Mischief seems to connote some minor form of playful antagonism. Yet the word also connotes evil and devilishness, so it's a term rooted in worldview. To the Devil, all mortals are trifles—little playthings to be damned and discarded. It's a label used on children—what, to imply that they're little devils? So embedded in the word is a whole worldview.
Combat Expiration: 12am PST, 2/7/2011
Critique Expiration: 12am PST, 2/9/2011
Bonuses/Penalties: +3 if posted by 6pm PST, 2/4/2011, +2 if posted by 10pm PST 2/4/2011, +1 if posted by 2am PST 2/5/2011, -1 if posted by 6am PST 2/7/2011, -2 if posted by 12pm PST 2/7/2011.
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The Things We Do for Love
ReplyDeleteIt is so hard to remember the first time I saw her. I mean, I know it would have been at that little coffee place where she worked. Pete’s I think it’s called, down on corner of 25th and Park, I just don’t remember the exact date. What is etched indelibly on mind though is when she first noticed me. It was on a Thursday, it was March and the date was the 22nd of last year. I was kind of in a daze, and I just keep looking at her hair the way it fluttered up and down with the force of the hot air. Our eyes caught in the reflection for the briefest second and she quickly turned. My shyness grabbed a hold of my desire and ushered me quickly away. I remember cursing my cowardice as I ran away. “She smiled at you, you idiot, why didn’t you smile back? Why are so afraid?” That night I made up my mind, the next time she looked at me I was going to act like a man, and let her know she was the one.
The days that followed were so magical and painful for me. Every morning on my way to work I would walk past Pete’s hoping to catch a glimpse of her. “If she sees you just smile at her, don’t be such a pussy” Sometimes I would see her through the window but she was always busy behind the counter. I really started to get a sense of who she was. She was kind of shy like me, not a lot of friends and she rarely went anywhere after work except straight home. I was pretty sure that she really had been flirting with me that Thursday evening because she did not have a boyfriend. She never went out at night and she never got cards or letters from any men.
With each passing day I became more enamored with her. I was falling in love with her, with that delicate blond hair that she spent so much time on, her seductive grey-blue eyes always hidden from everyone but me, and her sexy but innocent matching lingerie sets folded so neatly in her top drawer. I knew it was only a matter of time now, and she would see me again and we could stop this excruciating dance.
The night we finally got together was so unforgettable. I spent well over an hour getting ready, because I wanted the moment to perfect in every way. New clothes, hat and gloves, everything had to be just right. I picked the perfect spot , a place where she would have to see me this time. I was not going to leave it to chance any longer. The wait that evening was almost unbearable, it seemed like hours, I was so nervous just standing there. The anticipation was so palpable that I think she sensed it too as she put her hand on the closet door and began to pull it open.
perverse fan of my work
ReplyDeleteso fucking in love with my fucking
dirty bitch words
he fucks me in e-mail
I fuck him back
he likes James Wright
I like James Tate
he prefers the word cock
I'm all about dick
he spews CUNT
I hiss pusSsSy
we break up
we get back together
time to comb Dallas Craig's List, I tell him
he tells me
to fucking
go
for
it
Savage Disobedience [Combatwords Poem, February 4, 2011]
ReplyDeleteHow does it feel to attract the whole mob?
Web intersections by hand and bike rage
Circles around you. They're calling; you come
Reaching for drivers like you—they've had it.
One of them swings at the crowd with truck door.
Missing, he leaps to the street and flings bikes
Out of the way and the crowd's confused. Pride
Strays to an anger—you call out, "hold hands
Break for the light and the traffic shall pass."
Spirits of violence giggle, slap off
Glasses and push you; they're balling threats, fists.
Shouldn't pedestrians trump their bike ride?
Shouldn't a carefully argued speech sway
Cyclists protesting cars... is it you?
Helter Skelter
ReplyDeleteThe air rang like finest crystal,
and every bead of foam tossed
from the curling fist of every wave
became a prism, catching and reflecting every
hue that danced and twirled across the earth.
Her hand and mine were tightly clasped, our fingers
engineered to interlace.
Our heels pressed perfect bowls into the sand
that filled with water where crustaceans paddled
playfully about.
The ocean breeze and sun had signed a truce.
Now you’re expecting her to ask
“What is that stench?” as we approach
a lump of squirmy, blackened flesh,
long dead, collapsed upon itself.
Then you might think, “Oh, here’s his usual
repugnant metaphor. A secret
in this happy couple’s past, forecasting
their inevitable split.”
Or maybe you think, “This must be the
prelude to some awful act of violence.
The calm before the storm, the lulling into
complacency. This couple must end up
tortured, mutilated, violated, brutalized.”
The light fixtures of our motel are dangling our entrails.
A filthy couplet written in our blood across the walls.
Are you surprised when nothing happens,
when the beach is clean and empty,
when there’s not a single cloud in that blue sky?
Are you disappointed when I tell you we grow old together,
that the ocean of our love does not go dry?
tangled in cobwebs
ReplyDeletemy feet track mud on the ceiling
peeling eggshell paint lead sweet
i succeed in disappointing
in this season a poverty
of plastic promises poorly kept
too late
the ceiling is smooth
except for three dead moths
trapped in cracks
modeled in grey powder
injection molded with optional parts
with authentic camouflage
and decaled wings
just like full-size
i step carefully
but i hear their shells
chitinous crunch
god. damn. it.
the things i break
too late
i have glue in my jeans pocket
a metal tube leaking
and i want to fix the past
join edge to edge
align the pieces
smooth the edges
but acetone shadows on the wall
the world upside down
spilling night across the floor
tell me
too late
and with that
it's over
and with that
i can sleep
my thermometer sleep
mercury in a tight ball
reflecting rejecting
the mischief i manufacture
in engines infernal
i am the broken-winged defect
the failure in design
unfinished
still awake
too late
from up here
the linoleum pattern
repeats in even lies
blood rushes to my head
leaving me
falling up
damned by silence
discarded
by myself
too late
CAVEAT LECTOR: Reading these words, I think, "Aaaaaaah! I've never critiqued a poem (or anything else) in my life." I don't know where to begin. Have you rip out your J. Evans Pritchard and address me as "O Mistress, My Mistress, With Your Shiny Shiny Boots of Pleather"?
ReplyDeleteOK. I don't quite know what to say about the story. Mischief too gentle?
Something about Roxi's poem captured that sense of mischief and deviltry. Lust is the one of the first circles of the upper level of Hell, so it seems more mischief than sin...yeah, you're worse off with gluttony or forgetting to tip your delivery guy than lusting after someone, despite what the Sunday monkeys would have us think.
This plays to the knife edge, in both word and form, cutting down to the quick of the virtual mating people do online. The only line that stood out as a little awkward was the "time to comb Dallas Craig's List" bit...we were filing it down to a point, and then this hangs out there. But then again, maybe that works, a last jagged splinter.
"Savage Disobedience" spins around in my head. I like it, both with the sense of those Critical Mass rabid protests with riders and their bicycle chain reactions and echoes of the crowds circling for the kill at Tahrir Square in a calculus of inverted rage (circling the square vs. squaring the circle). Tumbling mischief leading to more and more on Hell's roundabouts...
In Helter Skelter, some of the first few lines feel a little too self-consciously poetic...crystals and prisms...then it goes uphill quickly. It turns dark and foul, a pretty romantic poem gutted, ground, and sold for use in school lunches. At best, I tolerate fluffy-headed crappy romantic poems (no doubt, there's a special ring in Hell for their authors)...it was great fun to see one eviscerated...and then you screw with us once more by ending on a fucking happy note! I felt clean and dirty reading it. Excellent mischief.
I hope I didn't piss you all off too much. Not sure if I'm doing this right, either. But there, it's some sort of critique. Feel free to criticize my critique so I can do a better job.
Room Service is carried out by a quiet army
ReplyDeleteOf hardworking women
Who have silently seen horrible things
For little compensation
I'm not saying I'm their champion
The one who does what they wish they could
To guests who leave towels on the floor
And nightstands free of tips
But I am the one who does what they wish they could
I put my balls in the upside-down cups in the mini-bar
Making sure to rotate the glass for total taint contact
I slip out the smoke detector at night
Down patterns in the wallpaper
And into the bathroom
Where I do some of my finest work
Silently dipping toothbrushes into the toilet
Sometimes scrubbing stuck on stuff
Before putting them back in their rightful place
I'll hide in the mattress till the tenants strike out
For whatever adventure they found in a brochure
Then out I'll slip, and crawl up on the covers
Fluffing every pillow with a bevy of farts
Before I leave, on my endless journey
I'll bounce around the room like a hyperactive ball
Making sure to touch every surface with my dong
Very nice critique, Hiki (if I may call you that). I liked your piece a lot but feel it could probably end after "Sleep my thermometer sleep" (nice phrase, by the way); the rest of the last 2 stanzas don't add anything to the upside-down mood you've evoked so nicely in the beginning.
ReplyDeleteI can't help but wonder what a piece would look like that was halfway between Steven's and Roxi's, maybe combining his more structured narrative with the immediacy of her pillow talk.
rToady, thanks! Yeah, I had edited it down some, but it still needs some serious edits. That's an interesting cutoff point you've recommended. I'll probably edit for the blog in a couple of days, will keep your comments in mind.
ReplyDeleteThe Humanist - Ugh, that is so gross! I'm laughing my skinny butt off!!! Really conveys that sense of invisible mischief. Terrific! +1
In the name of bringing back rough scoring, here's my critique:
ReplyDeleteSMG: Transition was the best part. Opening was ok (got the whole 'impersonating a standard shy loser angle')
Liked it: +1
Too slow: -1
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Roxi Xmas: Even though the poem gets repetitious spewing cunt and hissing pusSsSy is a winner.
Liked it: +1
More focus needed: -1
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rToady: Helter Skelter: Had its moments; no errors. Didn't feel it though.
0
Hiki: I've always enjoyed your word choices and constrained madness in your longer comps. This is a good example of what I think you do really well.
+1: "god. damn. it.
the things i break
too late"
+1: "my thermometer sleep
mercury in a tight ball
reflecting rejecting
the mischief i manufacture
in engines infernal"
-1: Some clumsy word choices & dead ends in the poem.
+1
Humanist: Funny, but I only needed to read it once. You can weave more in a poem & I expect as much.
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