Oh true... some people really are too big for their own words.
I've always admired the bluntness of your poetic voice. And now I think I know why. Some people try to be frank by sprinkling their sentences with a lot of "[censored]'s" here, a lot of "[censored]'s" there and countless "[censored] you's" from every goddamn angle that it justs seems all too... uhm... pornstar-ish. But with you, it always feels like the [censored]es and the [censored]s and the [censored] yous fit naturally. It really does feel like you are talking to me.
And for this piece, I also like the added touch of sensuality. It positions the readers face so that you wouldn't miss the big slap.
Oh, you hussy. Oh, us hussies: a voyeuristic take on those ladies who have the power of pout and aren't afraid to use it. Fair dos!
I think you have buffered this, have held back. I think there is capacity to entice, tease, titillate a little more. That is where ego comes into play, holding you back from the full extent of sexuality you could have streamed into these words.
Because a woman who recognises the lure of lash-batting upon the less-fair sex, recognises deeper currents of phero-electricity which stunastoundshock them into willing slavery.
Poor men. Don't stand a chance.
I think in your instance (and mine, I try very hard not to use my feminine wiles for selfish means) the difference between being seductive and slutty is the fact that you knew where to stop. Like I said, you held back. I'm sure this poem could have been filled with the force of a succubus, if you wanted it to.
Those girls, you'll know the ones I mean...those girls who use their lashes for new dresses or drinks from strangers, who fuck old men for another line of coke and get up an hour earlier to rearrange their made-up mask before their ugly selves are revealed, they could never write a piece like this.
Because to them, their allure is a tool.
To you (I'll rebuff my ego, am fed up of its thought-limitations!) and me, our allure is a gift.
Oh, lucky men....
Self-portraits usually make me think of pompous sketches over-elaborately painted with sickening pride or messy gothic self-indulgences of a tortured artist with posed frown. And always the self-portrait of the dead, something historic and distant, and certainly never sexy.
This poem snarls, with a mix of lust and loathing. A kind of helplessness that needs and can't help but bite. A venus flytrap he can't help but find himself caught in.
...well isn't this to serve as a warning to others?
your reportage style is incongruous with the choice of line break yet as ever it seams, the judder serves to better inform the reader of how it is to be viewing matters from your standpoint.
to that end this works doesn't it? you get to say what you need to say and we understand implicitly what it is you have said.
i am also mindful though of the carefully controlled salaciousness of the piece - it's as if you would quite happily have us all sweating like foundrymen yet you balance your need to do this to us with a degree of integrity that just about saves us...
...saves us for what i'm not too sure but that, i daresay, will be for another day.
and if this isnt the start of the itch i dont know what is... i mean seriously...
i cant say i have ever read anything from the jilted ex lovers perspective... this is a completely new light on a very well known topic... i guess its all about stage ques and asides...
i love the way her words and her actions say completely different things... the way he is so confused because he knows how it should be but his body wants something completely else and well... hes a guy so the body usually wins out... something about god gave me a head and penis and only enough blood to operate one at a time or something to that extent...
and youre right... he didnt stand a chance. its like the way a girl i used to know would insist on going over to some guys house and kissing him, just to get him going as far as i could ascertain, just to tell him he was rolled and it was over... he didnt stand a chance...
you almost paint girls out to be mean in this piece... as if it aint just guys who are the heart breakers
I think this is the highlight in your piece. I've had plenty ex boyfriend but i never really payed attention to any of it because none of them didn't matter. They weren't serious any way so who cared. But this has to deal with "Yea man, i cared and looks what you made me do because of it".
It was interesting to read. I don't get to see much pieces like these. Your passion was there when you wrote it. It's totally there.
One suggestion, instead of: and you,
will believe them.