The Angel
It was the music that he had heard first followed by all the angry madness, the garish badness, a badness in which she delighted. She was all dressed up nines and tens, her eyes flashing green over her overly played garish makeup that had frightened her youth away. The tinny tinkle of her rings and things, singing and pinging their market stall magic into the damp dirty air as they cut sharps and ...
Wednesday 18th October 2017 4:35 pm
Recent Comments
Tom Doolan on Poetry Is Pain
1 hour ago
David RL Moore on Too late too late
16 hours ago
Rolph David on Love The Light, Embrace The Rain
17 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on The roads taken
21 hours ago
Red Brick Keshner on still, the Earth breathes
21 hours ago
Marnanel Thurman on The roads taken
21 hours ago
Red Brick Keshner on where shadows do not drown
21 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on The Empty Streets of Ego’s March
22 hours ago
Larisa Rzhepishevska on The Policemen Arrest The Men.
23 hours ago
Ray Miller on The Empty Streets of Ego’s March
23 hours ago