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    dots Submission Name: mid-winter Idots

    Author: Outlaw
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 510/413/195
    Words: 168
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 650
    Average Vote:    1.0000
    Bytes: 1118

       in summertime, the livin's easy.
    how sublime.

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsmid-winter Idots

    the sun has never blazed
    like it did today
    eyes have never exchanged
    like they have today
    and that is to say nothing
    has actually changed
    minds are still confined
    language is still a suffocation
    mathematical mutilation of conceptions
    and communication ad nauseam
    still does not tell me who I am.
    re: that is, who says nothing
    sub: where was the header heading?
    an idea cannot say anything
    a word is the space between two nothings
    it is referentially spurious
    but matters and is serious
    it could mean life or death
    but matters whole in itself less than the rest.
    I知 just going to add a line
    and write in another fine:
    and that is to say nothing.
    by the end of this false rhyme
    there値l be but a soft wind
    blowing my teeth into a chime.
    a new place to hang news:
    that is to say nothing
    is new here but an old blues
    that is death or a bursting
    I am

    Submitted on 2010-01-18 03:05:25     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
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    ||| Comments |||
      "Perhaps, moreover, he whose genius appears deepest and truest excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is profoundly though unutterably conscious."
    Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

    And it is in the nuances of these truths the conscious become lost within-or find likewise incomprehensible due to...

    language is still a suffocation
    mathematical mutilation of conceptions
    and communication ad nauseam...

    Beyond these words, I have naught else to say, but lovely read (serious but lovely nonetheless)-and I look forward to reading more from you in the future.

    | Posted on 2010-02-26 00:00:00 | by Loquacious Mind | [ Reply to This ]
      I知 just going to add a line
    and write in another fine:
    and that is to say nothing.
    by the end of this false rhyme
    there値l be but a soft wind
    blowing my teeth into a chime.

    i still don't like this though given the explanations and what i know of herself, i get that it's important, structurally it feels weak. and i know about using devices like headless iambs to emphasize a point in content, still, if it's a train-wreck, you can't point to the quality of the metal, that's the nuts and bolts of it for me. if you are going to write and empty line, that's sweet but it needn't be a sloppy one.

    here's some tightening up ideas:

    I'll just add another line,
    write in another fine:
    this is to say, overtly: nothing.
    by end of this false rhyme
    there値l be but a soft sung wind
    blown teeth, through-teeth to chime.

    yada yada yada,

    if it were mine i'd [censored] around with variations on variations for hours, and i do. just thoughts.
    | Posted on 2010-01-26 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]
      I'd say that this is restrained you, but sharply refined.

    for me the closing lines, say the last 10 to a dozen hinged around that false rhyme are where the wheels start to fall off technically, and although that sort of fits with you intent, it's [censored] ugly when this is as bland and concentrated a showcase as you could hope for straight up flighting

    you could say tht i'm startled but not surprised and that above all the fastening on to what is important to you (i presume) comes through in spades, this is to say that yes, marc

    this one is full of intent, like an arrowhead sunk in to wood,

    and so i think you might have a more rounded and well paired poem if you examine the underbelly of what is fire here, perhaps it is loneliness

    or the pointlessness of discovering a mentor and a friend. because after all marc, how much sadness can one heart accept

    and we are all meant for death.

    so i'm asking that you find prickly metal and press it to that underbelly, and then i'd say with the shift in tone you'll have a quite remarkable poem.

    you like challenges don't you?

    i don't say my sock poem is great (but i do love it)

    and sometimes i set myself odd challenges like that, how to write about one thing and have it be the key to unlocking another

    and this is me, doing what i know on your page, again.

    | Posted on 2010-01-23 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]
      Language is still a suffocation. My (probably too easy) response to that is to think of 1984, of the new language they were creating so that people could not even think about rebellion or an uprising. It struck me then, I was only thirteen or something and heavily into books and reading, that I had thought of language as freedom, as expression, as some peak of self. I had never thought of its limits and limitations. These days I am too frequently in a position where I need to explain things and language fails me. I often need to build pictures out of words, make words up, gesticulate entirely more than I am comfortable with, in order to expess. And the word wordless is never enough when we are.

    I also think of misrecognition, how I believe every human being struggles with feeling misrecognised at some point, yet that is a made up word and there is, I think, no actual word to express that.

    Language can stifle.

    An idea cannot say anything. For some reason I respond to that with an awful weight plumping in my stomach. There is something punching and hopeless about that line, it makes me want to lash out while feeling much too heavy to be able to. And the next line, too- something just makes me '............'.
    (wordless, you see, but that is altogether to easy an expression for the state)

    None of this, though, tells you who I am.

    Nothing is new here but an old blues. You know what I mean.

    This poem makes me want to scream, and the ending both moreso and softer, makes me softer about the whole feeling (that feeling in the chest, you know the one).

    I am. That is a statement which is hurtful and joyful and terrible.

    I am I.


    | Posted on 2010-01-22 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]

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