an object poem, from what I could tell. I'm not sure what person 'wound your fingers round' though. I'm getting the image of eating snails, escargot. Spice this up with a few concrete details and some more honest humor and you've really got something.
This still feels like a thought than a poem. It feels uncomfortable how directly you break the fourth wall, as though you had a perspective that you are "letting us in on." That might not be the case, but the tone and implied 2nd person give it that feel. So, why is this a poem? (something my professor always asked me) Your theme, perception, needs to be demonstrated through a central conflict and series of images. All you've really done is talk about it. Look at your verbs and you'll notice ...
Does Your Toe Tag Reveal the State of Your Legs? Blood swept down the sidewalk and puddled in the cracks like melted hard candy in July. Ants marched in straight lines around matted, blond locks. The coroner brushed the dirt from her sundress after the snap shots were taken. The yellow tape read Crime Scene but Detective Greene found little evidence of a crime-- no eyewitnesses, no odd fingerprints, no foreign DNA under her nails. Beautiful women don’t fall from space, not since Barbara Ella....
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