Flash Fiction & Poetry
Preprocessor
Hello World
It’s me,
Seventy-
four
Out from
behind
mDesk
You might rec
ognize me
with my
shoulders like
this
who knew i
would walk out
and sing,
dag, yo
i like
it out
here
the wheels and
the trees
sun
more gin
please
About the author
A terror on the boards. Master of the tip-in. The quicker putter backer.
| Print article | This entry was posted by Clearance Runzelspoon on July 15, 2010 at 10:24 pm, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site. |
No comments yet.
No trackbacks yet.
Cran Little Dittle
about 9 months ago - No comments
You call it turkey day.
That’s nice, but
for me it’s
still all Barry
The Wind
about 9 months ago - 1 comment
I cried that day. In the pressence of the grass and sun. Yet still holding my head high. Can I have the Ol’ fore sakin’ dream? My sun pierced tears glowing before me. The saddness has never felt so pure. take it. follow the road Watching the laughter. the accordian in the breeze. Playing the
The Forbidden Pit of My Georgia Peach
about 9 months ago - 1 comment
Sorry, I’m posting like crazy this week, but new inspiration is abound caused by a certain female.
Walden Emergence
about 10 months ago - No comments
You made me
flash on Walden
that look upon
your face…
Absorption
about 10 months ago - No comments
2003-2005. Picture jealous towels who won’t stop watching your every move…
The Bedroom Abyss
about 10 months ago - No comments
Another old one from 2004/2005. Picture an evening with a bi-polar vampire lady friend!
Uprising
about 12 months ago - No comments
Rolling and twisting in the warm night It wrestles out from under my watch Scratching, swinging specific with fury and he looms Smiling that monster has no pointed teeth But he but it will reap the carrots And waking angry we’re all in the shade today
Boy
about 1 year ago - 1 comment
There is no castor oil to purge this sweet disease called you. In my stomach, steel wire, hypodermic thin, like the hair starting to poke through the blonde around your temples, filters acid to my blood. Mandragora, Amanita, Belladonna, Teonanácatl, I beseech thee. Why? All these years… A decade and a half, and I still
