room 1101 at the buckminster hotel
by a.g. synclair
in the morning
when the dawn splinters our room
and her mouth
could melt butter
the cliché of
her legs
long and drawn out
like a lie told one too many times
gets chewed up and spit out
in a full metal jacket
of love and blood, and wars
fought with teeth clenched
in delerious
fits of rage
© 2009 A.g. Synclair
A Pitch of Sonic Ecstasy: Stuart Krimko’s “The Sweetness of Herbert”
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I first encountered Stuart Krimko’s work at the 11th Street Bar Reading Series, one of the most distinguished in New York City. …
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As I was walking out of the theater after watching Cyrus, I heard people around me saying things like, “Oedipus Complex” and …
There’s one version of the narrative behind these recordings that’s romantic but also basically true: that they represent an incredible victory of the artist’s spirit. Daniel Johnston was a young man in …
The Empty Bed
by Aleathia Drehmer
What could Julia do? Bernard had been the love of her life, her every breath, her heartbeat, her sweat, her longing, her anger, her everything. She felt lost when …
Yeah, i have to agree with Mr. Cloyd on this one…i’d even take that further and say lose lines 1-14 and the title. It’s all too cliche’, unoriginal, anorexically conservative, unashamedly conventional, and flat unimaginative to inspire anything resembling an emotion in me. Just because 14 editors bought into it doesn’t mean it’s any good and can’t be made better [in this case,from the drawing board]. In all honesty, instead of some elitist romantic escapade at ‘room 1101 at the buckminster hotel’, i’d rather hear about a down-to-earth fuck-fest at room 120 at the Motel 6. Just my opinion here (which won’t matter in the least to you since you already know it all and an old dog can’t be taught new tricks).
This is one of those petite pretty poems that’s safely Academe-conceived with a mind to get one’s name in print in 1000 hoity-toity journals achieving fame and accomplishment for all time immemorial conquering the literary world in a dashing scarlet scarf and turtle-neck hand woven from Paris while cruising uptown in the BMW–all brought to apocalyptic revelation as toilets around the world flush simutaneously.
I always wonder at poems with so much ‘white’ around them flaunting Minimalist sensabilities with their ‘less is best’ delusions. I feel the opposite: ‘least is a beast’. God forbid a writer should extrapolate any. You’ve achieved ‘economy’ of words here, unfortunatly it’s the Great Poetic Depression. Poetry is like making love. Short not only means you have less stamina and smaller writing cajones, it means you value the quintessential ‘quickie’ over anything requiring a longer-lasting art, craft, and passion. This poem doesn’t even achieve penetration, however, so it’s what i’d call literary premature-ejaculation. Just some return feedback here. In the future, don’t condescend me preaching brevity and i won’t give you a hard time about lack of material. Deal? And if you do make any comments, do them with respect and professionalism to the writer, or that respect and professionalism will not be returned back to you. Thanks, have a good day!
14 poetry publishers disagree.
I won’t be losing anything.
Lose lines 3 and 4. Talk about cliches.