I remember doing these, and they are tough. It is interesting that the wince is the means by which the fears are no longer hidden or silent. The view of drivers sitting behind airbags is a great one, showing that the protagonist does not see the car as a whole, but as safety parts. The wrist grimacing is a great way to show that the protagonist is on a motorcycle here. I think you did really well!
summer is a zipper
latching metal teeth interlock and sound like a fly passing your ear. hovering like drones around a picnic of stale bread, the remains of a summer day spread out on bright grass speckled with red wine. his zip is down and her cheek rounds out like her tongue is pressed against the red flesh. choking while the sun sets her eyelids fill with tear drops and memories of a gun on the same skin i hear it go off in my head and the birds around us flap their wings in fear as they take off into
The summer is as a restaurant, the loud chatter of birds fill the outside world and the strong smokey scent lines my nostrils as I walk down the bright neighborhood. I notice one bird hopping from tree to tree bringing worms in its small beak as a waiter does. I notice the kids playing in the park as if it were a play structure at a local Mcdonaldâs.
Idk thats all ive got ill do more tomorrow
I donât know if this place will be active ever again, but I really liked what I wrote for this and needed to share somewhere:
Poem + Wineglass
Pour in the red; stack up the stanzas. Notes of rhythmic scripture in couplets bedazzle studious tongues. A piece that grows shorter as the night makes memories. Storied sips ooze with inebriating metaphors, spat out between elicited fits of shared laughter. Stuttering out slurred alliteration, the fermented imagery paints the hours behind a foggy curtain over the eyes. The weight of words swirled in the glass now spin your world blurry like a blender of soft blades. Sinking into the couch as the tipsy literature overwhelms; cushions are flowing like the ends of calculated lines forming waves. Attention dulled as it hammers in the forge of literary analysis, shaping meaning to an intoxicated poem. The strikes on the anvil are tremors in the next morningâs skull. Vacant glasses on the table are blank pages; bloody ink scrawled into a free-form night.
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Hey mate, Itâs been a loooooong while since Iâve been here but it would be amazing to see this place revived so thanks for posting this!!
I really like the line âNotes of rhythmic scripture in couplets bedazzle studious tonguesâ create some nice imagery of conveying poetry in the form of a drink!
well done