Post your literature that you would comments on.  I'm return all comments and/or critiques.  You can post anything up, but I'm not an authority in critiquing fan-fiction (just fyi)

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here are mine:

Saints, Virgins, and Angels 
Our Father,
who art in heaven
Mother Earth,
who art in Hell.
Burnt to ash,
ready Armageddon
Watch the sky
where angels fell
 
Zipper-mouths pulled tight
as the Cross passes the way
Carnal masks shimmer light
As sludge engulfs the day.
 
Vicious, vicarious crows of blackened ember
Cawing and moaning; devilishly romantic
The touch of fingertips on lips I remember
Left her womanhood wet and frantic.
 
Unchained desires that surely are satanic.
Those hours in confessional amongst lying sycophants
Console weeping eyes and tarnished souls
Elected “Saints” stand tall with hypocritical blather   
Condemning children with eyes like burning coals
 
“But virgins taste sweeter,” as the angels say
With sins like spices which season raw meat
But innocence-takers hide beneath crimson beds
Sitting atop thrones as stewards to God’s seat
 
Will those that fall, eventually rise?
All creatures tempted by tangible discord
Wou  Waltz of Strange FablesOn the surface of those cheap sheets of skin
Our hungry heads next to the radio
Emerson, Lake & Palmer sing of that Lucky Man
While children of the candy corn eat the postman
Space Opera pirates courted by Tiny Dancers of Mars
Spiders, in fact, band mates to a lad named Ziggy
Like us made of Stardust, eternal and galactic—
Though not supported by a studio laugh track
So many images can flash by changing channels
On the Technicolor TV late at night, feral and stoned
Passing ships, Hamlet, pigs in clothes, angels killed,
Mouths fucked, mothers crowning and holes drilled
Babes crying in the street, while the heavens fall
An unreal reality that flabbergasts wet dreams
Shifting gears for the animals to rule the room
Orwellian motifs ensuring self-righteous doom
Nothing written is appreciated till the lesson is met
Charted, ridiculed, challenged, accepted, analyzed
By those who skimmed through blurred scribbles of lines,
Puking phrases of former failures for th  Sweet Sinister Suite 
            Hush. Don’t speak. Not right now. I need you to listen. I need you to hold your breath and count backwards from ten; on the beat, in common time. Strings at the ready.  As they tune I need you to picture something in your head: A thawing steak on the counter; buzzing noises: flies and gnats, TV on channel two with mosquitos mating, creating static in your ears. There’s desiccated blood on the linoleum. Oxygenated, rendered useless. Lamps turned upside down, lighting the ceiling and darkening the floors. “Voices Carry” (by Til Tuesday) is faintly playing from the stereo. The window blinds are open, looking down from the 14th floor at 51st street below. Little passing dots of red and shifting streams of white lights, like blood cells and bacteria in the veins of a metropolitan body.  A hundred windows stare back at you from across the way; most are dim. The set