This is another open of mine that I can't seem to find a title for. I created it from finding words in magazines that stood out to me; I had cut them out and placed them together to create a story. Maybe you viewers can help me come up with a title.
Clutching her purse in the evening
Underneath the stars of New York City
Torn T-shirt, smeared blood
In the corner against a brick wall
HE, underneath her jeans
terror, barely breathing
The minutes go slow like a blues song, a blanket
of smoke
Intimidating, bending itself towards you
she, screaming underneath his shirt
Banging, struck a bottle, pressed flowers,
shards of broken glass sprayed across the concrete
ground
purple smoke rings exhale the truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment