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Three O Clock Gristle

Innocence has no color.

For a ghost, even, to be respectable

the time must be there to fill.

The bell, the sigil, the 3:00 gristle.

The time must be there to fill out
in a symbolist snowflake

or a panning angle,

or something, maybe, inside you.

We have no such luck. Why are you
hung in a frozen oasis in midday,

I asked? Mon frère?

Why are you pale and blue?

The bell, the sigil, the 3:00 gristle.

A watch straddles the sky, it dissolves

in a PI string. He squeaked in my

former voice: I know and I knew,

keep walking

and Thank you.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


I possibly have mentioned this in another comment but something about your writing has this real sense of character. To be honest I don't really have any critique other than purely subjective stuff (which, in essence, all critique is but these more-so). Personally, the title put me off. May be because I'm a cook and have developed an aversion to the word gristle, but I just don't think it captured the essence of this voice. The word works within the piece however, quite strongly as well. I also found the first line to be weaker to the rest, but I only mention this due to the sheer strength of the poem as a whole. I felt like I was there, like I knew the personas, and it's a feeling I rarely get and aspire too. You have a real gift, look forward to reading more of your writing in the future.

you very much

author comment

very much

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