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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: You don't know Jackdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Clayman
    ASL Info:    28 - getting late
    Elite Ratio:    6.34 - 609/327/167
    Words: 480
    Class/Type: Story/Me
    Total Views: 791
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2853



    Description:
       Yea so I'm not really a story writer or anything but yea I have this crazy damn urge to just write and write and I dunno, I guess I just started writing some crazy ideas down right here so feel free to annihilate it.


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

    dotsYou don't know Jackdots
    -------------------------------------------


    You don't know Jack

    He will wake up again from his grave of sheets to greet another morning with smoky eyes and a painful knowing.
    He called himself Jack once but these days it is something only others call him.
    He remembers being different, somewhat heavier in reactions and discernible for his taste in rich buffets served with cynicism on days that seem so artificial and distant in light of his new reality brought to life.

    There is a dark sheath and this world is in it, they are compressed specks, rotating pawns in a recurring dream with an open ending.
    He sees it. It tortures him.
    But pain cannot be something when there is light.
    There must be light, it is the only thing that keeps him sane, the thought of some hidden balance existing behind the veil of plastic smiles and unprocessed emotions he tastes in the air when he allows the maelstrom to cover him.

    He does not have any choice other than this, to allow the pain and laughter to exist as a reminder that he is still alive, still human even if the feeling seems so remote.

    They are pillars, keeping things up, walking in patterned fabrics imposed and superimposed to fit designer needs, a coveted culling if you wish.
    He stopped trying to explain to them that this illusion of limitation is but the fascia connecting the horizons of this dream to make things seem a bit more real, they always cry about being bone children born blind no matter how deep his tongue tried to caress their understandings...

    He cannot have this. There cannot be imbalance.

    He asks himself whether there has always been so many ways to see things, the question already becoming old. Everything seems to bleed their essences through an invisible reflection reflecting upon everything and into him.
    He needs it as it needs him to be destroyed and renewed for tomorrows frame..

    They carry prisms.
    They do not know, this is what the war is about.
    There has always been a war, the prisms seem to mean something greater than him or what he can comprehend, he wonders why it is then that he can see needles where others see stars.
    Why are the prisms smudged in some ethereal prohibition mist that taints efforts to explain reality to their hosts?

    His thoughts become nothing more, they are shears that cannot close, he is too obsessed to think anyway.

    He retreats into himself for a few movements of time and contemplation to form an archaic tapestry of images and words to distract him from the growing formation of thoughts he can no longer seem to control, thoughts of changing things, things without balance. This tortures him.

    There must always be balance..

    Svw




    Submitted on 2011-10-21 18:30:08     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Bone children? Such implies there is something else as well.

    I "get" a lot of this, at least as relates to my somewhat offbeat way of thinking and found it pretty well written at least for a relatively narrow audience. The percentage of such audiences is fortunately a bit higher among poets and writers such as anyone apt to read this here. But then I try to keep one foot just out of the insanity of actually "knowing Jack".

    By insanity I refer to of course the perceived version utilized by those who really don't know Jack or would not confess to it if they did but perceptions are what they are. "I know Jack, Jack was a friend of mine and you're no Jack!" Not really... Sorry, I couldn't resist. Actually I suspect you do know a Jack or two.

    "Why are the prisms smudged in some ethereal prohibition mist that taints efforts to explain reality to their hosts?" Excellent observation!
    Jessep: You want answers?
    Kaffee (Tom Cruise): I think I'm entitled to them.
    Jessep: You want answers?
    Kaffee: I want the truth!
    Jessep: You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns.

    A Few Good Men
    written by Aaron Sorkin

    Ever wonder why so many Jewish writers such as Mr. Sorkin are so damn good and enjoy a deserved high rate of success in the "entertainment" business? Substitute "men with guns" above with another proactive that fits better in this case and you have a good case for either paranoia or religion. The smudge serves as a filter that might be wiped to be a little less smuggy sometimes but is also quite prone to having a reapplication of smudge applied on either side.


    | Posted on 2011-10-24 00:00:00 | by Blue Monk | [ Reply to This ]
      First off, I have to say, I love your title. I've been writing a book with a main character named Jack, and this is the title of one of the chapters. So . . . great minds think alike and all that.

    Still, I have to admit, I attempted reading this three or four times before I could finally get through it.

    I know you asked for it to be "annihilated" but I don't want to do that. You talk in your bio about being a goldsmith who likes to work with diamonds. Let me see if I can pull out some gems for you to work with:

    ". . . in a recurring dream with an open ending"

    "They carry prisms.
    They do not know, this is what the war is about."

    And best of all:

    ". . . he wonders why it is then that he can see needles where others see stars."

    These lines all seem to hold power, and to mean something.

    A lot of the rest of it though. . . it just needs a lot of work.

    Lines I found awkward, or distracting (and why):

    "grave of sheets" (I know it's supposed to be a metaphor for getting out of bed. . . but it just makes me think of dusty old bedding)

    "smoky eyes" (this makes me think of women's make-up)

    "compressed specks, rotating pawns" (these two things don't seem part of the same metaphor)

    "when he allows the maelstrom to cover him" ( I think of a maelstrom as something that sucks you in not something that covers you).

    "archaic tapestry" (I think this is a phrase that is overused and kind of vague)

    Now then, all that being said, I have to say, I don't really "get" this piece. I'm not understanding the "story" it's trying to tell. Is this about a madman? Is it about god? I have no idea.

    Perhaps that's why I was distracted by so many different words and phrases. . . .

    Or . . . perhaps the words and phrases that I pointed out were troublesome because they obscured your message.


    I hope this helps.

    Jane
    | Posted on 2011-10-23 00:00:00 | by JanePlane | [ Reply to This ]


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    193010

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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