PeachesPieces
02-11-2010, 09:25 PM
Well, here i am at my computer, trying to piece out this short story that i am writing into poetry. You see, my overall plan for this is to have every few lines of the short story turned into a poem so that the story remains a story but i can segment it out in order to make the short story into an illustrated poem-story. and right now i need both feed back on the story (which is right now chopped into segments) and suggestions of styles of verse that i can structure each segment into (really i want to have it better mapped out that just blank verse). I would really appreciate the help, ive been working on and off on this piece for years and it just never seems to end up what i want it to be so i want a totally new direction for it.
The Song of Our Times
[The whip crack of his heels echoes through the crowd, whirling amongst the clatter of a full house. Myriads of people jarr together, heads and shoulders spiked and glistening. The metal adornments cut a gleaming contrast to the clothing faded black. Coated with spray, painted and patched, the rough hewn effigies of drug corrupted idols betray their loyalty.]
[A testament in modern art colors speaks to the mind both of their denial of the mundane society and their allegiance to the banner of hedonistic anarchy. The variety of the ragged patches speaks to their self proclaimed individuality but a single name betrays the unity in the room. The choppy urban stencil that reads “Fredrik Hayes” merges with the stage lights and smoke to set the tone for this rare appearance of commonality.]
[This chaotic union stretching the hall, running together from person to person, meshing together in a stream until it hits the stage. A god stands fearless, staring down from the cowboy boots that elevate him above the masses. Leather straps sewn to iron rings, mismatched thread, and fading rags tell the tale of a road-run life. His tight black pants curve up along the contours of his lean legs, the tears untouched, and the rips un-sewn.]
[A silver sprayed effigy of a past revolutionary ripples beneath his leather jacket, a cowhide proclamation that declares his allegiance to no one. His arm shoots high and alone above the roaring crowd. Their screams intensify as he speaks with a rough edged voice. He rebels against everyone by listening only to the gnarled notes that have guided him since his lonely childhood.]
[His bass guitar scarred with a thousand battles swings down across his legs as it peels once more into sonic war. Slow, piercing groans start up the song, impatient growls of a beast newly awakened and fiercely hungry thrum in the night air.]
[Drums beat, threading a tattoo of violence and angst in amongst the deep thunder of an electronic roar. The guitar starts up, a solo lightning that rattles the mob, fast and dangerous in its audio duels with the singer. The lyrics scream, charged and in your face with their brutal, uncontrolled honesty while the high pitched wail of a heart-wrung scream spirals into the night.]
[Frenzied waves of desperation driven by the drums soar into the night sky with the jangling footsteps of the guitar’s frenzied dance, pulsing with the tumultuous scream of the crowd…]
[…a crowd that mirrors the sashaying sway of the jazz dance floor in its intensity. A heavyset man jangles on the piano, the jazzy uplifting notes plank out from his fingers and onto a corduroy road over day to day worries.]
[The wailing harmonica laces in with the mournful hum of a saxophone as sorrow spins tunes into a world of sound. Thoughts inked in by the lacy drum taps and colored by the soul of the pianist, James King. This gravelly glass-throated proclamation of blue jazz band curls out from his lips, brassy emanations that reverberate through the moaning crowd of sensual ecstasy.]
[Blues notions pervade the senses; from the sapphire smoke curling and twisting from fingertips out to the spiraling motions of conversation. The click of gleaming black heels and the swish of taffeta dresses reflected in flashing eyes.]
[
Eyes that flicker up above the crowd to rest upon James, his dark skin glowing with exertion and his bright white teeth flashing in perfect harmony with the worlds of words he spins. His Complete confidence radiates from his gaze as he rules the six bars of musical escape. This smile, a smirk almost in its understanding hovers on his lips where…]
[…a selfsame smile floats on the lips of Fredrik Hayes as he walks off stage and out into the night air. The fading screams of the crowd hold no appeal to him, their desperate pleas for an encore lost to his mind.]
[He walks out to the call of the fragrant night air and the wavy jangles of a far off jazz trio. That smile hears the farewell cries of his band and twists in cynical amusement that as he staggers off into the night, turning his back on a way of life that has consumed him for nearly twenty years.]
[The edge of his mouth quivers up in a red slash of emotion that opens slightly for the next cigarette. Blue grey fumes release wafts away into the night sky…]
[Where James looks up, the windows to the heavens show only the starlit sky. He looks back down, the twinkling notes of the final score patter to a stop, and his deep voice draws out the final note of this song. The snares tap into silence, their voices ending where the saxophone takes over, and its brassy moan quivering amongst the fumes and into the hearts, its final note drawn out in the blue grey emotion of jazz.]
[Patters of applause scatter the auditorium as the crowd drifts away, leaving only the band on the stage, their tired chatting wafting amongst the rafters of the near-abandoned room. The only other sound comes from the ragged heel taps as a dark figure enters the room…]
[Unnoticed by the band, Fredrik Hayes lounges in one of the upturned chairs. His unkempt hair draws spiky silhouettes on the wall, and his bass guitar gleams with black lacquer, the liquid light flowing down its length, pooling around the battle scars on its face and dripping to a soft reflection on the floor. Fredrik’s smile curves down almost imperceptibly as the conversation on stage grow edged. The once casual conversation is sharpened with the darting accusations that tear friendships apart.]
[Their instruments now packed, the band storms off, leaving the pianist, James King slumped on the bench, his large frame hunched as he lights another cigarette.]
[James slams his large hands against the keys, the discordant thunder echoing with his anger around the silent concert hall. Dark eyes gleam with despair and his cheeks suck in as he draws out his anger, blowing it with his smoke across the black liquid top of his grand piano.]
[Hearing a scuff, his eyes dart to the other end of the stage, where the dark stranger stands, his bass guitar slung across his lap, his eyes flash blue under the hooded brows, his teeth piercing the gloom together with a smile, arrogant, and certain in their invitation to James.]
[Fredrik looks down at the pianist, his lips pull tight, and his hand dramatically falls to his bass. He draws out a solitary chord, one single thrum of deep, drawn out reverberations emanating in the smoky air. The low octave growls of music growing in strength, multiple chords tumbling darkly over each other.]
Their deep strength draws out the dark cerulean power of the ocean as they slowly speed up, threatening to overpower James, dark notes flashing alone in the vibrating air. Original notes are forgotten as the new chords return sevenfold with a rhythmic offbeat funky life that fills the mind with swirling colors.]
[“Plink” the single note drops like the footstep that comes before an avalanche. The high jangling sound of jazz as it was meant to be played tumbles out into the air with the bass thunder echoing before the lighting-fast piano. Dark clouds brew in the eyes of these men, their heads turned up to the sky, their minds spiraling towards the heavens with the music they weave.]
[The sonic patterns travel along the weft of this new woven song with growing intensity before they coast to a crawl, the deep rumble of the bass rolls down to its heady finale, reverberations climbing the octaves until they reach the top, slowing into riffs that meander the low plunks of the piano as James growls out this mournful song.]
[His low silky voice pierces the deep sea rhythms of Fredrik’s bass. James’s low gravelly tones speak to the empty room of love and war, the sad footnotes on a gravestone, and the numbers on a dead man’s arms. He whispers urgently to the silent, warning them to take heed.]
[
His voice grows until the words of language can bear his grief no more and he cries out, tears running down his cheeks as he sings of the past. The salty expressions of joy and sorrow are mirrored in Fredrik’s face as together they let loose their pain wholly into the reverberating chords and harmonies of a heart strings pluck.]
[Slowly the song crawls to a stop, Fredrik’s bass echoes amongst the final plaintive sobs of James’s song. They nod to each other in understanding, the tear streaks painting jagged pictures along their cheeks as they turn to go. They walk away from each other, in step, and out of tune, their heels snapping amongst the ghostly sounds of the end of their song.]
The Song of Our Times
[The whip crack of his heels echoes through the crowd, whirling amongst the clatter of a full house. Myriads of people jarr together, heads and shoulders spiked and glistening. The metal adornments cut a gleaming contrast to the clothing faded black. Coated with spray, painted and patched, the rough hewn effigies of drug corrupted idols betray their loyalty.]
[A testament in modern art colors speaks to the mind both of their denial of the mundane society and their allegiance to the banner of hedonistic anarchy. The variety of the ragged patches speaks to their self proclaimed individuality but a single name betrays the unity in the room. The choppy urban stencil that reads “Fredrik Hayes” merges with the stage lights and smoke to set the tone for this rare appearance of commonality.]
[This chaotic union stretching the hall, running together from person to person, meshing together in a stream until it hits the stage. A god stands fearless, staring down from the cowboy boots that elevate him above the masses. Leather straps sewn to iron rings, mismatched thread, and fading rags tell the tale of a road-run life. His tight black pants curve up along the contours of his lean legs, the tears untouched, and the rips un-sewn.]
[A silver sprayed effigy of a past revolutionary ripples beneath his leather jacket, a cowhide proclamation that declares his allegiance to no one. His arm shoots high and alone above the roaring crowd. Their screams intensify as he speaks with a rough edged voice. He rebels against everyone by listening only to the gnarled notes that have guided him since his lonely childhood.]
[His bass guitar scarred with a thousand battles swings down across his legs as it peels once more into sonic war. Slow, piercing groans start up the song, impatient growls of a beast newly awakened and fiercely hungry thrum in the night air.]
[Drums beat, threading a tattoo of violence and angst in amongst the deep thunder of an electronic roar. The guitar starts up, a solo lightning that rattles the mob, fast and dangerous in its audio duels with the singer. The lyrics scream, charged and in your face with their brutal, uncontrolled honesty while the high pitched wail of a heart-wrung scream spirals into the night.]
[Frenzied waves of desperation driven by the drums soar into the night sky with the jangling footsteps of the guitar’s frenzied dance, pulsing with the tumultuous scream of the crowd…]
[…a crowd that mirrors the sashaying sway of the jazz dance floor in its intensity. A heavyset man jangles on the piano, the jazzy uplifting notes plank out from his fingers and onto a corduroy road over day to day worries.]
[The wailing harmonica laces in with the mournful hum of a saxophone as sorrow spins tunes into a world of sound. Thoughts inked in by the lacy drum taps and colored by the soul of the pianist, James King. This gravelly glass-throated proclamation of blue jazz band curls out from his lips, brassy emanations that reverberate through the moaning crowd of sensual ecstasy.]
[Blues notions pervade the senses; from the sapphire smoke curling and twisting from fingertips out to the spiraling motions of conversation. The click of gleaming black heels and the swish of taffeta dresses reflected in flashing eyes.]
[
Eyes that flicker up above the crowd to rest upon James, his dark skin glowing with exertion and his bright white teeth flashing in perfect harmony with the worlds of words he spins. His Complete confidence radiates from his gaze as he rules the six bars of musical escape. This smile, a smirk almost in its understanding hovers on his lips where…]
[…a selfsame smile floats on the lips of Fredrik Hayes as he walks off stage and out into the night air. The fading screams of the crowd hold no appeal to him, their desperate pleas for an encore lost to his mind.]
[He walks out to the call of the fragrant night air and the wavy jangles of a far off jazz trio. That smile hears the farewell cries of his band and twists in cynical amusement that as he staggers off into the night, turning his back on a way of life that has consumed him for nearly twenty years.]
[The edge of his mouth quivers up in a red slash of emotion that opens slightly for the next cigarette. Blue grey fumes release wafts away into the night sky…]
[Where James looks up, the windows to the heavens show only the starlit sky. He looks back down, the twinkling notes of the final score patter to a stop, and his deep voice draws out the final note of this song. The snares tap into silence, their voices ending where the saxophone takes over, and its brassy moan quivering amongst the fumes and into the hearts, its final note drawn out in the blue grey emotion of jazz.]
[Patters of applause scatter the auditorium as the crowd drifts away, leaving only the band on the stage, their tired chatting wafting amongst the rafters of the near-abandoned room. The only other sound comes from the ragged heel taps as a dark figure enters the room…]
[Unnoticed by the band, Fredrik Hayes lounges in one of the upturned chairs. His unkempt hair draws spiky silhouettes on the wall, and his bass guitar gleams with black lacquer, the liquid light flowing down its length, pooling around the battle scars on its face and dripping to a soft reflection on the floor. Fredrik’s smile curves down almost imperceptibly as the conversation on stage grow edged. The once casual conversation is sharpened with the darting accusations that tear friendships apart.]
[Their instruments now packed, the band storms off, leaving the pianist, James King slumped on the bench, his large frame hunched as he lights another cigarette.]
[James slams his large hands against the keys, the discordant thunder echoing with his anger around the silent concert hall. Dark eyes gleam with despair and his cheeks suck in as he draws out his anger, blowing it with his smoke across the black liquid top of his grand piano.]
[Hearing a scuff, his eyes dart to the other end of the stage, where the dark stranger stands, his bass guitar slung across his lap, his eyes flash blue under the hooded brows, his teeth piercing the gloom together with a smile, arrogant, and certain in their invitation to James.]
[Fredrik looks down at the pianist, his lips pull tight, and his hand dramatically falls to his bass. He draws out a solitary chord, one single thrum of deep, drawn out reverberations emanating in the smoky air. The low octave growls of music growing in strength, multiple chords tumbling darkly over each other.]
Their deep strength draws out the dark cerulean power of the ocean as they slowly speed up, threatening to overpower James, dark notes flashing alone in the vibrating air. Original notes are forgotten as the new chords return sevenfold with a rhythmic offbeat funky life that fills the mind with swirling colors.]
[“Plink” the single note drops like the footstep that comes before an avalanche. The high jangling sound of jazz as it was meant to be played tumbles out into the air with the bass thunder echoing before the lighting-fast piano. Dark clouds brew in the eyes of these men, their heads turned up to the sky, their minds spiraling towards the heavens with the music they weave.]
[The sonic patterns travel along the weft of this new woven song with growing intensity before they coast to a crawl, the deep rumble of the bass rolls down to its heady finale, reverberations climbing the octaves until they reach the top, slowing into riffs that meander the low plunks of the piano as James growls out this mournful song.]
[His low silky voice pierces the deep sea rhythms of Fredrik’s bass. James’s low gravelly tones speak to the empty room of love and war, the sad footnotes on a gravestone, and the numbers on a dead man’s arms. He whispers urgently to the silent, warning them to take heed.]
[
His voice grows until the words of language can bear his grief no more and he cries out, tears running down his cheeks as he sings of the past. The salty expressions of joy and sorrow are mirrored in Fredrik’s face as together they let loose their pain wholly into the reverberating chords and harmonies of a heart strings pluck.]
[Slowly the song crawls to a stop, Fredrik’s bass echoes amongst the final plaintive sobs of James’s song. They nod to each other in understanding, the tear streaks painting jagged pictures along their cheeks as they turn to go. They walk away from each other, in step, and out of tune, their heels snapping amongst the ghostly sounds of the end of their song.]