Prose poetry

I was checking out the new writing prompt for Poetsonline a couple of days ago, and the task was to write a prose poem. It's a nice idea, this intensified, poetic language that can be employed in prose format. I suppose with all the news of troubles in the world at the moment, and along the lines of the post-apocalyptic theme which preempts the first draft manuscript I have been posting on a weekly basis on this blog, I came up with the following attempt at a prose poem. I'll try another for submission to Poetsonline - maybe - but check out their site if you're interested in having a go at a prose poem yourself. They have a blog and instructions on how to submit a poem.

 

 

Reflections

Some things don’t bear thinking on, like are we on the brink and do you ever imagine yourself on the losing side, confused and defenceless, human, a biological speck on a ball of dirt spinning through an endless universe? Thinking post-apocalyptic is more satisfying when you live in hope, picturing an afterwards with you at the centre, hyper-inflated, selectively-connected, this-not-that, taken up, saved, loftily pitying or condemning all others who didn’t hedge their bets, who didn’t see things in quite the particular way that mapped the precise contours of your mind, who didn't form those filial affiliations, expectations, invocations, dedications, or follow the orders of the man poised over that button, those buttons, your buttons, who sees himself privileged, supreme, flying, untouchable, unharmed and unharm-able, on the side against Evil (though he looks into the other rooms, this room repeated, and repeated, and repeated, until he sees it is just a mirror after all, in which is reflected him, self, in all those reflected mirrors, his own eyes, again and again, his own windows to the soul, his own darkness, where he, himself is so lost that he recoils and retreats to the comfort of his own illusion where he's the one that calls the shots, and) looking down on the destruction he has wrought, wants still to wring, pretending he is God, or the Devil, then says that he is ready to be taken up or down into the arms of, because he has been caught fast in the idea that he is the extra-special one.