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The pain on my chest, as I was reaching for the doorway, spread like butter on the hot toast that was my chest[cut]; the blood butter melted, coating my chest hair in a glowing red crust[Melted into a crust?]; what wonder I then did imagine when my grandfather removed the butterknife from my nipple and put it back over the small cherry flavored candle, which burned with a small hint of cinnimon[cinnamon] and released [smoke of a blue tint][Blue tinted smoke]; his back turned, so I quickly reached below my belt, inside my trousers, and scratched until his claw of a foot pulled it out, which hurt me like that brown rough leather covers a fresh new football, before it is ever used[[.]][Unless I missed a period somewhere, this is a twelve line Ultra Mega Run-on Sentence] Footballs are pretty cool, I thought, but I like butter knives better. Footballs can't really put bread on butter. I sure do love bread. It's good. Very Good.

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It's stream of consciousness, I think, and it's very disconnected from itself. One "sentence" doesn't tie to the next, one image might have a relation to a previous sentence but the images themselves are confused and mismatched. I've reread it several times, over and over. I still don't grasp what's going on here. I don't have the attention required to get through more than a whole line without scanning further ahead. Between the strange imagery, the poor grammar in places, and the lack of a break for three quarters of the first thirteen lines, I can't handle this. Perhaps give it a shot as poetry, 'cause this isn't prose.

My advice? Try again.

Jayson Merryfield

Edited after Kathleen's response below: Yes, and I apologize for being harsh - I was trying to be more flippant, but yes, I also feel I put a little too much edge in it. I'm going to trim and edit my response some.

I have to admit that I don't think I'm part of the audience for it either, and I agree that it may work as some kind of poetry, as Wolfe_boy suggested.

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The pain on my chest, as I was reaching for the doorway, spread like butter on the hot toast that was my chestOkay, I got this sentence--butter=pain, toast=chest; the blood butter melted, coating my chest hair in a glowing red crust So now there actually is blood? Is there actually an open wound?; what wonder I then did imagine difficult to parse--I can rework it as "Then I did imagine what wonder..." but I'm not sure what htat means, either. Why is he imagining any wonder? What happened to the pain?when my grandfather removed the butterknife from my nipple and put it back over the small cherry flavored candle, which burned with a small hint of cinnimon and released smoke of a blue tintNot sure what to make of these details. Feels like a distraction, a complete aside, and hence I find it frustrating since I'm still trying to figure out how when where who; his back turned was turned?, so I quickly reached below my belt, inside my trousers, and scratched er... not sure I really want to know _what_ he's scratching, but why the heck is he scratching _that_ when his chest is all cut up? And the phrasing "his back turned so I..." implies there's a connection between the scratching and his grandfather's back being turned. I can't really figure out why, though, and hence I become more frustrated. Also, I thought he wanted to escape ("reaching for the doorway") but now he seems perfectly content to stay put. I can't understand what made him change his mind. until his claw of a foot pulled it out pulled what out? Do you want "it" to refer to "butter knife"? I think it's a bit too far for that. "It" wants to refer to "trousers", which hurt me like that brown rough leather covers a fresh new football What's hurting him? "It"? The knife? The smoke? The act of pulling it out? But why would that hurt him?, before it is ever used. Footballs are pretty cool, I thought, but I like butter knives better. Footballs can't really put bread on butter. I sure do love bread. It's good. Very Good.

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Obviously, stuff is going to read differently for everybody. Part of the human condition, I suppose. Mine is just one person's opinion--there are some 6 billion other opinions out there. In other words, if it moves you, if you feel it, keep writing it. People will be moved.

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The pain on my chest, as I was reaching for the doorway, spread like butter on the hot toast that was my chest; the blood butter melted, coating my chest hair in a glowing red crust; what wonder I then did imagine when my grandfather removed the butterknife from my nipple and put it back over the small cherry flavored candle, which burned with a small hint of cinnimon and released smoke of a blue tint; his back turned, so I quickly reached below my belt, inside my trousers, and scratched until his claw of a foot pulled it out, which hurt me like that brown rough leather covers a fresh new football, before it is ever used. Footballs are pretty cool, I thought, but I like butter knives better. Footballs can't really put bread on butter. I sure do love bread. It's good. Very Good.

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What did Thumper's father say?

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Had to look it up myself.

If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

As for Thumper's father, it may seem that not saying anything if you can't say something nice in a critique sort of defeats the purpose, but all I really intended to indicate by invoking Thumper's father is that feedback should not be all harshness with nothing positive included somewhere.

I would also like to say that I agree with annepin. If you are going to play an April Fools joke, please find another way to do it, okay?

I have decided that I probably have a rather strange sense of humor, because Survivor could make me laugh out loud when he was around here, while others took offense. However, I tend to think a lot of the April Fools jokes I encounter are NOT funny.