Beaches + waves

Just like I was sixteen.
as the cars drove through,
the city late at night.
with their horns flashing.

Just like she were eighteen,
over the jacket’s sleeve.
she walk down by the beach,
and inside she gaze.

“I’m giving up on you,
because you gave up on your –
self.” And you made sheself just
so quiet as the lights slowly dim.

She swore I thought
that we should talk.

She was sat silently
her look down at the Apollo.


Author: kevindotsaville

Likes music, noise, art.

11 thoughts on “Beaches + waves”

  1. This is a crime against poetry. I’ll see you stand trial for this atrocity, sir. “Sheself” alone should get you 6 months.

    1. Thanks for reading buddy! Firstly, did you consider that maybe it was intentional? After referring to a person in the pronoun, it makes sense in my addled mind to continue, coupled with the fact that they’re lyrics and change from 7/8 to 8/8 in the first two stanzas. Hence, the irregular metre.

      Will analyse your work later.

      1. Sorry, you’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you with your head that far into your digestive system. That could be responsible for your addled mind too, actually. As for your irregular metre, I could shit on a sonnet and call it irregular, and I wouldn’t be wrong. But good for you using big words to talk about your small thoughts!

    1. With a cunning wit like that, you should be writing satire, not poetry.

      Actually, re-examining this opus, that might be what you’re doing! Of course! It’s a satirization of absolutely horrid teenage breakup poetry! I smell a Pulitzer.

      Seriously though, dude, your poetry is like rape for eyes. It’s like driving a red hot stake right into the aesthetics assessment part of my brain. I can’t wait to see the music you’ve set it to! Something appropriate I’d imagine, like murdering a cat with a musical saw?

  2. You know I like Sonic Youth? Ha.

    Just to reiterate, IT’S NOT PROSE. you’ve not explained your dislike, save for ‘the aesthetics’ of something that wasn’t intended to be poetry. I like that you were at least passionate. Kudos, jerk.

    What do Pulitzer’s smell like? I guess they have a scent and you should know…because evidently, you are greater than Shakespeare! You have Synesthesia right?

    You should also allow your work to be critiqued, lest you are ALSO a 19 yr old male with bad poetry…oh noetry.

    1. Your medium confusion is akin to an eight year old not quite grasping that wee goes in the potty. In fact, you seem a little shaken up about this “communication” thing in general. It’s concerning, in a way. Is it prose, isn’t it, did I ever say it was, can a label really applied to something this linguistically offensive? I’m getting dizzy just following your idiotic logic here, man! As for my dislike, I’m afraid I’d have to start my own blog just to fully measure the inepititude. Really, if godawful doggerel could be measured in traditional creative ways, this’d be your masterwork. And don’t think my passion has anything to do with you, I simply feel compelled to defend a wronged language from miscreants like you.

      Moreover, Pulitzers have a distinct smell, taste, and even sound when struck against a hard object. They smell of victory, taste of a woman who loves you, and sound like a gentle spring breeze in the morning. I can’t imagine you’d be familiar with any of these concepts, or even the rough idea of metaphors in writing, based on the effort you’ve displayed here. As for talk of my synesthesia, you’re mistaking an uncommon neurological condition with decent writing. I can see where you’d be confused, seeing as these strange, convoluted and stumbling phrases that you’re passing off as poetry (or prose?) bring to mind either a retard or a schizophrenic, although I doubt there’s a treatment for whatever unfortunate sickness God bestowed upon you. I don’t claim to be Shakespeare’s better, but I don’t need to even mention that I’m yours.

      But you seem set on me critiquing your work, so I’ll set to this Sisyphean effort. Hopefully it’ll satisfy whatever masochistic urges your mother beat into you. This piece of writing, neither poetic, nor prose (which only leaves discourse, which is already out: it involves logical thought) is just rambling about an apparent break up. I say apparent, because even allowing for the most abstract and complex metaphors that are clearly beyond the scope of whatever talent you think you have, it’s still nonsensical gibberisht. Despite your earlier half-coherent babbling about metres and stanzas, it’s constructed in a strange metre for no reason other than “You felt like it”. It lends absolutely nothing to the pace and rhythm of the…”piece” .

      So, in amongst these haphazardly arranged words, clearly selected with all the finesse and care of a drunken bricklayer and about as pleasing aesthetically as being roughly sodomized by a priest with herpes, there is meant to be some emotion? The only emotion it inspired in me was pity, and it wasn’t at all in the way you desired. Regardless, I can always recommend improvements. In this case try grasping the basics of English before you even start thumping your neolithic, paws on your abused and molested keyboard, let alone posting this harlequin baby online. (Oh, and by the way; all of what I just wrote? That’s prose, you moron. Ordinarily it would be discourse, but that implies that the topic at hand has some meaning.)

      Anyway, there’s some of my lesser work. I didn’t have the patience to waste something better on your creative afterbirth. Critique it if you want, but if you need help with any of the bigger words, I can recommend

      Also, before you despair at your lack of any artistic merit, your face reminds me of a late period Picasso painting. Take heart in that.

  3. That was a fun read, if not a little offensive…my face! Never intended on my work being such a personal affront, but thanks for taking the time out to read it anyway.

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