he said
there is a place i know
where love dies
while
nudging his keys
she crosses her legs
and looks at her shoes
i’ve been there
her heart howls
angry dog chained
songs of synaptic mayhem
but somehow smiles
they named a suite
after me
shakes her head
and reminds him
of his cigarette
left burning
This entry was posted on June 19, 2012 at 8:58 pm and is filed under short story, Writing and Poetry with tags art, bigfoot, cake, cannibals, criminal activity, elvis, explosions, gangster, harold camping, jersey shore, liquor, love, miracles, new jersey, pagan, parks, patriotism, philosophy, poetry, red sox, religion, sex, short story, suspense, sweet memories, thug, trains, travel, USA, wombats, writing, yeti. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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