Coping (Prose Poetry)

[psycosynthesis]

He has sunk into his couch. Static on the television screen stark contrast to the current inactivity of his brain. She leans against the door frame and twirls a strand of hair with her finger. She glances from vacant eyes to the dancing, snowing particles on the screen. She speaks, attempting to solicit a response from this man who, months ago, seemed the most vibrant soul she had ever met. Maybe there is a slight flicker behind his eyes. Maybe he inclines his head a millimetre. Maybe this is wishful thinking. She sighs. Retreats to her room. Retreats to her bed. One tactical decision amongst many made in the last week. He continues to watch the static, following each fleck of black and each fleck of white with blunt intensity. The volume is muted. There is noise enough behind his eyes to compensate for it. He is in a strange limbo. Chaotic, comatose state. Another cigarette burns down to the filter. He automatically crushes it in the ashtray in his lap. Lights another. He will take a drag, perhaps two, before it too is forgotten and smoulders away. The smoke drifts through an open window. Up into city sky. Sky stained by light, by skyscrapers. It drifts up towards obscured stars, over antennae and smokestacks. By the time it has dissipated into night air, he brings flame to another cigarette. It, in turn, is left abandoned between his fingers. He has now managed to render his thought process into a slow trickle. Molasses cognition. A self-defence mechanism. The cigarettes are another.

He never used to smoke.

 

[New]

You've managed to capture the defeat of a man's soul and make it sound good. I think it's pretty good, although some of the sentences could use lengthening and more embellishment from my point of view.

 

[(Wordy)]

Yeah, I think you could expand on this, and maybe reveal more about their relationship? I'd like to read more.

I love the description here:

Another cigarette burns down to the filter. He automatically crushes it in the ashtray in his lap. Lights another. He will take a drag, perhaps two, before it too is forgotten and smoulders away. The smoke drifts through an open window. Up into city sky. Sky stained by light, by skyscrapers. It drifts up towards obscured stars, over antennae and smokestacks. By the time it has dissipated into night air, he brings flame to another cigarette. It, in turn, is left abandoned between his fingers.

 

[IXinX]

First few lines into it i was nagged by the chunk of text structure and the bitten, blunt sentences but deeper into it I was driven along.

It's a good introduction to something i would think a film noir film would play like. i don't think it needs any expansion, that came come later on. I like having these fast and moody bits in whatever you are reading.

 

[IXinX]

^

Wtf?

 

[sunshinefix]

I feel as though there needs to either be breaks in your paragraph, like in a poem. If you don't do that, you should probably vary your sentence length and structure and correct your incomplete sentences.

Otherwise, I really enjoy what you are doing here. The fragmentation can really work for you as it gives a sense of disconnectedness that really illustrates and compliments what you are actually saying.

You should revise and possibly add more to this and perhaps repost it so we can find out more about your characters.

 

[psycosynthesis]

Thanks man. It is a prose poem though, which typically works as...well prose. That is, with sentences instead of line breaks. The paragraph doesn't break because the topic doesn't. It's still focused on him and his ciggarette. Most prose poems tend to avoid lots of paragraph breaks too. It's still a poem, technically, so I'm still allowed to play with setence strutcure and syntax a bit!

I will revise this when I have time.

 

[iwish]

You write beautifully... mellow and hopeless. It flowed so. I can identify with both the characters... it takes me back to a time...