Poetry and Prose form to create Poetrose.
A story I recently wrote was said to be a combination of these two forms of poetry and prose. It created such confusion, but was so deliciously inviting, I decided to come up with the term poetrose, which I define as:
A combination of poetry and prose used to tell a story. The forms blend and blur the meanings of language and story direction. Understanding can be pushed in numerous directions. Implicitness is the rule, explicitness is not necessarily the norm, but is used just at the right time to punch the reader, even if it is a slight tap; it feels like something much deeper. The story is an emotional commitment that breaks, shatters and scatters into other emotions and meanings.
I want my readership to understand what I mean, so I had to construct it.
This is only one example of poetrose.
This is poetrose in rough form, with very little editing, but packed with emotion. See if you can figure out what this story is about and comment back to me.
Me, Mickel, and the Wall August 19, 2012
Truth what be of it?
Shiver up my spine with neck hairs standing, the rush of their height, the quest of fright, collapsed and fallen, the wall crumbled with the rafters, water-logged and brittle. The thin metal upright in the decay, the debris, the trail, the cascade of harmonies creating a chord and with that cord, it wrapped the voices and the wall into the whole and in the hole the sight, unknown, which was longer from view and in the bottom, in the bottom, each entered, one after, the other, and then the other and then, it broke free. Mickel never understood the way in which the lyrics worked and how the ambient drum came to be the quintessential piece to the untold story.
Desperately political, we broke free from what we believed were the constraints and then we found ourselves, Mickel and I, lost, utterly lost for the next two decades. Working on strengths, we went on sound scapes, breathing, flying freely and when we hit the wall, just before we hit, we knew, we knew, it was going, to be that simple, that simple as pushing a door open, it would fall into a simple complicated mass and when it came to an end, as it did, we were in that mass of energy, mass of debris, mass of the masses, shrunken into that hole, the whole mass cascaded into harmonies of lost lives.
20 years of my life past, passed out in blackness, I saw time escape, sneak away and steal, that thief, light and friendly, smiling in my eyes and talking me out of shit and in, in I went to escape and time did not say, said nothing to me about it presence and then after the loops, the trips, it sunk, and slunk away to find me in the heap, in the bottom, in the hole, no longer whole, broken into pieces, shattered in the mirror the image, backwards of what once was, reconfigured, dismembered, the emotional commitment gone, pieces feathered from the main, pieces tethered, to something that no longer has the meaning it once had, me.
The thief returned and I realized it never left, I, I wanted to kick and fight, to break it, to stop it from happening, but I could not, no matter how hard I tried, I could not, it stayed while I fried, fried the eggs in my eyes, I hated the fried egg highs, and I lied, lied every time I saw time, staring at me, back at me it winked, right back at me.
It winked
It caught me looking at it, wanting to break it, and gave a smirky smile and left me to be, my own devices and never won, I never won and there it was, everywhere I went, everywhere and when it was that the wall came, it came down hard, harder than anything I imagined to be and in it, it had the little bits of the failures that made the wall fall, failure in its realm of all there is to be in it, there is to be in it, always me.
7/8 time, that awkward time, played with me, success achieved, the monster, gold, platinum, brilliance is only relative to those that it matters to, but me, me I will never know because Mickel, Mickel didn’t make the wall. Somewhere it that 20 time, he went missing and gone and the bar, empty, the bar and a half remained silent and the exact spot of the space now left the void and the voice hung in time, it always went back to time, to find the place, the marker, the slip, of what when wrong and the voice hung in, harmonized, the dark room called, what I see, the whole voice, longevity, what lives is only time, the concept of existence, pushed me towards that wall, that wall that pushed, the wall I pushed, that made it all crumble and Mickel, in my hands, oh Mickel, disenchantment in me, I held, tried, so when the time came, it winked, I blinked and whoooosh, I was no longer there, I was here looking in the ground at me, in me in the mirror, the hole in the wall, the whole in my heart, the chasm, so far, so fallen, so far, so immense and there it was, there it was, time and me staring back, with the wink and with the blink, was me.